Camy Tang's Blog, page 109

Excerpt - CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN by Vicki Hinze

Christmas Countdown
By Vicki Hinze

A simple trip home for the holidays is all former FBI profiler Maggie Mason wants. But a serial killer has other plans. Trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse, Maggie finds an ally in Lost, Inc. with private investigator Dr. Ian Crane. The handsome widower is reluctant to love again, and the last thing Maggie wants is to put Ian in the line of fire, too. Love could cost them everything…unless they can find their way to each other, in time for Christmas.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Something wasn't right.

Alert and armed, Maggie Mason moved room to room. Outwardly nothing appeared to be wrong. The house was chilly and quiet, silent in the way a house is on a cold December night when you're in it alone. Yet the awareness that something was off prodded her honed instincts. You didn't work in her field, much less enjoy her success, and not hone your instincts or fail to respect them. No one was inside the house with her; she'd have picked up on that immediately. Yet some nebulous alert had triggered her internal alarm. She couldn't explain it. She just felt it.

Knew it.

Feared it.

And she'd learned the hard way to never ignore internal warnings.

Controlling her breathing, deliberately working to slow her racing heart, she circled back to the kitchen, clicked on her flashlight and followed her emergency plan, taking the worn wooden stairs down to the basement. An unadvertised and unmentioned feature in the basement sold her on renting the Decatur, Illinois, home just days ago. It wasn't in the best neighborhood, but she'd lived in far worse, and it had that nondescript look about it—not too nice, not too dumpy—where she could fade into obscurity.

Obscurity was essential.

With it and any luck, she wouldn't have to move again for a couple of months. Oh, how she yearned for a little luck.

In the past three years, her record for staying put, hospital and recovery time aside, was two months, fourteen days, seven hours and twelve minutes. This basement's special feature could help buy her a little more time here and help her break her record. At least, she dared to hope it could.

Please, God. I'm so tired of running.

A knot rose in her throat. She swallowed it down and stepped off the bottom stair onto the cracked concrete floor. The twenty-by-twenty open area billed as a basement storage room was inky dark—no electricity, no windows, and only one door at the top of the stairs she'd just descended…or so it appeared until further inspection.

Sweeping the beam of light corner to corner on the floor, she checked the dull coating of dust for new footprints but spotted none, then lifted the beam up the walls, casting light on the thin cobwebs clinging to the corners at the ceiling and on the floor joists overhead. The webs glistened but remained intact.

A little reassured, she eased her finger on the trigger of her weapon and took a steadying breath to work the hitch from her chest. The basement clearly had been abandoned for a long time, yet it didn't smell musty or dank. Odd, with the occasional water stain in the pink fiberglass insulation stuffed between the wall studs. The stains spoke of past leaks now repaired, but the absence of a musty scent had first alerted her that more than met the eye was in this basement.

Following the flashlight beam, she moved across the empty expanse to the back wall, where a tall and rickety wooden shelving unit stood in the corner. Battered and worn, it, too, wore a layer of dust she'd been careful not to disturb. She checked each shelf. No smears or swipes marring its dull surface. Here, too, the dust remained undisturbed.

Stretching on tiptoes, she reached between the top and second shelves and tapped seeking fingertips along the rough wooden back wall. They snagged metal. A flathead bolt. Inching her nails under its edge, she pulled the bolt out and then slid the entire shelving unit sideways. Gliders bore its weight, but it moved in jerked spurts.

In the wall where the unit had stood, an opening appeared: a low, narrow passageway.

At one time, that passageway likely had been used as an emergency exit for a drug dealer—she'd seen a number of those in neighborhoods such as this during her time as a normal, active FBI profiler—but the rental agent hadn't mentioned the passageway at all. When he'd left her to explore, she'd found it on her own, though she hadn't mentioned finding it to him, either. If he'd known, he'd have disclosed it. For her own safety, the fewer who knew the better.

Bending low to keep from cracking her head against the wooden-beam reinforcements holding back the earth inside the tunnel, she focused her flashlight's beam down the passage and then followed it to its abrupt end at a heavy metal grate. The first thing she'd done when she moved in was to replace the grate lock with one of her own. She peered through the lacy metal outside into the backs of thick, squat bushes. The grate couldn't be seen from the yard. It took knowing it was there behind the bushes to find it.

She carefully checked the grate's internal perimeter. The chewing gum embedded with a single strand of hair she'd pressed on each of the four corners remained untouched and in place. Peering outside again, she scanned the dirt behind the bushes and spotted the heavy-duty string she'd strung ankle-high. Unmoved. Nothing disrupted the smooth dirt, and the stones she'd arranged in a distinct pattern were exactly where she'd put them.

Her escape route was intact.

Yet her internal alarm didn't shut off. It continued to pound its warning in time with the fast beats of her heart.

You've been running too long, Maggie.

She had. And paranoia was setting in. Chiding herself, she made her way back upstairs then bolted the basement door, slamming home both original dead bolts and the one she'd installed the night she'd moved in. Three days and counting…

Breathing easier, she tucked her weapon into the holster at the back of her jeans' waistband and shifted her focus to the barren kitchen. A familiar ache settled in her chest. It lacked any of the warmth or comfort of generations of family use. The kitchen on the ranch in North Bay, Florida, on the other hand, held a lot of history. Most of her history. It was and always had been home. Her big brother, Paul, still lived there, but for now, home and North Bay were off-limits to her. If Gary Crawford had anything to say about it, both would remain off-limits to her for the rest of her life, which he had every intention of ending as soon as possible.

Resentment and bitterness welled up from deep inside and soured her stomach.

No, don't do it, Maggie. Don't. Think about something else.

She looked at the kitchen table. Its once-white enamel top was chipped and yellowed and worn slick but the table was still sturdy, and currently nearly buried under the strewn makings of a gingerbread house. Christmas was just weeks away—the fourth in a row she'd spend alone—but she'd kept the gingerbread house family tradition for the past three, and she would keep it for this one, too. It wasn't much, but when you had nothing, it was, well, something.

Running was never easy. But holidays were hardest.

Her eyes burned. She blinked fast and snipped the corner of a Ziploc bag, inserted the plastic piping tip and seated it, then spooned icing into the bag. At home, Paul had always stuffed the icing bag. She'd put the gumdrops on the house, sprinkle nuts around the base and position the candy canes to frame the front door.

A smile curved her lips. From the time she'd had to tiptoe to reach the tabletop, Paul had fawned over her perfectly positioning each gumdrop. Every girl should be so lucky as to have a brother like him. She sniffed and checked her watch—4:10. He was late calling her, but just ten minutes. Not yet worrisomely late.

Snagging an apple, she took a crunchy bite, discovered she was starved and scarfed it down, then tossed the core into the trash can under the sink and rinsed her hands, careful not to bump the cup filled with her best artist's paintbrushes beside the tap. She gave them a longing look. Security first. Then the gingerbread house. Then landscapes. "Just a little longer," she told the red cup of brushes. "Tomorrow night, I paint. Maybe that sunset in Lafitte, Louisiana." The fall of dusk and the fading light on the bayou had been stunning…

Finally at 5:15 her cell phone rang.

Brushing at an errant lock of long reddish-blond hair clinging to her cheek, she primed to give Paul a hard time for calling late and checked caller ID. It was Ian. At first, he was her brother's good friend from the military, a physician and husband to Maggie's now-deceased friend, Beth. Now Ian was an investigator at Lost, Inc. And while due to Beth's murder he'd pushed most people away, he and Maggie remained close. But why was he calling now? Was something wrong with Paul?

Don't jump to conclusions. You've got enough trouble without borrowing more. "Ian, how are you?"

"Hi, Maggie. Paul's out of pocket and I promised him I'd check in on you. Sorry I'm late. Got tied up with a client. You okay?"

"For the moment." Trying not to be disappointed Ian called her as a favor, she pulled out a chair at the table. It scudded across the wooden floor. "Where's Paul?" Her brother rarely missed an appointed call with her. "He's okay, isn't—"

"He's fine. He and Della are on their way to her step-grandmother's." Ian sounded excited.

"Did he propose to her or something?" Maggie snitched a red gumdrop. Paul hadn't told her, so she doubted it, but with the move, she had been out of touch the better part of two weeks.

"I think that might be the reason for the trip. She's Della's closest relative."

Paul would ask somebody's permission first, so it fit. He'd loved Della Jackson for two years, but she'd only recently allowed herself to love anyone. Thank goodness, she'd chosen Paul. He deserved the best, and Maggie prayed every day he got it. "I hope it is."

"Either way, they're happy and celebrating."

"If he hasn't proposed yet, what are they celebrating?"

"The hunt is over, Maggie." Intense emotion thickened Ian's deep voice.

Over. She tensed, afraid to hope. "They've caught Gary Crawford?" Surely she'd have heard through FBI channels—

"No. No, I'm sorry." Ian let out a powerful sigh, clearly rebuking himself for raising and then dashing her hopes. "They caught Della's stalker."

Disappointment fell to confusion. "It wasn't Crawford?" Maggie crunched a crisp piece of gingerbread between her forefinger and thumb. The entire task force agreed the stalker had to be Crawford. "You're sure?"

"Positive. It was Jeff Jackson, Della's ex. They had a personal encounter, and police nailed him with hard evidence."

"Personal encounter?" Sounded dangerous. She knew just how dangerous close encounters with Crawford could be, and how good he was at setting up others to take blame for his actions. Had he done that in this case? He'd nearly killed her with a car bomb in Utah. The shrapnel did what was expected to be permanent injury to her leg. Months in the hospital, multiple surgeries and more months of physical therapy, where she'd worked to the point of exhaustion to re-cover—her survival required mobility. She had ninety percent success in function of her leg as opposed to the forty-five percent the doctors originally estimated. Now there was another personal encounter? Elated and deflated simultaneously, Maggie pressed her elbow on the table and braced her head in her hand. "Paul and Della weren't hurt—"

"No, they're fine. They're great. I told you they're celebrating."

Life. They were living a life without being hunted down like animals. Living and laughing and loving. Maggie's eyes burned again, and again she blinked hard. She wanted those things for Paul, of course. Problem was, she wanted them for herself, too.

Pipe dream.

Definitely a pipe dream, and it would be so long as Gary Crawford drew breath.

She turned her mind and focused on letting gladness fill her heart. "I'm happy for them." So it was Jeff Jackson, not Gary Crawford. "They have to be breathing a lot easier."

"Paul won't breathe easy until you come home."

Guilt speared her. She stared sightlessly at the white stove top. Home. Safety. Security. The beloved ranch she'd grown up on, the rescue animals Paul had taken in for her, the friends she'd known her whole life, the smell of the pines and the feel of the grass and sandy beach under her feet at the little creek. Longing burned her stomach and left it hollow. More than anything she wanted to go home. Well, more than anything except not to ever again endanger those she loved. Her throat thick, she swallowed. "I wish I could, but I can't, Ian. You know why."

A year ago in Utah, Crawford had nearly killed both Paul and her in an act of revenge against her. He was a serial killer. A very bright one who had murdered four women and she'd been called in to profile him. She'd picked up things others had missed, giving the task force needed insights that brought them too close to capturing him, and he resented it enough to want her dead. Crawford willingly used those she loved as bait to get to her. If Paul hadn't forgotten his phone and gone back to get it and she hadn't started her car using the remote, he would have succeeded. It'd taken her six months to recuperate and get out from under intense medical care. No way was she exposing Paul to that again. Her heart couldn't take the trauma or bear the guilt.

"How's your leg?" Ian asked. "Doing the exercises like you're supposed to?"

She smiled. "Yes, and with the move, a lot more." Since his wife's—her friend's—murder three years ago, he and Maggie had supported each other long-distance. Little happened in either's life that the other wasn't aware of—her job status aside. That she couldn't share.

"How's Uncle Warny?"

"He wants you to come home, too."

"You're as bad as Paul with the guilt trips, Ian Crane. You know Crawford is still after me. I can't come home, so quit."

"I know why you think you can't come home. You're protecting everybody else. But, Maggie, think about it. Paul and I and everyone at Lost, Inc., are ex-military and investigative specialists. We can protect ourselves, and we can help protect you."

Her childhood friend Madison McKay, a POW sacrificed to avert an international incident, had escaped and returned home to start the agency for the sole purpose of helping others who were lost find their way home. "You can't. Crawford proved that in Utah. But I know you, and I know Paul. This is about you two wanting to protect me." Paul had always protected her and, since Beth's passing while Ian was still active duty in the military and deployed to Afghanistan, he wanted to protect everybody.

"You can't run forever, Maggie."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Not running doesn't work. If I come home, it means everyone I care about spends every moment looking back over his or her shoulder, and I worry nonstop when and where and whom Crawford is going to strike next. All of you deserve better. This is my problem. I'll deal with it."

"Will you just let me say what I have to say? I know you're tired of hearing it, but I'm not going to make the same old argument—I promise."
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Guest post and giveaway - Love Inspired Suspense author Terri Reed

Today, I have the marvelous and beautiful Terri Reed guest blogging! I just posted an excerpt of her May Love Inspired Suspense release, Scent of Danger.

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555 Portland, OR 97280; e-mail her at terrireed@sterling.net or visit her online.

Scent of Danger
By
Terri Reed

Risking it all

Detective Melody Zachary is determined to find who killed her nephew in a drug-related murder. She's launched her teen center in his memory, to keep kids off the streets. And she'll prove to narcotics officer Parker Adams and his K-9 drug-sniffing partner, Sherlock, it's not a haven for dealers. As they risk their lives to save others, Melody discovers that Parker and she share the same deep commitment to making a difference. Will circumstances allow them to take the biggest risk yet—on love?

Read the excerpt here!

And now, here's Terri!

Thank you Camy for having me as a guest today. Writing for Love Inspired Suspense has been a wonderful experience. Sometimes writing can be lonely. One of the fun aspects of writing for a Harlequin imprint is the continuities. Most of Harlequin’s category lines have them.

A continuity is a series of connected books written by different authors. It’s a great way for readers to be introduced to different authors as they follow the story lines through the books. Most of the continuities are six books, but sometimes there can be as many as twelve.

Writing a continuity is like putting together a puzzle. The authors are given a thick workbook that has each author’s individual story, the overarching story and bios on all the characters and descriptions of the setting, along with any other relevant information. Then together the authors collaborate, brainstorming ideas, working out the kinks so that the overarching story line flows through all the books.

For me the best part is the camaraderie of working with my fellow authors. I’ve been involved in nine continuities so far. And though they can be challenging, I’ve enjoyed them and look forward to doing many more.

My May release, Scent of Danger, is the fifth book in the Texas K-9 series. The overarching storyline for this series is the mysterious murder of a teenager, who happens to be the nephew of my heroine. Each book features a K-9 officer and his or her canine partner. In my book, my hero Parker Adams’ partner is a beagle named Sherlock.

Camy here: And boy is that beagle cute! :)


Don't forget about my giveaway of my Love Inspired Suspense, FORMULA FOR DANGER! Get extra entries every day by posting about the contest on Facebook and Twitter!
Click here for more info: http://is.gd/vuATFT


Fill out the entry form below to enter the giveaway for 2 of Terri's backlist books!

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Excerpt - COWBOY TARGET by Terri Reed

Cowboy Target

By Terri Reed



Framed!

For years after the suspicious death of his wife, single dad Wyatt Monroe isolates himself on his Wyoming ranch…until he's accused of murder. With a body at his doorstep, he's arrested and Wyatt has only one hope—a blue-eyed, blonde bodyguard. But it'll take more than skill for work-obsessed Jackie Blain to save her reluctant client, who just wants to be left alone. She'll have to gain his trust by keeping him and his daughter safe. With their lives in her hands, Jackie is faced with her toughest assignment ever—saving the cowboy and guarding her heart.

Protection Specialists: Guarding the innocent



Excerpt of chapter one:



There was a dead man on his porch.

Wyatt Monroe looked into the man's beaten face. Dried blood covered his body in dark splotches. Purple bruises mottled his skin. Lifeless eyes stared back at Wyatt.

Recognition rocked him back on his heels.

He grabbed his cell from his back pocket and dialed 911. His gaze scanned the buildings of his ranch—his foreman's house, the hay barn and stables, the equipment shed, feed shed—and the Wyoming landscape beyond, searching for the threat. Snow swirled in the air and covered the pastureland spread out over the sixty-thousand-acre ranch.

All appeared quiet and undisturbed on this brisk March morning.

"Lane County Emergency Department," the female operator answered. "What's your emergency?"

"Eleanor, this is Wyatt Monroe."

"Hey, Wyatt. What's wrong?"

He could picture the older woman who'd been manning the town's emergency line for longer than he could remember. But that was life in Lane County, Wyoming.

Predictable and steady. The way he wanted his life to be. Sans dead bodies. "Is Gabby okay?"

The concern in Eleanor's voice wrapped around Wyatt and squeezed. Too many people in this town wondered if his little girl was safe with him. Three years after his wife, Dina, had died, he couldn't escape the speculation and suspicion. Even from her grave she was wreaking havoc with his life.

That was what women did. They wormed their way into a guy's heart and then stomped all over it. His mother had done it to his father. Dina had done it to Wyatt.

Never again.

His gaze lifted to the second f loor of his family home. The dormer window with the pink, frilly curtains was closed to protect his four-year-old from the winter weather.

But how protected could she be if someone had dumped a body on his front porch so callously?

"Gabby's fine," he said, assuring himself as much as Eleanor. "It's George Herman."

Eleanor snorted. "What's that rascal gone and done now?"

Wyatt's gaze strayed back to the bloodied, lifeless body of his ranch hand. Gaping wounds littered his torso. Bruises covered his face. The skin of his knuckles had been scraped raw. Poor George.

It was no secret Wyatt and George hadn't seen eye to eye on most things. But the man had been a hand on the Monroe Ranch since Wyatt had been old enough to sit a horse. Wyatt couldn't bring himself to fire him.

He and Dad had been friends. And George didn't have anyone or anyplace else to go.

"Got himself killed." A shudder worked through him. He worked to keep his voice calm. "I found him on my front porch."

Death was a part of life. He knew that. He'd dealt with more than his share. But still…

The silence on the line was as loud as a shotgun blast.

Wyatt swallowed back the memories of the last time he'd had to make an emergency call. The night Dina had died. The night the town had turned on him, accusing him of murder.

A burn spread through his belly. Her death had been an accident. But few believed him. Including his own mother. Which solidified his belief that women couldn't be trusted with his heart.

"I'll inform the sheriff," Eleanor stated with a decidedly cool tone to her voice.

"Appreciate it," he said and hung up.

The front door opened behind him with a barely discernible squeak. Wyatt pivoted and strode toward Gabby, her sweet, freckled face peering through the crack in the doorway.

"Daddy?"

He shooed her back inside with a wave of his hands. "It's too cold for you to come outside in your jammies." He stepped inside the warm house and firmly shut the door behind him. His daughter didn't need to see the horror on the porch.

Gabby lifted her arms. "I want pancakes."

"When Penny comes over, I'm sure she'll make you some pancakes—if you ask politely." He glanced at the clock. His pulse still thundered like the horses he bred. Penny would be here any minute. His foreman's wife watched Gabby during the day while Wyatt worked.

Swinging Gabby into his arms, he carried her into the living room and deposited her on the worn brown leather couch. "For now, why don't you snuggle up under this blanket?" He tucked a fussy blue blanket around her tiny body. "As a special treat today, you can watch some TV before breakfast."

Her bright green eyes lit up. "Barney!"

The favorite of every preschooler. He kissed the top of her curly red head before turning on the television and tuning into the channel with the big purple dinosaur. "Gabby, I need you to stay right here, okay?"

She didn't answer. Her attention remained captivated by the singing character on the screen.

Love for this little child pierced his heart. He searched her sweet face. She looked so much like Dina, the same red hair, the same freckled nose and emerald eyes. He didn't see any of himself in Gabby. Like a knife, the thought sliced as deeply as it always did when he let his mind travel down that perilous road.

A scream from outside split the air. Wyatt flinched. Penny had arrived. He'd hoped to get back out front before she'd walked over. One last glance at Gabby assured him she was too engrossed in her show to have heard the scream. He hurried out the front door.

Penny Kirk clutched a hand over her mouth and held on to the porch railing with the other. Beneath the bright red wool cap pulled low over her graying hair, her lined face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.

Grimly stepping over George, Wyatt went to Penny and steered her away from the sight of the dead man. Her scream had brought others pouring out of the outer buildings.

Penny's husband, Carl, ran to his wife's side. His untucked plaid shirt flapped against his denim-clad thighs, and white shaving foam covered half of his face. "What happened? Are you hurt?" He wrapped his arm around Penny.

"George," she said and broke into tears.

Wyatt met Carl's gaze. Gesturing with his head, he announced, "He's dead. On the porch."

Carl's gaze widened. Wyatt saw the questions, the suspicions, and knew this was just the beginning of what promised to be a mess.

Wyatt recaptured Penny's gaze. "Gabby's inside watching TV."

Penny's eyes filled with horror. "Did she.?"

Wyatt shook his head. Thankful for that.

Penny blew out a breath of relief. "I'll go to her."

Grateful to the older couple who'd virtually adopted him and Gabby as family, Wyatt knew he and Gabby wouldn't have fared well without them over the years. They'd come on board the ranch before Wyatt's dad passed on, had witnessed the turmoil of Wyatt's marriage and had stepped in as surrogate grandparents for Gabby as soon as she was born. Dina had resisted their help, but Wyatt thanked God for them every day.

The sound of tires coming up the snow-packed gravel drive drew Wyatt's attention. The sheriff's brown sedan pulled to a stop. Two deputy cars and the medical examiner's van pulled in behind him.

Wyatt went to meet the law officer, who was climbing out of his vehicle.

Sheriff Craig Landers was tall and broad shouldered beneath his brown leather jacket and tan uniform. His salt-and-pepper hair poked out from the curled edges of a tan Stetson. His sharp gray eyes took in everything. The crowd of ranch hands circling the front porch, the body lying at the top of the stairs. And Wyatt.

Forcing himself to stand taller, Wyatt met his stepfather's gaze head-on.

"Wyatt."

"Sheriff."

The older man's eyes narrowed. "Give me the low-down."

"I came out front about twenty minutes ago and found George just as he is."

"You didn't move the body, did you?"

"No." Wyatt had learned the hard way that contaminating a crime scene would only make him look guilty. At least, it had with Dina. He'd tried to give her CPR. Her blood had ended up on his clothes. For some, that was enough to label him responsible for her death.

Thankfully, Wyatt had God and a lack of incriminating evidence on his side. He could only hope and pray God would see him through this ordeal, too.

"Good." Landers strode forward. "Okay, everyone back away. Let Andrew through," he said, indicating the medical examiner.

Wyatt watched as Andrew, an older man with a full beard and wire-rimmed glasses, examined the body.

George had been ornery and arrogant, but he didn't deserve to die. Who would do this? And why leave him on Wyatt's porch?

"Wyatt, you understand we have to search the grounds." Landers's voice broke through his thoughts. The sheriff's voice held a note of compassion.

"Knock yourself out," Wyatt stated. He didn't have anything to hide. And he intended to be right on their heels doing a search of his own. Nobody harmed one of his people. "Tell your boys to be mindful of Gabby. She's in the living room watching television."

"Sheriff!"

Wyatt turned toward where a deputy stood beside the open door to Wyatt's dark blue truck. Winter sunlight glinted off the object the deputy held up with a gloved hand.

The air left Wyatt's lungs in a rush.

His steel-bladed hunting knife, covered in blood.

Jackie Blain punched the freestanding, heavy black bag. Jab, jab with the right hand. Whack with her left elbow. Right foot roundhouse kick. Jab, jab. Whack. Kick. She focused on the punching bag with single-minded attention. For the moment, she was in the heat of battle against an imaginary assailant wanting to part her from her client. Not happening on her watch. Ever. That was why she trained two to three hours a day. At least, every day that she wasn't on an assignment.

The trilling sound of her cell phone broke through her concentration. Giving the bag one last jab, she whirled away and jumped over her sleeping English bulldog, Spencer, to grab the phone off the island counter.

"Blain," she answered.

"Jackie, it's your uncle Carl," the voice on the other end said in her ear.

Taken by surprise, she smiled. Carl was her mother's older brother. "Hey. Wow, long time no hear."

She picked up a white terry-cloth towel from the pile sitting atop the bar stool and wiped her face and neck.

"The street runs both ways, young lady," her uncle chided.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry 'bout that. I did call at Christmas and left a message."

"I know. And we were remiss in not returning the call."

She shrugged away his comment and turned to stare at the present they'd sent, an eleven-by-eleven landscape painted by a local Wyoming artist, which hung on her kitchen wall. The gift canceled out not returning her call.

Walking to the window of her apartment located in Boston's Back Bay neighborhood, Jackie pushed the blinds apart with her free hand. A fresh layer of snow covered the street below. Beyond the roofline of the apartments across the street, the downtown Boston skyline glistened in the midmorning winter sun. She never tired of looking at the city. So different from the flat cornfields of Iowa where she'd grown up. "So, how are you? Have you heard from my parents?"

"We're okay," he said, but something in his tone didn't ring true with his words.

She dropped the blinds back in place. Her heart sped up. Her breath lay trapped beneath her ribs. She hadn't heard from her parents in a couple of weeks. They were on a cruise in the Mediterranean. "And Mom and Dad?"

"They're good as far as I know," he quickly assured her.

Tension left her body in a rush of relief. "But something's wrong."

"Yes. We could sure use your help," Carl said.

She blinked. Her uncle and aunt had never asked for anything from her before. This must be serious. "Sure. What do you need?"

"It's Wyatt Monroe. He needs you."

Sinking into the reclining leather love seat, her one piece of furniture that hadn't come from a secondhand store, she asked, "Your employer? Needs me?"

She'd never met Mr. Monroe. In fact, she'd never visited Wyoming, where her uncle and aunt lived. She'd thought about it back when her life had turned upside down. But then she'd found Trent Associates and, well, she never got around to making the trip that far west. She'd returned home to Atkins, Iowa, a couple of times, but preferred her parents to come to Boston. Going back to her hometown only stirred up old anger and humiliation. And reinforced the painful lessons she'd learned about love. Never fall for someone you work with. And never, ever give anyone that much power over your heart.

She shuddered and pushed away the memories threatening to surface. She had a good job now with Trent Associates as a protection specialist. She had a place to belong. She had coworkers who respected her, cared for her and made her feel connected. Protecting others was what she was good at. And she had her dog, Spencer, for company. That was all she needed.

"Wyatt's in trouble." Carl's words broke through her thoughts. "Someone's framing him for the murder of one of his ranch hands."

That piqued her interest. And raised her skepticism. Four years as a deputy sheriff did that to a person. "Are you sure he didn't do it?"

"I know he didn't." His voice was adamant.

Still, old habits of suspicion held firm. "Are you his alibi?"

After a moment's hesitation, he said, "No. He doesn't have one."

"Not good for him." She kicked off her cross-trainers with a sigh. Her feet cooled immediately. She'd worked up a sweat on this cold March morning. "I trust he has a good lawyer?"

"I've hired one. Against his wishes."

Jackie frowned. "Is his objection to you hiring the lawyer or to the lawyer himself?"

Carl heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Both. He's innocent and doesn't see why he needs a lawyer."

Either the man was overconfident in the justice system or not right in the head. Jackie figured it was probably a little of both. "What can I do to help?"

"Would you come here? Help us prove he's innocent?"

She sat back. "Uncle Carl, I'm not in law enforcement anymore. I'm sure the police there will do a thorough investigation."

"Maybe. But I'd feel better if you'd come out and keep an eye on the investigation. There are complications."

"What kind of complications? Either he did the deed, or he didn't. The evidence will prove it one way or another."

"It's not that simple here. Wyatt has a past," Carl said.

Jackie wrinkled her nose. "We all have a past, Uncle Carl. That won't affect the evidence."

"What if someone wanted it to?"

Her mind jumped back to Carl's earlier statement. "You really think someone is trying to frame him?"

"I do." He lowered his voice. "Plus, there's bad blood between the sheriff and Wyatt that goes back a long ways."

Not a mess she wanted to get involved in.

"I have a job here. A good job." Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was overdue to take some vacation time. Her boss, James, had gone so far as to tell her if she didn't take some R & R by spring, he'd bench her for a few weeks to give her some forced downtime.

"Then I'll hire you if that's what it takes," Carl said with a flinty edge.

He wasn't going to let this go. "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"Helping Wyatt means everything to Penny and me." Carl cleared his throat. "You know we wouldn't ask if it weren't important. If Wyatt is convicted of this crime… We can't let it happen. Gabby needs her father."

Order:

Print books:

Harlequin.com

Harlequin.com (Large Print)

Barnes and Noble

Barnes and Noble (Large Print)

Amazon.com

Amazon.com (Large Print)

Christianbook.com

Booksamillion.com

Booksamillion.com (Large Print)



Ebooks:

Harlequin.com

Nookbook

Kindle

Booksamillion.com

Kobobooks.com

iTunes



You can also purchase this book from any of the stores found at CBA Storefinder.



Also, don’t forget that it’s Free Book Friday over at Harlequin.com--if you order two or more books, you’ll get their weekly featured book for free!



This week, the featured book is: Breathless Encounter & The Dark Side of Night (2 stories in one) by Cindy Dees

Excerpt - SURVIVE THE NIGHT by Vicki Hinze

Survive the Night

By Vicki Hinze



After losing everything, Della Jackson tries to begin again as an investigator. But she can't forget the past…and neither can someone else. Someone who won't let anyone—even Della's best friend, former special operative Paul Mason—stand in the way. As Della is stalked and those closest to her are targeted, both Della and Paul realize there's only one way to survive. They each have to face their greatest fears, overcome the scars of the past and dare to love again…before it's too late.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"Tired?"

Della Jackson latched her seat belt, then looked over at Paul Mason, driving his SUV. Her day had started just after five. It was now nineteen hours long, but she had to give credit to her boss, Madison McKay, owner of Lost, Inc. Holding an "open house" at the small private investigating firm where Della had worked since returning to Florida three years ago was a brilliant idea. Holding it during North Bay's annual street festival was beyond brilliant and now a proven, resounding success.

"I passed tired about nine o'clock. Not that your company hasn't been great." On a horse wearing a cowboy hat or in a black tux as he was now, Paul Mason was gorgeous and charming. Black hair, gray eyes and lean and fit with a face chiseled by a loving hand. More importantly to Della, he was a man of character, trusted, and he expected nothing from her. That made him the perfect nondate date for any event but especially for one of Madison's formal soirees, which Della never attended without a direct command-performance memo.

Paul's arm draped the steering wheel. "Can I say something without you going postal on me?"

Odd remark. "Sure." In their three years of being close friends, hadn't they always spoken freely? From the first time she'd talked to him on the phone from lennessee through his organization, Florida Vet Net, and he'd agreed to help her relocate to Florida, she thought they had done nothing but speak freely.

He braked for a group of about thirty festivalgoers to cross the street. One boy about twelve had the Seminole emblem painted on his cheek: Red is good.

Her dress. So he had noticed that she always wore black. Was he like her landlady's granddaughter next door? Gracie, a precocious eight-year-old, had taken one look at the red dress her grandmother was rehemming because Della had hemmed the silk with dental floss and asked if Della was done mourning.

What mother ever stopped mourning the death of a child? What woman stopped mourning the resulting breakup of her marriage? "The black dress didn't fit."

Disappointment flashed through Paul's eyes. "Ah, I see." He turned onto Highway 20, then minutes later, south into her subdivision. "You seemed to have fun tonight."

"You know I did." They'd danced, enjoyed a battle of the bands and had a grand time. Fun. She'd had fun.

The thought sank in, and a flood of guilt swarmed in right behind it.

He clicked on his blinker to turn onto her street. "It's okay for you to have fun, Della. And to wear clothes that aren't black. It's been three years."

"I know." She'd heard it all from everyone—her former pastor, her landlady, her boss, her boss's assistant—and now from Paul.

"But knowing it and feeling it are two different things?" he suggested.

He understood. Paul always understood. "Exactly." Days passing on a calendar didn't change the grief or loss in a mother's heart. That was the part the others didn't seem to understand. The ache and emptiness were still fresh, the wounds still raw. She sighed, glanced out the window. Gracie stood on Della's front porch. What was that she was holding? "But I am working on—Stop!"

Paul hit the brakes hard, screeched to a stop. "What's wrong?"

Della didn't pause to answer but grabbed the door, flung it open and scrambled out. "Gracie!" she screamed, her voice frantic, and ran full out toward her cottage. Oh, please no. Don't let it happen again."Put down that package!"

Gracie stood statue-still, her eyes stretched wide, like a terrified deer blinded by headlights.

"Put the box down, Gracie." Della softened her voice. "Do it now. Right now."

Gracie set the box on the porch's floor and then just stood beside it.

Della snatched her off the porch, buried her against her hammering chest and ran across the postage-stamp-sized yard to the sidewalk near the street, putting the most distance possible between the package and the child, using her own body as a shield.

Paul ran up to them. "What's wrong?"

Della ignored him. "Gracie, didn't your gran tell you not to get my mail?"

"I—I didn't, Della," she said on a stuttered breath. "You're squishing me."

Della loosened her hold. "Where did you get the box?"

"It wasn't in the mailbox, I promise. It was on the porch by the swing." Her voice cracked. "I was scared you wouldn't see it and—"

Della's heart still banged against her ribs, threatened to thump out of her chest. She was shaking. Hard. "I appreciate it, but next time you listen to me. Don't get my mail anymore or any packages. Got it?"

A fat tear rolled down Gracie's cheek.

Paul smiled and flicked away Gracie's tear. "Della knows you were trying to help, and she's sorry she sounds so angry. She's not, you know."

"She sounds plenty mad." Gracie's chin quivered.

"No, I'm not mad." Della felt like a slug. A terrified slug, but still a slug. "I was scared."

"Why?" Gracie and Paul asked simultaneously.

Oh, boy. She was in for it now, but it was past time for the truth. "Gracie, you know what happened to Danny, right?" Just speaking her son's name hurt, reopened the gaping wounds in her battered heart.

Gracie nodded. Light from the streetlamp had the glittery face paint from the festival sparkling on her cheeks. "His daddy was holding him and he opened the mailbox and it exploded. His daddy got hurt, but Danny went to heaven. Now he lives with your mom and dad and my grandpa."

"That's right." Della said it, and would give her eyeteeth to still believe it. But her beliefs or lack of them were her problem, not Gracie's. "This is my fault. I didn't want to frighten you, but I should have told you I'm worried the man who did that to Danny might do it again. That's why I don't want you getting my mail and why I sounded so angry. When I saw you on the porch with that box… I was really scared."

Gracie curled her arms around Della's neck and hugged her fiercely. Her breath warmed Della's neck, melted the icy chill steeped in her bones. "I'm not going to heaven yet. It'll be a long, long time. Gran said."

Gran was the ultimate authority on all things. "That's good to know." Della blew out a steadying breath, then set Gracie down on the sidewalk. "You run on home now. It's late and your gran is waiting." What was Miss Addie thinking, letting Gracie come outside this late at night alone?

"She doesn't know I'm gone. She's in the shower."

That explained that. "What made you come out here?" Della should have asked that before now, and probably would have, if seeing the child holding that package hadn't scared ten years off her life.

"I saw the man put the box on the porch."

A chill streaked through Della. "Did you know him?"

She shook her head. "It was too dark. I just saw the box moving. He was carrying it."

"He was wearing dark clothes, then?" Della asked.

"I dunno. I only saw the box until he left. Then when he got to the sidewalk I saw him."

Because of the streetlight. "Would you know him again?"

"No. Everything was black." She tilted her head. "Well, except his shoes."

"Did you see his face?"

"No."

Paul spoke softly. "Gracie, are you sure it was a man?"

"I dunno. He was bigger than Della, but not as big as you. I couldn't see."

"Okay, honey," Della said. "You go on home now before your gran can't find you and gets scared."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And no more leaving the house without her knowing it," Paul said.

"Yes, sir." Gracie cut across the grass and headed next door. "Night, Della. Bye, Mr. Mason."

"Good night, Gracie."

"I wish she'd seen more," Paul said. "I hope he didn't see her." Della's gaze collided with Paul's. "You're not thinking it was FedEx, are you?"

"At midnight?" She muffled a grunt. "No."

"Neither am I," he said, then waited, clearly expecting her to explain her behavior and her concerns.

Della hesitated, staring back at the porch at the box, but Paul let the silence between them stretch, blatantly waiting for her to look at him. Resigned, she did. At least he wasn't scowling.

"Spill it."

"Spill what?" The porch light cast streaks of light across the sidewalk, but it wasn't so dark she didn't see the stern look in his eyes. She could try to act as if everything was fine now that Gracie was safely tucked into her own cottage, pretend that her being outside was what really terrified Della and hope he'd go home so she could examine the box on her own, but that required deceit. She hated deceit and she'd never practiced it with Paul. The idea of doing so now grated on her. Just considering it made her feel slimy.

"Don't minimize this." He frowned. "Your explanation satisfied Gracie, but I know you, Della Jackson. You're not suddenly scared of another mailbox bomb. Not with Dawson locked away in a mental hospital. So what's going on?"

He knew her too well. "Dawson isn't in the mental hospital anymore. He's out."

Surprised lit across Paul's face. "Since when?"

"Apparently, for about six weeks—"

"And you didn't tell me?"

"There's no need to shout at me. My hearing is just fine." She frowned up at him. "I just found out two weeks ago."

"A month after the fact? But they were supposed to give you advance notice."

"Yes, they were, but they didn't. I fell through the crack."

"So two weeks ago, they notified you and you didn't think it was significant enough to mention?"

"I was going to tell you. I just hadn't gotten around to it yet. My caseload has been a bear, and then there was the open house—it's just been kind of crazy."

"You're still making excuses. Please don't." She opened her mouth, but he lifted a finger. "You figure Dawson is out and knows where you are because.?"

She clamped her jaw and stared at the box on the porch. Anything she said would upset Paul more and she didn't want to do that.

"Della, I know something has happened. Just Dawson's release wouldn't put you in the panic you were in when you saw Gracie. Stop making me pull teeth, woman, and tell me what's going on."

"The truth is, I'm not sure yet." She summoned her courage and headed toward the box.

From the edge of the porch, she studied the label and felt the blood drain from her face. "But we need to call the police."

He walked over to where she stood. "Why?"

"Because—" she spared him a glance "—it says it's from Tennessee."

His frown faded and his face brightened. "Maybe Jeff's finally sent you the pictures of Danny."

She'd asked her ex for a photo of her son every month for three years and had gotten nothing. No photo, no response whatsoever. "Highly doubtful—no." She more closely examined the box. "This isn't from Jeff, and I don't know anyone else in Tennessee anymore."

"How do you know it's not from him? If there's no one else—"

Having the benefit of insights he did not, she pointed but didn't touch the package. "See this code on the shipping label?"

Paul read it and then looked over at her, his expression grave. "It's a Florida zip code."

"Walton County." Della nodded. "But someone clearly wanted me to think the box was from Tennessee." The return address had been written in black marker.

"That's more than enough for me." Paul pulled out his cell and dialed.

"Who are you calling?" Della asked.

Paul lifted a wait-a-second finger. "Major Beech, it's Paul Mason. Fine. Yeah, a good turnout." He moved to put himself between the box and Della. "I've got a suspicious package over at Della Jackson's cottage."

Major Harrison Beech. Why was Paul calling the base and not the local police? Della grimaced. "It could be nothing."

She said it, but it didn't feel like nothing. It felt like a huge something.

"Thanks, Beech." Paul hung up and guided Della away from the package. "He's coming out with some friends."

A team of professionals. His hand on her arm was firm, leading her back toward the sidewalk. "Why did you call him?"

"He's an explosives specialist."

"But we don't know that there are explosives in the box, Paul."

"Which is why it's best to be prudent." He stopped. "We do know the package was delivered under suspicious circumstances."

"But Beech?" The military reminded her of her active duty days when she'd been stationed at the base here, and of all she'd lost while serving in Afghanistan. Things she'd worked hard to forget but failed, and now worked hard to accept. "Couldn't the police handle it?" Actually, she didn't want them called, either. She didn't need the police.

Now that she'd absorbed the shock of seeing Gracie on the porch holding that box, she wanted to check it out herself. It could be a prank, related to one of her cases. Could be a practical joke of some sort, or anything other than something dangerous. She was a professional investigator, for pity's sake. If the local police considered her a hysterical woman, her professional effectiveness would be hampered on every case she worked from now on.

Yet Paul's reason for calling Major Beech intrigued her. Why had he done that? Oh, she'd heard what he'd said. But she knew him, and his reasons would never be that simple. There was definitely more to it.

"The local police are not explosives specialists, and they're tied up with the festival. They'd have to get a unit from Walton County to come in and, frankly, Walton would probably just call the base for assistance anyway. Calling Beech direct saves time." Paul led her down the sidewalk toward his SUV. "Let's wait in the car."

All true, but still not everything. What more was there? "You've got a bad feeling about this, don't you?" Della sensed it in him, just as she felt it in the pit of her stomach. Maybe it was their military training. Paul had served in special operations. Della had served in the intelligence realm as a computer specialist. Both positions required skill sets that included honed instincts.

Or maybe it wasn't their common military experience but the personal bond connecting them that put them on a kindred wavelength. Whatever the reason, they both had a feeling about this, and it wasn't good.

"Yeah, I do, Della." He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. "A real bad feeling."

She shivered and he pulled her closer.

Crouching low, he hid in the darkness between two fat bushes and watched them walk to the black SUV and get inside. He'd chosen this spot across the street because it was void of light; she'd never spot him, yet he could see every move she made.

Why didn't you just open the box? Frustrated, he cast an agitated glare at her neighbor's house, the cottage next door. It was that stupid kid's fault. If she hadn't interfered, Della would have found the package. He'd have seen her open it. There's no way she would have walked away without opening it. He'd have seen her panic and felt her fear.

He thrived on her fear.

For six weeks, the anticipation had been building, clawing at his stomach, urging him to rush. Temptation burned so strong but he'd strained mightily against it and fortunately his leash had held—at least, thus far. Discipline, man. To win requires discipline.

It did. Enormous discipline. Della Jackson was not a fool.

Order:

Print books:

Harlequin.com

Harlequin.com (Large Print)

Barnes and Noble

Barnes and Noble (Large Print)

Amazon.com

Amazon.com (Large Print)

Christianbook.com

Booksamillion.com

Booksamillion.com (Large Print)



Ebooks:

Harlequin.com

Nookbook

Kindle

Booksamillion.com

Kobobooks.com

iTunes



You can also purchase this book from any of the stores found at CBA Storefinder.



Also, don’t forget that it’s Free Book Friday over at Harlequin.com--if you order two or more books, you’ll get their weekly featured book for free!



This week, the featured book is: Breathless Encounter & The Dark Side of Night (2 stories in one) by Cindy Dees

Love Inspired chat tonight!

From 8-10pm EST. I hope you’ll join us! No need for a password.



http://chat.eharlequin.com/flashchat.php#

Review: The Fortunate Marriage by Meriol Trevor

Fortunate Marriage by Meriol Trevor


My rating: 4 of 5 stars



I really like these old-fashioned style novels, so just a warning that if you don't like this type of writing style, this book will probably not be as enjoyable.

First off, the back cover copy, which is from the Fawcett Crest reprinting, is VERY misleading. It is not actually a romance--more a Regency historical fiction with strong romantic elements, and the two characters in the back cover copy--Dynham and Louisa--are not the only main characters. There are actually 4 main characters as well as Caroline, and it is not structured like a romance novel. I felt a bit betrayed because the back cover copy is so misleading. If I had known ahead of time that it was not a romance, I would have been fine with it, but I felt betrayed because I was expecting a romance.

Louisa as a main character is quiet and insightful for the first half of the story, if a bit weak, but it's understandable considering she's a poor relation and has a tenuous place in the household. But in the second half of the book, she devolves into a bit of a milksop.

Dynham is a strong character with weaknesses and strengths. I also liked Henrietta quite a bit, and wish there had been more page time devoted to her. Hilary also develops as a better character by the end of the book.

My biggest gripe is that the first half of the book, with a very gothic romance feeling, seems to go on for too long. I think it could have been cut in half, and I would have liked the second half of the book to be expanded more.

However, the story was interesting enough for me to keep reading and wanting to know what happened to each of the characters. I enjoyed the book a lot.





View all my reviews

BookGem

I’ve been making more of an effort to finish reading my To Be Read pile of books, many of which are paperbacks. Some of you may already know that I enjoy knitting while I read--usually something super easy like stockinette stitch socks or a garter stitch baby jacket. I typically can only knit when I’m reading an ebook, because I can prop my ebook reader up in front of me and simply swipe to change pages.



For a while I tried to find some way to be able to prop a paperback book up and turn pages easily (one-handed), but couldn’t come up with any particularly good method. Then I did some Googling last week and found the BookGem, an invention that seemed very innovative after I watched their instructional video. It wasn’t expensive, so I ordered one. I was willing to try anything to be able to read paperbacks hands-free and turn pages with only one hand.



I tried my BookGem this weekend and really liked it. The option of putting the pages in a temporary slot really helped me be able to turn the pages one-handed.



Here is my book in my BookGem with one of the books I read this weekend, The Fortunate Marriage by Meriol Trevor:









Here it is without the book in it:









Here it is with the little shelf folded/flipped back up.







I know I’m probably unusual in needing to read my paperbacks hands-free, but I really do like knitting while I read, and I have an unfortunate (and favorite) habit of eating while I read. A hands-free holder and a knitting project in my hands helps me not to eat while I read, so that hopefully I can lose a few pounds this year!



Any of you have any favorite hands-free gadgets for reading?

Book giveaway - FORSAKEN DREAMS by MaryLu Tyndall

Today I’m giving away an autographed copy of:

Forsaken Dreams

by

MaryLu Tyndall



Embark on a seafaring adventure in a brand-new series from bestselling author MaryLu Tyndall. After witnessing the death and destruction caused by the Civil War, Colonel Blake Wallace is eager to leave his once precious Southern homeland for the pristine shores of Brazil and the prospect of a new utopian community. Widow Eliza Crawford seeks passage on Wallace’s ship harboring a dirty secret—and a blossoming hope for a fresh start. But will dangers from the sea and from man keep them from the peace and love they long for?



Excerpt of chapter one:





To obey is better than sacrifice.

1 Samuel 15:22

Dedicated to every Jonah running from God. Cast of Characters

Colonel Blake Wallace—leader and organizer of the expedition to Brazil and a decorated war hero wanted for war crimes by the Union. He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Eliza Crawford—widow and Confederate army nurse who signed on to nurse the colonists, married to a Yankee general, and disowned by her Southern, politician father.

James Callaway—Confederate army surgeon turned Baptist preacher who signed on as the colony’s only doctor but who suffers from an extreme fear of blood.

Hayden Gale—con man who has been searching for his father to execute revenge for the death of his mother. Believing the man is heading toward Brazil, Hayden stows away on board the New Hope.

Angeline Moore—signed on as the colony’s seamstress, Angeline is a broken woman who wants more than anything to put her past behind her. Unfortunately, there are a few passengers on board whom she recognizes from her prior life.

Magnolia Scott—Georgia plantation owner’s pampered daughter who doesn’t want to go to Brazil and will do anything to turn the ship around. Constantly belittled by her father, she is obsessed with her appearance.

Mr. and Mrs. Scott—once wealthy plantation owners who claim to have lost everything in the war, yet they still retain their haughty, patrician attitude toward others. They hope to regain their position and wealth in Brazil.

Sarah Jorden—seven months pregnant and a war widow, she signed on to teach the colony’s children. Wiley Dodd—ex-lawman from Richmond who is fond of the ladies and in possession of a treasure map that points to Brazil as the location of a vast amount of gold.

Harman Graves—senator’s son and ex-politician from Maryland whose hopes to someday run for president were crushed when the South seceded from the Union.

Captain Barclay—old sea dog who was a blockade runner in the war and who captains and owns the ship New Hope.

Parson Bailey—signed on as the colony’s pastor and spiritual guide.

Emory Lewis—the colony’s carpenter who took to drink after losing his wife and child in the war.

Moses and Delia—a freed slave and his sister who, along with her two children, want to start over in a new land away from the memory of slavery.

Jesse and Rosa Jenkins—simple farmers who, with their young daughter, Henrietta, hope to have a chance at a good life away from the ravages of war.

Mable—slave to the Scotts.



Chapter 1

May 29, 1866 Somewhere in the Caribbean

We shall all be in heaven or hell by night’s end!” Parson Bailey shouted above the din of the storm. “God save us. God save us.” His pudgy face swelled with each fateful phrase, while his eyes as wide as beacons, skittered around the tiny storeroom with each pound of wave and wind.

Eliza Crawford extracted herself from her friends huddling in the corner and made her way to the parson, intending to beg his silence. It did no good for him to say such things. Why, a parson of all people should comfort others, not increase their fears.

Thunder shook the ship. The deck canted, and instead of reaching Parson Bailey, Eliza tumbled into the arms of the very man she’d been trying to avoid since she boarded the New Hope almost three weeks ago— Wiley Dodd. Though of obvious means, evident in the fine broadcloth coat he wore and the gold watch he so often flaunted, something in his eyes, the way he looked at the women, made her stomach sour.

“In need of male comfort, Mrs. Crawford?” he asked. That sourness now turned to nausea as his arms encircled her. Not that she needed much assistance in the squeamish department. Her stomach had been convulsing since the storm began a few hours ago. But the perfumed Macassar oil Mr. Dodd slicked through his hair threatened to destroy all her efforts to keep her lunch from reappearing over his posh attire.

“We are done for.Done for,I say.”The parson continued his rambling as he clung to the mast pole.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd.” Pushing against his chest, Eliza snapped from his clawing grip. The lizard-like smile on his lips belied their dire situation. “You’re

welcome to stay with me if you are frightened, my dear.”

“Yesterday you called me a Yankee whore, sir!”

His smile remained though he gave a little shrug. “Desperate times

and all that, you know.”

Lightning flashed through the porthole, masking his face in a

deathly gray.

“Why are you not frightened?” she asked him.

“Naught but a summer squall,” he shouted over the ensuing roar of

thunder. “I have experienced many such storms.”

Eliza wondered how often a sheriff would have been to sea. Even so,

he’d still chosen to remain below instead of help above with the other men. The ship careened upward as if it were but a toy in a child’s hands. Eliza stumbled again and struck the bulkhead. A wall of water slammed against the porthole, creating a perverted dance of seething foam that lasted far longer than it should.

Was the ship sinking? Her lungs seized at the thought.

“The end is near. Near, I tell you!” the parson ranted.

The wave retreated. Leaden sky took its place, and Eliza scrambled

on hands and knees back to her position beside a massive crate strapped to the bulkhead. Back to her only friends on this ill-fated ship. Mrs. Sarah Jorden and Miss Angeline Moore received her with open arms, neither one sobbing as one would expect of genteel ladies in such harrowing circumstances. Besides, there was sobbing enough coming from the other side of the room, where the wealthy plantation owners, Mr. and Mrs. Scott, and their pampered daughter, Magnolia, clung to each other in a desperate barbarism contrary to their elevated station. In fact, Mr. Scott had not opened his eyes in hours. Perhaps he attempted to drown out his wife’s incessant howling, which elevated to a piercing level after each of the parson’s decrees of doom. Tears streamed down Magnolia’s fair cheeks, pricking Eliza’s heart.

She should be angry at the young lady for exposing Eliza’s ruse. But all she felt was pity.

Sitting beside the wealthy planters, Magnolia’s personal slave hunched with folded hands and moving lips as if she were praying. Eliza hoped so. They needed all the prayers they could get. She had already lifted her petitions to the Almighty. Still, she whispered one more appeal, just in case, as she scanned the rest of the passengers crowded in the tiny storeroom—sent below by the captain when the seas had grown rough.Farmers, merchants, lawyers, people of all classes and wealth. Jessie and Rosa Jenkins and their young daughter, Henrietta, had not uttered a peep since they’d tied themselves to a large table anchored to the deck. Mr. Harman Graves, a politician from Maryland, sat with his back against the bulkhead and a pleased look on his angular face, as if he knew something they did not. He rubbed an amulet between thumb and forefinger, lips moving as if in prayer, though Eliza doubted it was directed at God.

Next to him, Mr. Emory Lewis, a carpenter, if Eliza remembered correctly, kept plucking a flask from his pocket, taking a sip, and putting it back, only to repeat the ritual over again.

The eerie whistle of wind through rigging tore at Eliza’s remaining courage. She shivered, and Sarah squeezed her arm, whispering something in her ear that was lost in the boom of another wave pounding the hull.

A child’s whimper brought her gaze to her left, where Delia, a freed Negress, hugged her two young children close. A flash of lightning accentuated the fear tightening the woman’s coffee-colored face. The fear of death—a fear they all felt at the moment. A fear that was no respecter of class or race. A fear that broke through all social barriers. For yesterday, the Scotts, as well as some of the others present, would not have agreed to be in the same room with a freed slave.

Or even with Eliza.

Thunder bellowed, barely audible above the explosion of wind and wave. How did this tiny brig withstand such a beating? Surely the timbers would burst any moment, splintering and filling the room with the mad gush of the sea. Locking her arms with the ladies on either side, she closed her eyes as the galloping ship tossed them like rag dolls over the hard deck.

“And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works.” Parson Bailey had taken to quoting scripture, which only caused Mrs. Scott to howl even louder.Eliza’s thoughts shifted to Blake and the other men struggling to save the ship up on deck. Well, mainly to Blake, if she were honest. Which was something she hadn’t been of late. But that was another matter altogether. Oh fiddle, Colonel Blake Wallace, she reproved herself. She shouldn’t be calling him by his Christian name. Though the last nineteen days she’d spent in his company seemed a lifetime, in truth she hardly knew the man.

Then why, in her darkest hour as she faced a suffocating death in the middle of the Caribbean, was it Colonel Wallace who drew her thoughts? Not just her thoughts, but her concern—fear for his safety. Fear that she wouldn’t have a chance to explain why she had lied, wouldn’t have a chance to win back the affection that had so recently blossomed in both their hearts. She rubbed her tired eyes.

But what did it matter now? He hated her for who she was. No, for whom she had married. In fact, as she glanced over the terrified faces in the room, only loathing shot back at her. To them she was the enemy. An enemy they were risking their lives to escape. And now they were all going to die. Together in the middle of the sea. With no one to mourn them. No one who would know their fate. Not even Eliza’s father or Uncle James and Aunt Sophia or little Alfred, Rachel, or Henry. Not that they would care. To them, she was already dead.

Disowned. Disinherited. Forsaken.

The brig twisted and spun around as if caught in a whirlpool. Angeline’s trembling body crashed into Eliza on one side while Sarah’s smashed into her from the other, making Eliza feel like a garment run through a clothespress. An explosion of thunder cracked the sky wide open, followed by an eerie silence, as if all of nature had been stunned by the angry shout of God. Or maybe they were all dead. But then the wind outside the hull and the whimpers of fear within resumed. Angeline pressed Stowy, her cat, tightly against her chest while Sarah’s free hand clutched her belly swollen with child. Seven months along. How worried she must be for her wee one!

“Repent, for the end is at hand!” Parson Bailey’s flashing eyes speared Eliza with a look of hatred. She knew what he was thinking. What they all were thinking.

That she was the reason for the storm.

Another thunderous blast and Eliza squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing—praying—this was only a bad dream. How did she get herself into this mess? Why, oh why, did she ever think she could start afresh in Brazil?She opened her eyes and stared at the oscillating shadows: light and dark drifting over the bulkhead, crates, boxes, and tables. And over the hopeless faces. A torn piece of rope tumbled back and forth across the deck. Parson Bailey still glared at her. Something maniacal glinted in his eyes as he shared a glance with Mr. Dodd and Mr. Graves.

“It’s you!” he raged, glancing over the others. “God told me this Yankee is the cause of the storm!”

Though all eyes shot toward the parson, no one said a word. Hopefully they were too busy holding on and too frightened for their lives to do anything about it. Mr. Graves, however, staggered to his feet, slipped the amulet into his pocket, and glanced at Eliza like a cougar eyeing a rabbit.

She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like sand. Mr. Dodd grinned. “I say we toss her over!”

“Aye, she’s our Jonah!” Mr. Graves added. “Precisely.” Parson Bailey nodded.

Though the freed Negress’s eyes widened even farther, only the farmers, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, offered any protests. Protests that were lost in the thunderous boom of the storm.

“Don’t be absurd, Parson!” Sarah added from beside Eliza. “God cares not a whit whether Eliza is a Yankee or a Rebel!” Yet, no sooner had the words fled her mouth than thunder exploded so loud it seemed God disagreed with the young teacher’s pronouncement.

Eliza frowned.For goodness’sake,whose side was God on,anyway?

The ship bucked, and Eliza’s bottom lifted from the deck then slammed back again. A rope snapped, and a crate slid across the room. Mr. Dodd halted it with his boot then glanced at Mr. Graves while jerking his head toward Eliza.

“Jonah must go overboard for the seas to calm!”The parson howled above the storm, though he seemed unwilling to let go of the mast pole to carry out his depraved decree.

Angeline squeezed Eliza’s arm. “I won’t let them take you!”

As much as she appreciated her friend’s courageous stance, Eliza knew what she must do. She must leave, get out of this room, out from under these incriminating eyes, before these men dragged her above and did just what they threatened.Terror stole the breath from her lungs,but she tugged from her friends’ arms nonetheless and lunged for the door. She was prepared for the angry slurs behind her when she opened it. She wasn’t prepared for the blast of wind and slap of seawater that shoved her flat onto her derriere and sent her crinolette flailing about her face. Pain shot up her spine. Humiliation at her exposed petticoat and stockings reddened her face. But when she glanced around, everyone’s eyes were closed against the wind and spray bursting into the room. Shaking the stinging water from her eyes, Eliza rose, braced against the torrent, gripped the handle with both hands, and heaved the door shut behind her. Then leaning her head into the wind, she forged down the narrow hall. She had no idea what she intended to do. Toss herself into the sea? She shivered at the thought. Yet if that was God’s will, if He wanted her to throw herself into the raging waters, then so be it!

But then again, when had she ever obeyed God?

The burning prick of conscience was instantly doused by a cascade of seawater crashing down the companionway ladder. The mad surge grabbed her feet and swept them from beneath her. Gripping the railing, she hung on for dear life as she floated off the deck. Seawater filled her mouth. Thoughts of her imminent demise filled her mind. But then her body dropped to the sodden wood. Eliza gasped and spit the salty taste from her mouth.

Thunder roared, shaking the railing beneath her hand. The brig jerked and flung her against the ladder. Struggling to her feet, she dragged her dripping gown up the steps, unprepared for the sight that met her eyes.

Waves of towering heights surrounded the ship, their foamy tips scattering like spears in the wind. Rain fell in thick panels, making it nearly impossible to see anything except blurry, distorted shapes that surely must be the crew hard at work. Wind crashed into Eliza, stealing her breath and howling in her ears. Rain pelted her like hail. The ship pitched over a swell. Eliza toppled to the deck then rolled as if she weighed no more than a feather. She bumped into a small boat and gripped the slippery moorings anchoring it to the deck.

Salt! Salt everywhere. It filled her mouth. It filled her nose. It stung her eyes. It was all she could smell. And taste. That and fear. Not just her own. Fear saturated the air like the rain and waves. It boomed in the muffled shouts ricocheting across the ship. Buzzed in the electric charge of lightning. Clinging to the moorings, her gown flapping like a torn sail, she squinted and searched for the captain, hoping his calm expression would soothe her fears. Yet from his rigid stance on the quarterdeck and his viselike grip on the wheel, Eliza’s hopes were swept away with the wind.Which did nothing to ease her terror. A terror that numbed her heart as she accepted her fate. A wall of water slammed into her. She closed her eyes and hung on as the ship angled to port. Why did she always make bad decisions? Why did she never listen to her conscience? Stubborn, rebellious girl! If she hadn’t married Stanton, if she had listened to her father and her uncle, she would be home now with a loving family. She wouldn’t have been forced to become a nurse in the war, forced to witness things no lady should witness. Forced to take care of herself in a man’s world.

Sailors, ropes tied about their waists, crisscrossed the deck in a tangled fury. By the foredeck, Hayden, their stowaway, his long dark hair thrashing around his face, held fast to a line that led up to the yards. In the distance, Eliza made out James Callaway clinging to the ratlines as he slowly made his way up to the tops. How could anyone hold on in this wind? Especially James, who was a doctor, not a sailor.

But where was Blake. . .Colonel Wallace? Fighting against the assault of seawater in her eyes, she scanned the deck, the tops. Dear God, please. Please let him be all right.

She must find him. Or discover his fate. She must talk to the captain. If they were going to sink, she’d rather know than cling to false hope. Bracing against the wind and rain, she rose to her knees, struggling against her multiple petticoats and crinolette. Inconvenient contraptions! If she stayed low, she may be able to crawl to the quarterdeck ladder and make her way up to the captain.

The ship rolled then plunged into a trough. The timbers creaked and groaned under the strain. Rain stabbed her back. Wind shrieked through the rigging like a death dirge. A massive wave rose before the ship. The bow leaped into it. Eliza dropped to the deck and dug her nails into the wood. Oh God. No! The ship lurched to near vertical. Lightning etched a jagged bolt across Eliza’s eyelids. She lost her grip. Tumbling, tumbling, like a weed driven before the wind. She threw her hands out, searching for something to grab onto. Anything. But the glassy wood slipped from her fingers, leaving splinters in her palms.And terror in her heart.

Her body slammed into the railing. The ship canted. She rolled over the bulwarks, flung her hand out in one last effort to save herself. Her fingers met wood. She latched on. The salivating sea reached up to grab her legs, tugging her down.

Her fingers slipped. Pain radiated into her palms, her wrists. The brig heaved and canted again like a bucking horse.

God, is this how I am to die? Perhaps it was. She’d run from God long enough.

Rain slapped her face, filled her nose. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers slipped again. She couldn’t hold on much longer.

A strong hand grabbed her wrist. A face appeared over the railing. “Hang on! I’ve got you.”

Chapter 2

May 10, 1866 Nineteen days earlier Charleston, South Carolina

The hand that gripped Eliza’s was strong, firm, rough like a warrior’s, yet gentle. He lifted her gloved fingers to his lips and kissed them while eyes as gray and tumultuous as a storm assessed her. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Crawford.” The voice equaled the strength that exuded from the man. No, not any man. A colonel, she had heard, a graduate of West Point.Though he was not broadcasting that fact to the Union authorities scouring Charleston.

“I’m”—he coughed into his hand—“Mr. Roberts, the overseer of this expedition.You are a nurse,if memory serves?”He assisted her from the plank onto the deck of the brig, where the scent of perspiration, tar, and aged wood swirled about her.

Mr. Roberts, indeed. She knew his true identity to be that of Colonel Blake Wallace, a decorated hero of the war, but his secret was safe with her. She smiled.“You are correct, sir.” Thankful for his firm grip, Eliza steadied herself against the motion of the ship. Her heart needed steadying as well, as the colonel continued to gaze at her as if she’d sprouted angel wings. A flood of heat rose up her neck, and she tugged from his grip.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford.” He shook his head as if in a daze and turned to welcome another passenger on board, giving Eliza a chance to study the man who’d organized this daring adventure. In the early morning sunlight, his hair glistened in waves of onyx down to his stiff collar where the strands curled slightly. Drawn along the lines of a soldier, his body displayed a strength only hinted at by the pull of his white shirt and black waistcoat across broad shoulders. Matching trousers stretched over firm thighs before disappearing inside tall leather boots. He turned and caught her staring at him. And then smiled—a glorious smile that was part rogue and part saint, if there was such a thing. Either way, it did terrible, marvelous things to her stomach. Or was that the rock of the ship?Oh fiddle! He was heading her way. With a limp, she noticed. A slight limp that tugged at her heart.

“Do you have luggage, Mrs. Crawford?” Dark eyebrows rose over those stormy eyes, and Eliza thought it best not to stare at the man any longer. She was a widow, after all. A single woman. And she wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression of her character. “Over there.” She pointed her gloved finger to a large trunk perched on the edge of the dock.

“Very well.” Turning, he shouted to a man standing by the railing. “Mr. Mitchel. Would you bring that trunk to the master’s cabin?”

“Aye, aye.” The man darted across the plank.

The colonel nodded toward her and seemed about to say something when a burly man with a tablet stole his attention with a question.

Another man sped past Eliza, bumping into her and begging her pardon. Clutching her pocketbook, she stepped closer to the capstan, out of the way of sailors who scrambled across the deck of the two- masted brig, preparing the ship to sail and helping passengers and their luggage on board. The squawk of seagulls along with the thud of bare feet over the wooden planks accompanied the shouts of dockworkers and crewmen. Beyond the wharf, a group of citizens huddled on shore watching the goings-on from Bay Street.

Furniture, sewing machines, and a plethora of farming implements, along with trunks, lockers, and crates were soon hauled aboard. A pulley system, erected over the yards above, lowered a squealing pig through a hatch into the hold below.

Adjusting her bonnet to shade her eyes from the rising sun while fanning herself against the rising heat, Eliza studied the oncoming passengers. An elderly couple, dressed far too elegantly for sailing, boarded with a lady about Eliza’s age whom she assumed to be their daughter. Wearing a pink taffeta gown with a low neckline trimmed in Chantilly lace, the young woman drew the attention of nearly every man on board, including several sailors who stopped to gape at her. Eliza couldn’t blame them. With hair that rivaled the luster of ivory and skin as creamy as milk, she was the epitome of a Southern belle. Only her red-rimmed eyes marred an otherwise perfect face. That and her frown. She seemed oddly familiar to Eliza, as if they’d met before. Behind them, a young Negress, bent beneath the burden of a large valise, dragged a portmanteau as she struggled to keep up.A tall man with light, wavy hair and wearing a gray three-piece suit, round-brimmed hat, and a pleasant smile on his face leaped from the walkway onto the deck and glanced over the ship, followed by a young couple with a small child, a foppish man all dressed in black with dark sideburns and a goatee, and finally a pregnant woman. Alone, with no husband at her side.

All strangers, yet soon they would become her bunkmates, her neighbors, her companions—perhaps even her friends.

That was, if she could keep her past a secret.

The colonel turned her way again, snapping his fingers at another man crossing the deck. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford. Max will see you to your cabin, where”—he scanned the deck—“I believe Mr. Mitchel has already taken your trunk. I trust we shall have a chance to become better acquainted after we set sail?”

She wanted to say she would enjoy that, but that would be too forward. Instead, she merely smiled and thanked him as the man led the way below deck. Standing at the companionway ladder, Eliza cast one last glance over her shoulder and found the colonel’s eyes still on her. Ah, so he had taken note of her. As if reading her thoughts, he chuckled, coughed into his hand, and limped away.

Eliza had never been on a ship before. Born and raised in Marietta, Georgia, she had no reason to take to the sea. As a war nurse, she’d traveled on a train or a coach. Now as she descended below deck and the sunlight abandoned her and the halls squeezed her from both sides, her nerves spun into knots. And they weren’t even out at sea yet! Her skirts swished against the sides of the narrow corridor, and she pressed them down, lest she snag the fabric on the rough wood. They passed another hatchway leading below, and the scent of something altogether unpleasant filled her nose. Thankful that the man didn’t take her in that direction, Eliza followed him to an open door. “Here ye go, miss. Used t’ be the master’s cabin, but the cap’n reserved it for the single ladies on board.” Max pressed down springs of unruly red hair that circled an equally red face while he allowed liberties with his gaze on Eliza. She took a step back, unsure if it was safe to enter the room with this man in tow. His body odor alone threatened to stir her breakfast into disorder.“That’s very kind of him. Thank you, sir.” She hoped her curt tone would drive him away. It did. But not before he winked above a grin that revealed a jagged row of gray teeth.

Sunlight filtered in from a small porthole, casting oscillating shafts of light over the cabin as small as a wardrobe. A woman, sitting on the only chair, looked up as Eliza stepped inside.

“Hello, I’m Angeline Moore.”

“Eliza Crawford.” Untying the ribbons beneath her chin, she eased off her bonnet. “Pleased to meet you. I suppose we shall be bunkmates?” “Yes, and one other lady, I believe.” Angeline stood. Copper curls

quivered about her neck. Her smile was pleasant, her cheeks rosy, and her violet eyes alluring. And what Eliza wouldn’t give for such feminine curves as hers. Or would she? Despite her dalliance with the colonel above, she had no interest in attracting men. She’d already tried her hand at marriage, and that had ended miserably.

“One more lady. . .in here?” Eliza glanced at her trunk, which took up nearly half the room. “With your luggage and the other lady’s, we will be packed in here like apples in a crate.” Her stomach tightened at the thought.

“I don’t have a trunk. Everything I own is right in here.” Angeline pointed to a small, embroidered valise on the table beside her.

Eliza thought it strange to have so little, but she didn’t want to pry. Setting down her pocketbook, she planted her hands at her waist. “But where are the beds?”

Angeline pointed to three pairs of hooks on the deck head. “Hammocks, I believe.” Her lips slanted.

“Oh my.”

“We are better off than most.” A voice coming from the hallway preceded a brown-haired woman with a belly ripe with child. A ray of sunlight speared the porthole and struck the gold cross hanging around her neck, causing Eliza to blink.“Aside from those who can afford it, most passengers sleep together in the hold,” the woman continued as she set down her case, pressed a hand on her back, and gave both of them a wide grin. “Good thing we are all single women. I’m Sarah Jorden.”

Pleasantries were exchanged between the ladies whom Eliza hoped would soon become good friends.

“I am a nurse,” Eliza offered, sitting down on her trunk. “And you, Mrs. Jorden? What brings you on this adventure?” She patted the spot beside her.

“Please call me Sarah. And I am the teacher.” She smiled, sliding onto the seat. Brown hair drawn back in a bun circled an oval face with plain but pleasant features.

“Are there children coming aboard?” Angeline asked.

“I believe so. Several, in fact,” Sarah said.

Angeline returned to her seat and began fingering the embroidery

on her valise. “A teacher and a nurse.” She sighed. “I fear I bring no such useful skills to our adventure. I am only a seamstress and not a very good one at that. In fact, it is unclear why I was even accepted for the journey.”

“Oh rubbish, dear.” Sarah tugged off her gloves. “We shall simply have to discover what talents God has given you.”

A wave of red washed over Angeline’s face. Odd. Perhaps she was just nervous about the journey—the unknown, the new beginning in a strange land. Certainly, being a single woman all alone made it all the more frightening. Or it should. Yet Eliza felt more excitement than fear. The sparkle in Sarah’s eyes indicated she felt the same.

Reaching over, Eliza pulled the pamphlet out from her valise. The pamphlet she’d read so many times during the past two weeks, she knew it by heart. The pamphlet she had prayed over, thought about, agonized

overBrazil! Brazil! Land of dreams.Land of hope.Land of beginnings! Fertile land available at only 22 cents an acre. Farmers, bring your tools; bring your implements, household items, and furniture; bring as many varieties of seeds as you can. People of every age and skill needed to recreate the Southern utopia stolen from us by the North. Become wealthy in a land of plenty, which Providence has blessed more than any land I have seen. Brazil welcomes you with open arms, a land of mild temperatures, rich soil, and perfect freedom. A land where dreams come true.

From the first time Eliza had read the pamphlet handed to her by a man on the street, three words continued to leap out at her, sealing her decision. Dreams. She’d had so many of those as a child. None of which had come true. Hope. Something she had lost during the past five years. Beginnings. A place she could go where people didn’t know who she was—didn’t know what she had done. A place where she wasn’t shunned, hated, insulted, and rejected. Where she could start fresh with new people. A new society. A Southern utopia.

Was there such a thing outside of heaven?



Blake Wallace squeezed his eyes shut, not only to block out the sight of the port authority officer but to give himself a moment to think. He wanted another five hundred dollars?

That was nearly half of his remaining savings. He couldn’t very well ask his passengers to pay more than the forty-two dollars he’d already charged them for the trip. Most of them were as poor or poorer than he was. In fact, many of the wealthiest families in the South had been stripped of their money, their belongings, even their property. Their homes had been ransacked and burned, their servants and slaves scattered, their dignity stolen. His jaw bunched at the memory of his own white-columned, two-story family home in Atlanta burned to nothing but ash and debris. And then two months ago, the land purchased by Yankees for pennies.

His family dead.

Most people had nowhere to live and little food to eat. They sought refuge under trees or in borrowed tents. Railroads were torn up, schools closed, banks insolvent, towns and cities reduced to rubble, and jobs nonexistent.

Now as he stood before this Yankee port authority officer in his fancy brass-buttoned jacket, it took all of Blake’s strength, all his will, not to strangle him on the spot.

“There is the alternative. . . .” The man’s voice was as slimy as his character.

Blake opened his eyes. A drop of tobacco perched in the corner of the man’s mouth. “And that is?”“I could inform the new lieutenant colonel in town that you are a Rebel officer.”

Though his stomach churned, Blake allowed no reaction to reach his stoic expression. Was it that obvious?

“Yeah, I can tell.” The man spit a wad of tobacco to the side. “I can spot you Reb soldiers a mile away, and you officers give off a certain stink.” He scrunched his nose for effect.

Blake narrowed his eyes, flexing his fingers at his sides to keep them from fisting the buffoon. A drop of sweat trickled down his back.

The port officer shrugged. “Have it your way. The new colonel in charge of Charleston won’t rest till he ferrets out all you Rebs and either imprisons you or, better yet, hangs you.”

Blake resisted the impulse to rub his throat. He didn’t relish dangling at the end of a rope or rotting in a Union prison. And he knew if he stayed, that would be his fate. He’d been too visible in the war, had inflicted too much damage on the enemy. So it had been no surprise that a month ago, his name had appeared on the Union’s most-wanted list for war crimes.

Which was why he changed his name, moved to Charleston, and decided to leave the States. Organizing and leading an expedition to Brazil, where he hoped to start and head a new colony, seemed the opportunity of a lifetime. And his last chance at a new life. At a good life. If such a thing even existed anymore.

Blake counted out the gold coins into the man’s hand, clamping his jaw tight against a volcano of exploding anger.

“Where do you think you’re going anyway, you and your pack of mindless Rebs? ’Specially in that old ship?” The port master jerked his head toward the brig. “You ain’t even got steam power.”

“Brazil,” Blake said absently as he watched a dark-haired man hobble over the railing of the New Hope and drop below. Probably one of the passengers. Regardless of its age, the ship was a beauty. Fine-lined and sturdy, a square-sailed, two-masted brig of 213 tons, refitted with extra cabins for passengers, and owned and sailed by a seasoned mariner, Captain Barclay, an old sea dog to whom Blake had taken an immediate liking.

As he scanned the deck, Blake caught a flicker of brown hair the color of maple syrup. Mrs. Eliza Crawford stood against the larboard railing, the wind fluttering the ribbons of her bonnet. “Brazil! I hear there’s nothin’ there but mosquitoes and malaria.”

The port officer’s caustic voice drew Blake’s gaze once again. “Not to mention everyone knows Brazilians are crossbred with Negroes!” He shook his head and chuckled. “Poisonous insects, scorching heat, too much rain, diseases like leprosy and elephantiasis—no wonder we won the war. You Rebs are dumber than a sack of horse manure.”

Ignoring him, Blake finished counting the coins. “This is robbery, and you know it.”

“You’re the ones that robbed our country of her young men. Seems fittin’ justice.”

Sunlight glinted off something in the distance, temporarily blinding Blake. Two Yankee soldiers strolled down Bay Street, their dark blue uniforms crisp and tight, their brass buttons and buckles shining, and their service swords winking at Blake in the bright light. His heart lurched.

A nervous buzz skittered up his back. “Are we settled?”

“Yes, sail away, dear Rebel, sail away!” the man began to sing, but Blake didn’t stay to hear the next chorus, though it haunted him down the wharf.

“Good riddance to ye, ye Rebel, sail away!”

Halfway to the ship, Blake sneaked a glance over his shoulder.

The soldiers had stopped to speak to the port authority officer.

Would he turn Blake in? Of course he would. And keep the reward money as well as Blake’s extortion fee.

Blake rubbed his neck again at the thought of his impending fate. He tried to swallow, but it felt like the rope had already tightened around his throat. Even so, hanging would be a kind sentence. The Union had done far worse to some of his fellow officers. Which was only one more reason for Blake to leave his Southern homeland.

That and the fact that everyone he knew and loved was dead.

The memory stabbed a part of his mind awake—the part he preferred to keep asleep. The part that, like an angry bear, tried to rip the flesh from his bones when disturbed. This bear, however, seemed more interested in tearing Blake’s soul from his body as clips of deathly scenes flashed across his mind. Cannons thundered in his head, reverberating down his back. Men’s tortured screams. Blood and fire everywhere.No, not now! He gripped his throat, restricting his breath. He must jar himself out of the graveyard of memories. Think. Think! He had to think. He had to focus!

But his mind was awhirl with flashes of musket fire, mutilated body parts, the vacant look in a dead man’s eyes. He stumbled. Shook his head. Not now. He could not pass out now. His passengers needed him. They’d put their trust in him to lead them to the promised land. Besides, he wasn’t ready to die.

Blake thought about praying, but he’d given that up long ago. The day he’d received word that his baby brother had been killed at the Battle of Antietam. His only brother. The pride and joy of the entire family. He was only seventeen.

Blake drew in a deep breath and continued onward. The visions faded and his mind cleared. Perhaps God was looking out for him after all. He marched—limped—forward as nonchalantly as he could, trying to signal Captain Barclay on the quarterdeck to begin hoisting sail. But the old sea dog must’ve already assessed the situation, as sailors leaped to the tops to unfurl canvas. The plank had been removed, and men lined the railing, their stances and faces tight, their eyes suddenly widening at something behind Blake.

Only then did he hear the thumping of boots and feel the dock tremble beneath him.

A hand clutched Blake’s arm and spun him around. Two Union solders stared him down. “And where do you think you’re going, Johnny Reb?” 

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Excerpt - MEMORY OF MURDER by Ramona Richards

Memory of Murder

By Ramona Richards



The secrets of her past could imperil her future

Lindsey Presley certainly can't imagine why anyone would want her dead—though she knows she wouldn't be alive today if not for the local cop who saved her from two murder attempts. Deputy Jeff Gage has worked difficult cases, but with only Lindsey's fractured memories of a broken past to guide him, this is by far his most challenging. For Lindsey, fleeing the town she has come to call home is unthinkable. Separately, they are vulnerable, but together, Jeff and Lindsey just may stand a chance of catching a ruthless killer.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Her every nerve suddenly on edge, Lindsey Presley stared at the blond man confronting Deputy Jeff Gage.

Reaching behind her, Lindsey double-checked the lock on the front door of her restaurant, then hugged the night-deposit bag more tightly. She prayed she was wrong about the stranger. After all, he didn't look all that different from other young people in the area. Clean-shaven, short hair, T-shirt, jeans. Barely more than a kid. Average.

Except for that vintage orange 1968 Pontiac GTO that waited behind him, blocking Jeff's patrol cruiser. The GTO's front door stood open, waiting. Its motor idled with the distinctive rumble of a pampered muscle car.

The top step of the Cape Cod-style building gave Lindsey a view of the entire parking lot. Empty, except for the three of them and the two cars. She blinked hard, distracted as the kid shook his left hand out to one side, as if trying to fling a bug from it. His right hand remained hidden behind his hip.

Go back inside. This isn't right. A streetwise instinct honed in her childhood urged Lindsey to flee behind closed doors. There a kitchen bristled with knives she could use for defense. But that instinct fought with her reluctance to leave the sheriff's deputy who stood between her and the young man. Jeff had promised to protect her on the nightly deposit runs to the bank and had done just that since she'd opened the diner six months ago. During those short rides to the bank, they'd become close friends. She didn't want to abandon him. She wouldn't.

Friends don't do that. And the guy still hasn't done anything wrong. Logic told her to wait. Friendship begged her to stay. Her gut told her to run.

Jeff, who had been waiting for her at the foot of the front steps at eight o'clock, also seemed to sense something odd about the way the young man had slid the GTO into the parking lot after closing time. He stood with his back stiff, feet apart and firmly planted, his hand on his gun. On guard and wary.

The man's left hand shook harder, and Lindsey's muscles tensed. Now, she thought. It's going to happen now. What do I do?

Trip the alarm. The thought startled her, but she immediately knew it was a good idea. Turning, she thrust her key in the lock, twisted it and cracked open the door. If she didn't close it or enter the code inside within thirty seconds, the alarm would sound.

"Sir, you need to leave." Jeff's firm command echoed over the empty parking lot. "The restaurant is closed."

Lindsey pivoted back toward the parking lot, eyes fixed on the two men. The younger man shook his head, now holding his left hand high and smiling broadly. "I understand. I understand. I just need directions. I drove all the way from…from Chicago. Trying to find a girl I met online. Just a girl." He stepped forward, as if to go around Jeff.

Jeff blocked his path. He glanced warily up at the kid's left hand. "Where are you going?"

The blond never responded. Instead, he swung his right arm around from behind his back. He ground a stun gun into Jeff's chest. With a stark cry of pain, Jeff dropped to the asphalt, his body twisting in spastic seizures.

"No!" Lindsey screamed. She dashed down the steps toward them, throwing the money bag at the man. "Take it!" She lunged toward Jeff.

She never reached him. Fire shot through her skull as the man grabbed her by the hair, yanking her backward. He punched her in the solar plexus. Lindsey's breath stopped and spots danced in front of her eyes as she collapsed. Her assailant grabbed her arm and slung her over the hood of the GTO.

The restaurant alarm blared through the night, the sirens radiating off every wall in the neighborhood. The man cursed and pressed his arm on the back of her neck. "Stupid woman!"

Lindsey fought for air as he yanked her arms behind her. Plastic ties cut deep into her skin as he secured her wrists. Finally drawing a raspy gasp, Lindsey tried to scream again, but a sharp blow to her ribs cut it off as she curled up in agony. He snapped her ankles together, wrapping the ties around them. He tossed her over one shoulder, her small frame no burden at all to him.

He bent to scoop up the money, then kicked Jeff twice as he passed the struggling deputy—once in the side, once on the back of Jeff's skull. Jeff went limp.

Lindsey found more breath. "No!" She bucked against the man, but he ignored her, shoving her unceremoniously into the backseat of the GTO. "Scream away, darlin'. No one will hear you over this baby."

The guy got in and gunned the engine. The fine-tuned rumble exploded into a roar that split the night air. The orange car spit loose gravel, and smoke bellowed from beneath its tires as it spun out of the parking lot less than five minutes after it had pulled in.

Lindsey pushed herself around, still fighting to breathe normally, regularly. Not an easy task with the pain throbbing through her ribs and head. She struggled against her bonds without success. Sweat coated her back and legs where they pressed against the vinyl backseat of the car. The fury and adrenaline that seared through her made Lindsey's mind spin. Her muscles trembled, but terror and pain kept her sane and focused as the past few minutes played over and over in her head.

God, how do I get out of this? Help me.

Lindsey twisted until she could see her attacker over the low, split front seat of the GTO. His pasty face glowed in the glare of oncoming headlights, and rivulets of water dripped out of the man's hair and trailed down his cheeks and neck.

He's sweating! Despite the open front windows and light chill of the early fall night, the man's hair remained plastered to his scalp. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squirming in his seat. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket to check it, mumbling directions to himself. Over the roar of the engine, Lindsey barely caught the words, "Go slow. Careful. Left after three miles." He shoved the paper back in his pocket. He let up on the gas, and the car slowed.

He's going to turn. Leave the main road. Lindsey knew the road he planned to take. It ran deep into an almost impenetrable Tennessee woodland. In that second's realization, Lindsey knew she was about to die. No! Her mind screamed the word, and in pure desperation, a rough idea formed in her mind. An insane idea. He'll be focused on the turn, the other cars…

As Lindsey slowly shifted her body into position, her assailant's words repeated over and over.

Turn, three miles. Turn, three miles.

Lindsey frowned, then blinked the words away. She must get ready, no matter how crazy her plan seemed. You can do this. You can do this! Pushing over on her back, she ignored the agony in her hands as she braced her shoulders against the middle of the seat and cautiously drew her knees up to her chest. Her short, petite frame let her curl into a tight ball, and Lindsey had never felt so grateful for being so short—or for taking that Pilates class her sisters had insisted on.

Still mumbling, the man braked the car suddenly, shouting at an oncoming vehicle to get out of the way. As he stomped on the accelerator again, heading the car into the left turn, Lindsey shrieked with all her might. Startled, the man's head snapped around to glare at her, just as she kicked both legs with as much strength as she had, thrusting her thick-soled, restaurant-durable shoes directly at his face.

His scream matched hers as blood shot from his crushed nose. He jerked, twisting the wheel to the right, veering the car out of the turn and straight toward the corner where the two roads met. He never had a chance to touch the brakes as the orange GTO crashed through the guardrail and soared into the air. The engine howled as the tires left the road. Lindsey felt weightless, her body floating above the seat as the car arced into the ravine. Then the car plowed into the rock and dirt, landing grill down with a deafening sound of sheared metal and shattering glass.

Lindsey plunged forward over the seat. Searing pain sliced through her as her shins hit the man's head, which slammed forward into the steering wheel with a sickening crack. She crashed into the windshield, then down on the dash as the car rolled over on its right side. It slid another few yards before the weight of the engine pulled it upright again.

Lindsey's head thudded into the dash a second time, and the darkness of unconsciousness consumed her.

Jeff groaned as consciousness returned. Rocks and dirt bit into his cheek, and he tried to raise his head, which throbbed with a deep, unrelenting pain. Lindsey! Oh, dear God, what did he do to Lindsey?The silent air around him deepened his sense of panic. What happened to the alarm?

He heard the crunch of hard soles on gravel and tried to push up, only to have a foot land in the middle of his back, shoving him back to the ground. With quick, efficient moves, the man plucked Jeff's handcuffs off his belt and secured the deputy's hands behind him.

"Relax, boy. She'll be dead before you can get to your feet."

Jeff clawed through his memory, trying to recognize the rough voice, but nothing registered. His brain felt as fried as his muscles.

But Lindsey couldn't be dead. She couldn't. An agony laced through Jeff's chest that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. "No." His voice croaked.

The man bent closer but deftly stayed out of Jeff's line of sight. "Oh, yes. You're worthless, boy. If that woman were still alive, she'd hate you for abandoning her. Sheriff Taylor should fire you. And he will by the time we get through with you. We'll be watching and waiting for the next chance to make you fail."

Jeff spit gravel out of his mouth and tried to speak. Then he heard the ominous buzz just before the spears of pain hit his shoulder. Lightning shots of current sheared through him again, and Jeff screamed in rage and despair.

Nothing smells like a wrecked car. Lindsey had been in more than one accident, and the smells always lingered in her memory. Hot oil, burnt rubber, gasoline and stressed metal. Acrid smoke burned her nose. It had startled Lindsey to consciousness, but now she just wanted to get away from it. She tried to move, but her shoulders felt wedged beneath the dash. A low moan escaped her as each and every inch of her body felt battered and bruised.

It was an old feeling, deep from within her childhood, and she pushed it away, mentally going over her body to survey her injuries. The coppery taste in her mouth and swollen cheek and lips meant a blow to the face, and the slick and sticky liquid coating her hands told her that the plastic ties had cut deep into her skin. Her right shoulder felt twisted. One ankle throbbed with a terrible ache, but nothing felt broken. Her father had dealt her far worse.

While her injuries were excruciating, Lindsey was even more terrified that she stared, face-to-face, at her attacker. Her small, limp frame had crumpled and wedged itself in the passenger floorboard. Unbelted, the man had toppled from behind the wheel when the car went up on its right side. He'd smashed headfirst into the passenger-side window, then slid down in the seat as the car settled back on four wheels. Even unconscious and bleeding from two major head wounds, he felt menacing. Though frightened, Lindsey forced herself to remain still.

Who are you? Ghostly pale, his round face still had a babyish quality to it, like that of a teenager. She'd never seen him before, and from Jeff's reaction back at the restaurant, he hadn't recognized the attacker, either. And Lindsey felt pretty certain that Deputy Jeff Gage knew just about everyone in Bell County.

Jeff. Her thoughts flashed back to the restaurant, to the sight of Jeff lying motionless on the ground. "Please, Lord," she whispered. "Let him be okay." In that moment, Lindsey realized she really wanted Jeff here, to see him, to know he was all right. For him to tell her everything would be all right.

"Please. Get us out of this."

Out. I have to get out. Lindsey tried to move, to straighten her legs, but she almost screamed from the pain that shot through her muscles and joints. She gave up, taking comfort in the sound of someone scrambling around in the brush outside the car.

"We're here!" she called out. "Please help us!"

A blinding light hit her face, and Lindsey grimaced, trying to turn away. "Hey!"

"You're supposed to be dead. Again."

Lindsey stilled. "Who are you?"

A gloved hand reached in through the passenger window and fumbled around the body of her unconscious assailant. "Is he dead?"

Fear seized Lindsey now, freezing her tongue. An old memory shot through her, one from her childhood. A voice that had made her stop in her tracks, unable to speak. Words so similar, Lindsey wondered if she were hallucinating. You're supposed to be dead. Is she dead?

She. Not he. Lindsey blinked hard, trying to clear the fog in her mind. Everything felt mixed up, the past and present running together like paint colors. Why can't I remember!

"No matter." The hand kept pulling at the man's clothes until it found the shirt pocket. "If he's not, he will be soon. Stupid…deserves to die for wrecking this car. What a waste. Beautiful machine." Fingers clawed into the pocket, plucking the piece of paper from it. "And for not completing his job with you."

The street-savvy kid who still lived deep inside Lindsey reacted instinctively, and she twisted hard, shoving herself deeper beneath the dash. She screamed just as the light swung in her direction, smashing into the spot where her head had been. The light shattered and went out. The man cursed, condemning her and everything on the planet. He reached through the window and clawed desperately at the glove compartment, but wasn't able to get it open.

Sirens split the night air, and the sound of urgent voices echoed into the ravine. The man cursed again, backing away from the car. "We're not done with you. We're around every corner."

As he crashed away through the brush, Lindsey sobbed.

Another light pierced the car, and Lindsey screamed, terror shooting through her.

"Lindsey! It's okay. We're here to help." This time the warm, soothing tones belonged to Sheriff Ray Taylor, and relief flooded through her as she recognized the baritone voice of her brother-in-law.

"Ray! Please get me out of here."

"As soon as we can, hon. Hang in there with me."

Lindsey closed her eyes, let out a slow, ragged breath and nodded.



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Nookbook

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Also, don’t forget that it’s Free Book Friday over at Harlequin.com--if you order two or more books, you’ll get their weekly featured book for free!



This week, the featured book is: Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception by Christine Merrill

Excerpt - DANGER ON THE MOUNTAIN by Lynette Eason

Danger on the Mountain

By Lynette Eason



After making a new life for herself and her infant daughter in Rose Mountain, widow Maggie Bennett thought they were safe. Getting caught in the middle of a bank robbery changes everything—and introduces her to policeman Reese Kirkpatrick. He seems to be everything her abusive late husband wasn't…just the man she needs to help her through the growing list of sinister occurrences. But Reese has his own baggage—and when a shocking betrayal puts Maggie at risk, Reese must decide if protecting his heart is worth losing a chance at love.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Deputy Reese Kirkpatrick stiffened when he felt something hard jam into his lower back. He started to turn when a voice whispered in his ear, "Get on the floor or the baby's mama gets a bullet."

Stiffening, his adrenaline in sudden overdrive, Reese looked around and saw a young woman with a baby in a carrier standing in front of the teller's window. As his adrenaline spiked, details came into focus. The teller's nameplate said Lori Anglero. The woman with the baby had soft blond hair that fell to her shoulders in pretty waves. The man behind him had bad breath and needed a shower.

Reese's time as a cop on the streets of Washington, D.C., now served him well. He didn't even blink. "You think this is going to work for you?"

"Yep. You're the only man in here. I don't need you having a hero complex because I'm trying to do this without killing anyone. But I will if I have to. On the floor. Now."

The door chimed one more time, and Reese caught sight of two more masked men entering the First National Bank of Rose Mountain.

"Everybody down! Now!" The man behind Reese gave him a hard shove.

Reese dropped, grateful he wasn't wearing his uniform and that the gun hidden under his coat in the small of his back had gone undiscovered.

Screams echoed and Reese saw the woman in front of Lori's window drop down to become a human shield for the baby.

"Down! Down!" The man who'd taken Reese by surprise aimed his gun and pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into the wall above Maggie Bennett's head. With a scream, she tightened her protective stance over her eight-month-old daughter's carrier.

Terror spiraling through her, Maggie whipped her head to the left to see three gunmen in black masks. One stood by the door, his broad shoulders and tight grip on the pistol in his left hand saying he'd be a force to reckon with. Another, tall and lanky, hovered in a threatening stance over the man on the floor. The third held his weapon in a way that said he knew how to use it—and would. The tall, skinny one with his weapon trained on the man on the floor grunted, "Charlie, get the cash."

Charlie leaped over the counter. As he did, his foot caught the nearest silver pole holding the red velvet ropes used to separate customers into lines. The pole crashed to the tile floor with a loud clang, and Maggie cringed. Charlie cursed, regained his footing and pointed the gun in bank teller's terrified face. "You deaf? I said get down!"

The teller dropped.

So did Ashley O'Neal, the other teller who'd been so friendly to Maggie last Sunday at church.

At three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, Maggie and the man now on the floor were the only customers in the bank. She watched his hand angling under his heavy suede jacket.

What was he doing?

Her eyes darted from robber to robber, to the door then back to the man on the floor.

There was no security guard and no help in sight.

The broad-shouldered one who stood by the door appeared to be in charge. He jutted his chin toward the man on the floor. "Cover him, Slim. He looks like he might be thinking he wants to put up a fight."

Still hunched over Belle's carrier, Maggie felt strangled by her fear and she wasn't sure what to do. She was frozen in place, watching the incidents playing out before her as though they were on a big screen and she was in the audience.

But she wasn't. This was real. And it was happening to her.

Her first reaction was to look for a way to protect Isabella. Her second to silently screech out a desperate prayer as she slumped to the floor next to the fallen pole, keeping herself between the men and her baby. Her foot became entangled in the rope now snaking the floor, but she ignored it. Her only thought was to keep her cool and survive. Old instincts surfaced, and a chill that matched the November air outside the bank swept through her.

As her eyes jumped from one robber to the next, she let her gaze land on the other bank customer. He lay still, left hand away from his side, right still hidden by his jacket. His sharp green eyes took in the unfolding scene. Maggie could see the tension in his shoulders and face and prayed he didn't do something stupid, like try to be a hero.

He'd get them all killed.

"You!" Charlie yelled at the teller who'd been helping Maggie. "Stand up!"

The woman obeyed, tears tracking her cheeks, hands raised as she backed up away from her station. "D-don't shoot me. Take what you want."

Slim continued to hold his gun on the man on the floor while Charlie threw a large bag at Maggie's teller. "Load it up. Now."

The woman caught it, fumbled it, shot a terrified glance at the man, then went to work. Even from her spot at the last teller station next to the wall, Maggie could see the woman's hands shaking.

"Hurry up!" The lookout man next to the door shifted, the chink in his calm demeanor grabbing Maggie's attention. So he wasn't as cool about this as he'd first appeared.

Charlie shot him an aggravated look, his eyes piercing and hard behind his mask. "Just watch the street."

Then he turned back to jab the teller with his weapon. "Move! Move! This ain't a tea party!"

Lori's hands shook so hard Maggie was afraid she'd drop the cash and the man would shoot her. She almost offered to help but bit her tongue. As long as Lori was getting the money in the bag, Maggie would stay quiet and keep her body covering Belle's. She darted a glance in the direction of the offices. One door was closed. The bank manager in hiding?

She prayed that no one else would walk in and this would all be over in a few seconds. Dark spots danced before her eyes, and she realized that she was holding her breath. She gasped in air. The dancing spots disappeared, but Belle started to cry. Maggie froze.

The lookout lifted his gun and pointed it at her. "Shut the kid up."

Immediately, Maggie knelt and unbuckled Belle from her car seat. Picking her up, she settled the baby against her and turned her back to everything going on. Belle sniffed and lay her head on Maggie's shoulder, thankfully content to be out of the carrier and to suck on the pacifier Maggie shoved in her mouth.

Maggie glanced over her shoulder as Charlie hauled himself back on the other side of the counter and held up the bag. "Got it!" His gaze landed on Maggie and she stilled, not liking the look in his eyes.

Slim spoke. "Get the other drawer."

"We don't have time for that, Slim," the lookout protested. So maybe Slim was the one in charge?

Charlie ignored his partner and slung the bag back at the teller who moved to the next drawer.

Sirens sounded and the three masked men exchanged a glance. Slim growled, "Who tripped the alarm? Who?"

The robber nearest the door immediately turned and disappeared through it.

Maggie saw the well-built customer on the floor clench his jaw even as he slowly moved his hand back under his jacket.

The door burst back open. "The cops are almost here! I got the car! Let's get this done!"

Slim looked up and his gaze slammed into Maggie's. "Get over here."

She froze once again, arms gripping Isabella too tight. The baby hollered her displeasure, and Maggie shushed her even as her eyes met the narrowed brown ones of the man who'd ordered her to move.

"My name's Reese Kirkpatrick. I'm a cop. You've got what you want, you'd better leave while you can."

Maggie jerked her gaze to the man on the floor. He'd been silent throughout the whole ordeal. Silent and watchful. Slim raised his gun and brought it crashing down toward Reese's head. Reese rolled. Slim missed and stumbled, his finger jerking the trigger. The weapon bucked in his hand, the bullet shattered the tile floor beside Reese's left leg.

Reese now had a weapon pulled and aimed at Slim. Without a word, he pulled the trigger.

Slim screamed and jerked as his gun tumbled to the floor.

Charlie whirled and dropped the bag of money as he moved toward his wounded partner. He lifted his weapon, aiming toward Reese who was now moving across the floor toward Slim. Charlie's left leg stepped in the midst of the red velvet ropes.

Without thinking of the possible consequences, Maggie jerked on the rope.

Charlie went down hard, the back of his head cracking against the floor. Reese lunged for Slim and snagged the mask. It came off and Slim howled his outrage even as he landed a lucky blow with his good hand to Reese's solar plexis.

Reese grunted and stumbled back, gagging. Slim looked like he might go after Reese again, but the screaming sirens outside seemed to change his mind and with a final glance at the unconscious Charlie, and a hard glare at Reese, he backed toward the door, hand held tight against the wound in his shoulder. "I'll kill you for this!" His gaze landed on Maggie and she flinched when he said, "Her and the kid, too!"

Reese finally got his feet under him, snatched the weapon from the unconscious man on the floor, then stumbled after the wounded robber. But by the time he hit the door, the man was in the car. The door slammed shut halfway down the block.

Reese whirled back into the bank and checked to make sure Charlie was still out cold.

He was.

Next he checked on the woman with the baby. She sat on the floor, eyes dry, jiggling her infant in her lap. He noticed the ringless left hand. And wondered why he would notice such a thing at a time like this. "Are you all right?"

She lifted soul-deep dark brown eyes to his and the fear in them felt like a sucker punch to his midsection. Her low "Yes" vibrated through him. Then she drew in a deep breath and a tinge of color returned to her pale cheeks. "Yes, we're all right. Thank you." Then the baby turned her attention to him, spit out the pacifier, stuck a finger in her mouth and grinned around it.

This time it was a blow to his kidneys.

He nodded and turned, hoping his desperate need to get away from them didn't show on his face. He forced his mind to the matter at hand. Thank goodness she'd kept her cool over the last few minutes. If she'd been the hysterical type, they might all be dead. His ringing ears testified to just how close the gun had been to his head when it went off. He just hoped the ringing wasn't permanent.

"Is it over?" One of the bank tellers—the one named Lori—peered over the edge of the counter, mascara streaking her cheeks.

Grateful for the interruption—and the fact that he heard her, Reese nodded. "All except for the cleanup."

More tears leaked from her eyes and he saw her lips move in a grateful, whispered prayer.

Rose Mountain Police cruisers pulled in. Eli Brody, sheriff of Rose Mountain, bolted from the first one like he'd been shot from a cannon. The man strode toward him and Reese quickly filled him in. Eli snapped orders into his radio and two cruisers immediately headed out after the escaping getaway car. He then marched toward the other two officers, leaving Reese to question the tellers.

"Thank you."

The quiet words captured his attention and he turned to see the woman with the baby gazing up at him. Clearing his throat, Reese said, "You're welcome."

"I'm Maggie Bennett." She shifted and before Reese could gracefully slip away, she blurted out, "Was he serious? Do you think he'll come back and—" She bit off the last part of the sentence, but the fear lingered and he knew exactly what she was asking.

Reese shook his head. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. All those guys care about is getting away."

Doubt narrowed her eyes. "But we made him really mad. And you have one of his partners in custody because I interfered. We saw his face. You honestly don't think they'll be a tad upset about that?"

So she had spunk and she wasn't comforted because he told her what she wanted to hear. She wanted the truth, no matter what. He liked that.

He said, "All good points. The fact is, I don't know. We'll take precautions, get his picture from the bank camera and distribute it around the town. But as for whether he would really come back here.. " He shrugged. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you."

"No, you can't." A sigh slipped out and she placed a kiss on the baby's forehead.

A baby girl with big brown eyes like her mama.

A knife through his heart wouldn't be any more painful. He had to get away. He'd come to Rose Mountain to escape memories of a wife and baby who were no more. Grief was sharp. Growing up in foster families, all he'd ever dreamed of was having a family of his own. And he'd had that for a while. Until they'd died.

"What's your baby's name?" He couldn't help asking.

"Isabella. But I call her Belle."

She said the name with such love that his heart spasmed once again. "That's a pretty name."

Her face softened as she looked at the baby in her arms. "Thanks. It was my mother's."

Was. Past tense. Her mother was dead. He recognized the pain in her eyes. The same pain he saw when he thought about his own mother who'd died when he was nine. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Do you need to call someone? A husband or…?"

"No, no one." A different sort of pain flashed in her eyes for a brief moment and Reese wondered what that story was. Then he blinked and told himself it wasn't his business.

A bank robbery was.

She was saying, "You said you were a cop. I don't remember seeing you around here before."

"It's my first week." He shook his head. "I just moved here from Washington, D.C. One of Eli's deputies quit, he needed another one and asked me if I'd take the job." He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "Eli caught me at the right time. I was ready for a change." Eli said he'd seen something in Reese that had been familiar, something Eli had experienced only a few years before. Burnout.

A weariness of the soul. And grief.

And why was he sharing this with her? There was something about the way she looked at him. As though she really cared about what he had to say.

"Maggie, are you all right?"

Reese snapped his head around, and Maggie's gaze followed his to see Eli bearing down on them. The man's thunderous expression said the bank robbers had escaped.

Order:

Print books:

Harlequin.com

Harlequin.com (Large Print)

Barnes and Noble

Barnes and Noble (Large Print)

Amazon.com

Amazon.com (Large Print)

Christianbook.com

Booksamillion.com

Booksamillion.com



Ebooks:

Harlequin.com

Nookbook

Kindle

Booksamillion.com

Kobobooks.com

iTunes



Also, don’t forget that it’s Free Book Friday over at Harlequin.com--if you order two or more books, you’ll get their weekly featured book for free!



This week, the featured book is: Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception by Christine Merrill