Camy Tang's Blog, page 144

Los Alamitos trip

Getting ready to leave for Los Alamitos tomorrow. A little stressed with the extra things popping up, like a charge from a web hosting site, where I cancelled a week ago! Argh! Why do these things always happen when I'm about to go out of town???



I hope I'm not forgetting anything. Isn't that just the worst feeling?

Excerpt - The Captain's Mission by Debby Giusti

The Captain's Mission

by

Debby Giusti



When one of his soldiers is killed by live ammunition during what was supposed to be a simple training exercise, Captain Phil Thibodeaux wants answers. Even if it means working with the Criminal Investigation Division that seems certain to pin the blame on him. But after CID agent Kelly McQueen defends his conduct, Phil realizes that there's more to the dedicated agent than meets the eye. Maybe she's someone he can trust, after all. And he'll need someone to rely on as investigations lead him to doubt everyone else—even his own soldiers.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"Cease fire!" U.S. Army Captain Jean Philippe Thibodeaux screamed into the handheld radio microphone from inside his Bradley Fighting Vehicle. The order echoed back to him as the "cease fire" was relayed across the live-fire range to the three platoons involved in the training exercise at Fort Rickman, Georgia.



Under Phil's command, his two-hundred-man company of soldiers had advanced on a series of targets representing enemy strongholds. The men had maneuvered for nearly an hour, firing live rounds that ripped through the cardboard facsimiles of enemy soldiers while the unit's heavier weapons shot at mock-ups of armored personnel carriers and enemy tanks. The mission had gone like clockwork with nary a glitch, but only minutes before the completion of the exercise everything had come to an unexpected halt.



Heart hammering in his chest, Phil leaped from the Bradley from which he had led the attack and ran toward the small rise on the so-called battlefield where a group of men clustered. Behind him, the executive officer and First Sergeant Jerry Meyers followed Phil's lead.



A frenzy of activity erupted as men exited their vehicles. Foot soldiers stopped their forward advancement and looked around as if trying to find a reason why the attack had been halted.



In the distance, a field ambulance raced along the rugged terrain and screeched to a stop near the small rise. A team of medics disappeared into the sea of camouflage uniforms that had gathered.



Moments earlier, the blasts of 25-millimeter chain guns and the staccato fire of the M-4 carbines had filled the February evening in a mounting crescendo until the captain's order halted the Bradleys and suspended the battle.



The governor of the State of Georgia and his entourage as well as military personnel from post and a select group of local civilians had watched from the reviewing stands and bleachers as C Company, Second Battalion, Fifteenth Infantry—Phil's company—had advanced on the targets.



One face had stood out from the crowd. Special Agent Kelly McQueen was blonde and blue-eyed and had been assigned to guard the visiting dignitaries. Along with the military police, Agent McQueen was, no doubt, currently directing the VIPs out of the reviewing stands and escorting them into vans parked by the roadway. Without delay, she would escort them to the airfield on post where a plane waited to fly them back to Atlanta.



In similar fashion, the crowd of onlookers in the bleachers would be herded aboard buses for transport back to the main post area. Every effort was being made to maintain calm and order. No one wanted panic to ensue or to alert the public that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. The falling darkness and mass of soldiers gathered around the incident site would keep curious eyes at bay.



God willing, no one would realize the magnitude of the problem downrange. Not that Phil would count on the Lord. After everything that had happened in his childhood, he had vowed long ago to make his own way in life.



To this day, he refused to acknowledge a so-called loving God who allowed his father to go to prison and his mother to care more about her career than her twelve-year-old son whose world had come crashing down around him.



The same feelings he'd had as a young boy were bubbling up within him now. What had gone wrong?



Phil increased his speed, ignoring the dust stirred up by the Bradleys that had rumbled across the range. The smell of cordite and smoke, produced from the exploding rounds, mixed with the dirt-clogged air and hovered over the range, painting the desolate terrain in an eerie veil of gloom.



Nearing the crest of the rise, he pushed through the throng of soldiers that had taken part in the training mission. They now stared with wide eyes and drawn faces at the medics who feverishly tried to bring the soldier back to life.



Phil's gut constricted as his eyes focused on Corporal Rick Taylor, First Platoon. The medics had removed the outer tactical vest that had protected Taylor's chest but not his groin, where a bullet had ripped through his flesh. Blood—too much blood—soaked through his uniform and mixed with the red Georgia clay. One of the medics jammed a handful of gauze squares into the open wound, stopping the flow of blood as a second man pushed down on Taylor's sternum. A third cut through the sleeve of his uniform and searched for a vein.



The trio worked feverishly, but Taylor's limp body failed to respond. Eventually, the medics sat back on their haunches and shook their heads. The leader of the team turned doleful eyes to Phil. "There's nothing more we can do."



"You can continue CPR," Phil demanded. A mix of anger and determination swelled within him.



"It's useless, sir."



Their refusal to follow his command frustrated Phil. He shoved them aside and dropped to his knees beside the fallen soldier. Fisting his own hands, he pushed down on Taylor's chest.



"Sir, please." One of the medics tugged on Phil's sleeve.



He jerked his arm away. "I won't let him die."



The gathering of soldiers pressed in even closer. Phil glanced up at his first sergeant. "Clear the area."



"Yes, sir." Jerry Meyers raised his voice. "You heard Captain Thibodeaux, let's move it."



The men—officers, noncommissioned officers and enlisted men—backed away from the death scene and lumbered toward the edge of the range.



A second medic attempted to pull Phil away from the fallen soldier. "He's gone, sir."



Twisting out of the soldier's hold, Phil blew two quick breaths into Corporal Taylor's mouth. He hadn't lost a man in Afghanistan. He would do everything in his power to ensure he didn't lose a soldier stateside.



"Sir, please."



Once again, Phil interlaced his fingers and pushed down on Taylor's chest as he continued to count. "And one and two and…"



Someone knelt in the dirt next to him. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. "Phil, it's over. You've got to stop."



He glanced up to see his battalion commander's face lined with concern.



"You hear me, son?"



"But, sir—"



Lieutenant Colonel Ken Knowlton—tall and lanky, with a pointed nose and penetrating eyes—placed his hands firmly over Phil's doubled fists and lifted them off the fallen soldier's chest. "You tried your best, Captain. The good Lord called Corporal Taylor home."



Phil jerked out of his hold just as he had done with the medics.



"Listen to me, Phil. You've got to stop. It's over. There's nothing you can do to bring him back."



His commander's voice was firm, and his words cut like a knife into Phil's heart. As much as he didn't want to comply, Lieutenant Colonel Knowlton was right.



A lump clogged Phil's throat, and his eyes blurred. He blinked to clear his vision and focused on Taylor's ashen face.



Knowlton's hand on Phil's elbow encouraged him to stand. Struggling to his feet, he turned his gaze to the thick patch of tall pine trees that rimmed the edge of the training range. He didn't want anyone, especially his battalion commander, to see the moisture that stung his eyes.



He swallowed down the mass of burning bile that had risen from his stomach and, with clenched jaw and sheer determination, turned back to his commander. "I…I can assure you, sir, I'll get to the bottom of this."



Knowlton nodded his support. "Talk to the men, Phil. Find out what happened. Determine if anyone had a grudge against Taylor."



Phil tensed. "Morale is good in the unit, sir. We haven't had any problems."



"That's how it seemed prior to this mission." The commander patted Phil's back. "But now everything has changed."



A fact Phil realized all too well. His focus for his entire career had been on doing what was right. His men called him a hard taskmaster, but he allowed no one to deviate from the rules he put in place—rules to ensure the safety of his men and the successful execution of each mission.



His decision to run an inherently dangerous live-fire exercise after putting his men through four strenuous days of intense, round-the-clock tactical training in the field would come under scrutiny. Fatigue led to mistakes, which is what some people would assume played into today's horrific accident.



Had there been a safety breakdown today? Phil had controlled the advancement and was responsible for everything that happened to his men on the simulated battlefield. Could he have inadvertently put Corporal Taylor in the line of fire?



He had been over the operations order that outlined the battle plan numerous times before the live-fire exercise. Tonight, he would retrace what he had done to ensure the checkpoints and phase lines and boundaries were correct.



That attention to detail had served him well and served the unit under his command well. But as quickly as a round exploded from the barrel of a gun, everything had changed today. Just as Lieutenant Colonel Knowlton had so pointedly mentioned.



"The Safety Officer has made a recommendation that an investigation be initiated," the battalion commander said. "The CID will begin their investigation tonight."



"Yes, sir."



Working hand in hand with the military police on post, the Criminal Investigation Division handled all major incidents and crimes that involved the military. Because a soldier had died, it was a given that the CID would be called onboard.



"We'll let the CID help us determine what happened," Knowlton said.



"Yes, sir." Phil saluted his battalion commander's retreating figure, then raised his hand to his forehead a second time in response to his first sergeant's salute.



Of medium build and pushing forty, First Sergeant Jerry Meyers' face wore a perpetual frown that seemed appropriate at the moment. He lowered his voice so only Phil could hear. "An agent from the Criminal Investigation Division is on the way, sir."



"Have the platoon leaders bring their men into formation on the edge of the range. No one leaves until I give the order."



The sergeant nodded. "Yes, sir."



"Taylor was part of First Platoon. Tell Lieutenant Bellows to keep his platoon separated from the rest of the company until I personally talk to the men."



"I'll pass that on to Lieutenant Bellows and notify the other platoon leaders to gather their men, as well." With a quick salute, the first sergeant double-timed to the far side of the range.



Footsteps sounded to Phil's left. He turned and spotted Jamison Steele walking purposefully toward him with an officer and enlisted man in tow. Phil had run into the CID agent at the Fort Rickman Club on more than one occasion and was impressed with his levelheaded attention to duty. If Jamison had been assigned to investigate the training incident, Phil could breathe a sigh of relief.



After a perfunctory greeting, Jamison introduced Major Bret Hansen, the medical examiner and pathologist at the hospital on post. The two men shook hands before the ME donned latex gloves and stooped to examine the body. Jamison also introduced Corporal Raynard Otis, who strung crime-scene tape around the area where the body lay and began to search the ground for evidence.



As the two men worked, Phil turned to the CID agent. "You've been assigned the case?"



"Negative. I'm here to secure the range and assist Major Hansen." Jamison looked over his shoulder toward the bleacher area. "Special Agent Kelly McQueen will be handling this one."



Phil's heart thumped against his chest as he followed Jamison's gaze and recognized the very determined complication walking toward them. More than anything, Phil didn't want his focus swayed off course by the pretty face that seemed to pop up everywhere he went on post.



Phil had heard some of the single officers grouse about the attractive CID agent. Her good looks weren't the problem. It was her no-nonsense attitude. A number of guys called her the Ice McQueen. And the fact that she'd won the Outstanding Marksmanship Award was off-putting to some.



Easy enough to understand their frustration. Kelly was an anomaly. Beautiful yet aloof, and 100 percent focused on her job. Phil had to admit he admired her for maintaining her distance from many of the men on post whose interests revolved around her pretty face instead of the strength of character she undoubtedly possessed.



He also understood her desire to keep her personal relationships separate from her military career. He had vowed long ago to never get involved with female personnel. When and if he settled down, it would be with a woman who wanted to be a stay-at-home mom with a houseful of children to love. Somehow that didn't go hand in hand with a career military gal who needed to be at Uncle Sam's beck and call.



Kelly McQueen might be good at what she did, but Phil had to keep his focus on the investigation and not the special agent. He didn't want sparks of interest to interfere with the work ahead. Instead, he wanted an answer to the question that pinged through his brain. How had one of his men shot and killed another soldier in the unit?



Biting down on his lip, he steeled himself to the ironic twist of events. Phil didn't need the Ice McQueen in his life. No matter how attracted he was to her.

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Excerpt - Nightwatch by Valerie Hansen

Nightwatch

by

Valerie Hansen



Fire captain Mitch Andrews can't forget the three young children he saved from a fire. A suspicious fire that left them orphans. In the care of foster mother Jill Kirkpatrick, he knows the little ones will be loved. Even if the sweet, strong widow won't let Mitch close to her. But suddenly the kids—and Jill—are in terrible danger…and one of the children is missing. Mitch and Jill will risk everything to find the stolen girl and keep a makeshift family of five together forever.







Excerpt of chapter one:



Boom!



Fire station windows rattled. Overhead lights vibrated. Captain Mitch Andrews froze, held his breath and braced himself with both palms on his desktop.



''What in the world was that?" someone shouted down the hallway.



Mitch figured every telephone in Serenity was already tied up by folks asking each other the same question. Their dispatcher would be fortunate to receive information giving a halfway accurate location of the problem, let alone a clear report of conditions at the scene.



A firefighter stuck his head through Mitch's office doorway. "What's going on?"



"I don't know. But it must be bad. Get ready to roll."



What he desperately wanted to do was grab a phone and call Jill; at least hear her sweet voice and make sure she was far from the current danger before he left the station. Duty didn't allow him that luxury. Not this time.



Sprinting for the hangar, he slammed his fist into the buttons that raised the bay doors. The siren mounted on the roof was starting to scream, rising and falling in pitch until he could barely hear his own voice over the wail.



"Jake, you round up the volunteers and get them moving as soon as you can," Mitch yelled, hailing the first man to clear the door. "I have a feeling we're going to need every piece of equipment we own on this one."



"Yes, sir," the engineer shouted. "What blew up?"



"Don't know yet."



Mitch listened to the details coming in over his handheld radio, then answered with, "Copy. All units responding to the vicinity of the county airport. ETA five minutes or less. Are ambulances started?"



The affirmative response gave him little comfort. Their small, local landing strip was located several miles outside town. If anyone had been in close proximity to an explosion violent enough to be felt this strongly at his fire station, they were going to need the coroner, not ambulances and EMTs.



Running, he grabbed his turnout coat, squashed his red captain's helmet over tousled, sandy-blond hair and jumped aboard the first engine out the door.



There was a bright, shimmering glow in the night sky as the driver headed west. Something had not simply blown up, it was also burning. Mitch gritted his teeth. There was only so much they could do to preserve life and property, no matter how state-of-the-art their equipment might be, and Serenity Fire Department was always struggling to keep up with new technology for both firefighting and medical aid calls.



"Was it a plane crash?" the driver shouted.



"Don't know." Mitch's heart was in his throat. "If it was, I sure hope they missed the industrial buildings out that way."



"I wonder. Looks like a lot of fire for one small plane."



"Yeah," Mitch replied, releasing his breath in a whoosh. "It sure does."



Siren blaring, lights flashing, the engine slued around the last corner that brought them face to face with the conflagration.



Mitch's spirits sank like a stone in a bottomless lake. He could see the unscathed, white-enameled roof of the Pearson Products warehouse. However, part of the manufacturing building next to it was engulfed in flames and it looked as if that fire was about to spread to the attached, single-family dwelling—if it hadn't already breached the common wall.



Acting from years of training and experience, he shoved his personal dread aside and raised his radio. "Engine three on scene. One industrial building on fire. Other structures threatened."



As the first officer to arrive, Mitch was automatically in charge. "Engine two, follow me in. Engine one, lay a hose line and cover the rear."



"Engine two, copy."



"One copy."



"Chief," Mitch added, hoping and praying he'd get a quick answer, "are you responding?"



"Affirmative," Jim Longstreet replied. "I'm right behind you. ETA less than one."



"Be advised, we've got a rescue operation. Will you assume command?"



"Just pulling in now. I'll take over."



Tamping down the fear of what they might find if they were already too late, Mitch broadcast, "Thanks. A family of five lives here. We'll lay a safety line and make access."



"They got kids in there?" the engineer beside him shouted above the howling of the engine's siren.



"Yes," Mitch replied. "Three."







Jill Kirkpatrick had formed the habit of monitoring local police and fire calls. It gave her more peace of mind when she knew what was going on in the country surrounding her isolated farmhouse, especially after dark.



Besides, she admitted to herself with a smile, she often listened in order to keep close tabs on Mitch Andrews. He was a very special person, the first and best friend she'd made in Serenity. They'd met when his fire department rescue squad had responded to the call for medical assistance after her husband's fatal accident, and Mitch had remained her anchor in the stormy days that had followed.



Being new in town and widowed so suddenly, Jill didn't know how she would have coped without his compassionate support and that of his fellow church members.



As she leaned closer to listen to the scanner, her long, blond hair swung against her cheeks and she tucked it behind her ears. She'd felt a strange shaking and heard a boom right before the radio had come alive. Something terrible must have happened. Not only was there a scary description being given of a fire, she could hear anxiety and dread coloring Mitch's voice as he broadcast to his crew. No matter how much he might deny it, he was definitely worried. Therefore, so was she.



Her initial response was to grab a jacket and her car keys and head for the door. Pausing, she almost changed her mind before peering out the window. Her blue eyes widened. The whole northern horizon was painted orange, yellow and red. Billowing clouds of smoke were lit from below as they formed a plume that blotted out the stars and rising moon.



One hand fluttered at her throat. "Oh, dear." That settled it. She had to go.



Quickly crossing the yard she climbed into her battered, well-loved red Jeep and started toward the glow in the sky.



Soon, acrid smoke was filtering in through the air vents. It carried pungent, unidentifiable odors that reminded her of melting plastic combined with household chemical cleaners.



"Lord, be with Mitch and whoever else is in danger," Jill prayed softly, fervently, her hands clenching the steering wheel. "Please, please, please."



She saw official vehicles converging at the far end of the one-runway airport so she pulled off the main road, parked where she wouldn't be in anyone's way, then proceeded on foot.



The closer she got, the worse the inferno looked. It had never occurred to her that any blaze could generate such a frightening roar. The noise reminded her of a crackling, pulsing jet engine and drowned out every other sound. Her eyes smarted. Her throat felt raw.



Knots of bystanders had gathered at the perimeter of the airfield. Men in yellow turnouts were busy shooting streams of water onto a house, apparently in an effort to save it from the encroaching flames.



Several of the closest casual observers were familiar to her from church so she greeted them with a somber look and a nod.



"Anybody seen Mitch Andrews tonight?" she asked, working to control her tone so no one would suspect how concerned she was. "I heard his voice on my scanner."



One of the elderly men hooked a thumb toward the burning home. "Yeah. He came outta there with two little kids, then handed 'em to the preacher's wife and went back inside."



Jill's heart leaped. Raced. Fluttered. There were children in that fiery death trap? And Mitch was in there rescuing them?



The urge to do something, anything, was so strong she nearly forgot herself and ran toward the fire. Only her respect for Mitch and his work kept her rooted to the more distant spot where she could safely observe.



Where was he? Could he be in trouble? Flames were licking up under the eaves in spite of the deluge from the hoses and it looked as if the entire house would soon burst into flames.



Jill's hands were fisted, her breathing shallow. "Come on, come on." It was barely a whisper, yet it carried the intensity of a shout, the passion of a prayer.



Suddenly, a familiar figure came hurrying out the front door. She instinctively knew it was Mitch in spite of the black-edged breathing mask covering his face and the shadows cast by the brim of his dripping helmet.



Arms laden, he raced off the porch, through the cascading waterfall from the fire hoses and out onto the sparse, wet grass. Using his body to shelter the child he was carrying he whipped off his mask while the rescued victim in his arms kicked, screamed and fought him.



Mitch looked up, made eye contact with Jill as if he'd sensed her presence and gestured frantically.



She whirled to check behind her, assuming he'd been signaling a fellow firefighter. There were none close by. Pointing to herself, she shouted, "Me?"



His nod was quick. His meaning clear.



She reached him in mere seconds. "What can I do to help?"



"Take him." Mitch's voice was a hoarse shout. If she hadn't noticed the moisture in the fireman's hazel eyes when he'd shoved a squirming, pajama-clad boy of about seven at her, she might have believed he was angry.



"Are there others? Should I wait?" Jill asked, holding tight to the thin, wriggling body of her new responsibility.



"No. I already gave Paul and Megan to Becky Malloy." He raised his radio. "Chief, we got all three kids out. No sign of the parents."



Jill waited until he was done speaking to ask, "What happened?"



"Don't know," Mitch said brusquely. "Just get Timmy out of here." His gaze softened and lingered on her face for mere moments, yet she could sense his special concern even before he said, "Take care of yourself, too, Jill. Watch your step. It's dangerous around here."



"I know. I'll be careful."



Seeing Mitch slip his mask and helmet on and turn, she blurted, "Wait! Where are you going?"



"Back inside. There are two more people to find."



"No!"



One look at the leaping, licking flames and she could hardly catch her breath. Mitch was going back into that?



Her first instinct was to grab his arm and hold tight to stop him, yet she knew that would be foolish. This was what he did, what he'd trained for. Interfering was very wrong, no matter how scared she was for his well-being.



"I have to. I'll be all right." His gaze rested for an instant on the child in her arms. "Just take good care of Timmy for me."



"I—I will."



As Mitch jogged away, Jill felt a burgeoning concern that left her weak in the knees. It wasn't only the firefighters she was worried about. She'd realized belatedly whose house this was. The Pearsons were members of Serenity Chapel as well as close friends of Mitch, so the adults he was still searching for must be the children's parents, Rob and Ellen. How hard this must be for poor Mitch—for all the local firefighters and police.



Her arms ached from holding on to the struggling boy, but she persevered. Right now, the most important thing was getting him away from the scene, keeping him safe and reuniting him with his younger siblings.



"Let me go!" the boy shouted. "Let me go."



"No. Sorry. I can't."



Jill knew there would be no reasoning with the child while he was so agitated. Keeping her replies calm and consistent was the best—the only—thing she could do.



It was trials such as this that her own childhood had prepared her for. That was why she'd volunteered as a foster parent in the first place, why she never said she was too busy or too financially strapped to take in another homeless, helpless waif.



It was her duty.



She'd trained for it by merely living the life she'd been handed.

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Ebook:

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Favorite plots?

Hi guys! Sorry I went AWOL, I was on deadline for a book. I just turned in the manuscript for the second book in my Protection for Hire series. (The first book is out in December.)



Anyway, I did some light reading to celebrate and picked up a book I've been wanting to read for a long time, The Bartered Bride by Erica Vetsch. It was a good read, sweet and short with a good ending.



Reading the book also made me realize that I love bartered bride plots, where the heroine is sold to the hero has his bride. In Erica's book, the characters are betrothed and not yet married, but I also love plots where they get married and then fall in love with each other.



So what are some of your favorite plots?



I also posed this question on Goodreads if you want to join the discussion there!

Street Team book list excerpt - House of Secrets by Tracie Peterson

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



House of Secrets

by

Tracie Peterson



When her father orchestrates a surprise trip to the summer house of her childhood, Bailee Cooper is unprepared for what follows. What is intended to be a happy reunion for Bailee and her sisters, Geena and Piper, quickly becomes shrouded by memories from the past.



Together again, the three sisters sift through their recollections of fifteen years ago...of an ill mother, and of their father making a desperate choice. They vowed, as children, to be silent--but one sister believes the truth must now be revealed. Yet can they trust their memories?



Mark Delahunt arrives in the wake of this emotional turmoil. Determined to win Bailee's affection, Mark becomes the strong fortress for her in this time of confusion, and what was once a tentative promise begins to take root and grow. Caught between the past and an uncertain future, can Bailee let God guide her to heal the past and ultimately to embrace love?



Excerpt of chapter one:



House of Secrets



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Street Team book list excerpt - Along Wooded Paths by Tricia Goyer

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!





Along Wooded Paths

by

Tricia Goyer



All she wanted was a simple Amish life . . . But now Marianna Sommer finds herself depending on Englisch neighbors. Although proud of living apart from the world, she and her newly relocated Amish family have discovered that life in the remote mountains of Montana requires working together.



As Marianna begins helping those different from herself—and receiving their help—her heart contemplates two directions. She's torn between the Amish man from Indiana whom she has long planned on marrying and the friendly Englischer who models a closer walk with God than she's ever seen before.



Who should have young Marianna's heart? What is God asking her to sacrifice? Her traditions? Her community? The answer is found along the wooded paths.



Acclaim for Tricia Goyer's Big Sky Series

"A wonderful story about the Amish and the way they live their lives by the writings of the Bible. Readers will delight in this."



RT Book Reviews

"A sweet, tender tale that's sure to please readers. Amish fiction fans will be wanting more from Ms. Goyer!"



AmishHearts.com

"A captivating story . . . the reader can't wait to turn the page."



Suzanne Woods Fisher, best-selling author, Lancaster County Series



"A sweet, tender story about God's gentle workings in the hearts of His own. Tricia Goyer has a true talent for creating believable characters readers can identify and empathize with. Anyone who enjoys Amish fiction will appreciate this moving tale."



Sally Laity, author of Remnant of Forgiveness

"I was pulled into Tricia Goyer's Along Wooded Paths from the first page! A devastating past, a heart-breaking choice, this story has it all. Endearing, lovely in every way. If you love heart-warming Amish fiction you can't go wrong here."



Traci DePree, author of the Lake Emily series and Into the Wilderness







Excerpt of chapter one:







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Street Team book list excerpt - The Chair by James L. Rubart

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



The Chair

by

James L. Rubart



If someone gave you a chair and said it was made by Jesus Christ, would you believe them?



When an elderly lady shows up in Corin Roscoe's antiques store and gives him a chair she claims was crafted by Jesus, he scoffs. But when a young boy is miraculously healed two days after sitting in the chair, he stops laughing and starts wondering . . . could this chair heal the person whose life Corin destroyed twelve years ago?



As word spreads of the boy's healing, a mega-church pastor is determined to manipulate Corin into turning over the chair. And that mysterious woman who gave him the piece flits in and out of his life like a shadow, insinuating it's Corin's destiny to guard the chair above everything else. But why?



Desperate, he turns to the one person he can trust, a college history professor who knows more about the legend of the chair than he'll reveal. Corin's life shatters as he searches for the truth about the artifact and the unexplained phenomena surrounding it. What's more, he's not the only one willing do almost anything to possess the power seemingly connected to the chair.







Excerpt of chapter one:







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Street Team book list excerpt - Ten Plagues by Mary Nealy

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Ten Plagues

by

Mary Nealy



Join the breakneck chase through Chicago for a murderous maniac. As the victims begin piling up, detective Keren Collins's spiritual discernment is on high alert. Will she capture the killer before another body floats to the surface? Ex-cop, now mission pastor Paul Morris has seen his share of tragedy, but nothing prepared him to be a murderer's messenger boy. Will his old ruthless cop personality take over, leading him to the brink of self-destruction? Can Keren and Paul catch the killer before the corpse count reaches a perfect ten?







Excerpt of chapter one:



Chapter One



With the staff that is in my hand I will strike the water of the Nile, and it will be changed into blood.



A cold chill of evil sleeted through Keren Collins's veins. Wind howled like a tormented soul between the Chicago tenements. Goose bumps rose on her arms. Her hair blew across her eyes and blinded her. Being sightless made the evil more powerful, as if it cast her into the presence of a blackened soul. She felt an impending doom so powerful her hands shook as she twisted her mass of unruly curls into a messy bun and anchored it with an ugly but functional leather contraption. She had parked her Impala a half block away from the decrepit brownstone she was watching. The front stoop and the young punks gathered there were visible. She looked around, listening. Did the evil have a source? Could this feeling be coming from inside that run-down building? No way was Keren going in alone to find out. Chicago cops were about as popular in this part of the South Side as the Cubbies. She sat in her car, and waited and itched. O'Shea, why'd you pick today of all days to be late? To keep from fretting over this strange premonition, Keren pulled her notes out to reread what she had on Juanita Lopez, reported missing two days ago. Keren and O'Shea had done some



preliminary checking yesterday that had led Keren to this old hangout of Juanita's. No one had seen the young woman for a week. Keren had read about two sentences when she snapped the little book shut and jammed it back in her blazer's inside breast pocket. She couldn't sit still when things felt this wrong. Pushed to action and against all common sense, she reached for her door handle.



Pounding footsteps drew her eyes to the left and behind her car. A man raced down the sidewalk on the far side of the street. The beat of his sprinting feet made Keren's heart speed up. He raced past her, straight toward that cluster of thugs Keren figured for Juanita's old gang.They saw the man running and straightened like wolves scenting blood.



The runner went up the brick steps right between some of the meanest scum in the city. He collapsed against the wall, gasping for air. Keren narrowed her eyes as he lifted a small piece of. . .something. . .and pressed it to the side of the door, sliding it sideways and jamming it into a crack he must have found. A sign maybe, brown wood, a foot or so long and half as high. If it had a picture or words on it she couldn't make them out. Just as he pressed it against the wall one of the gang members slapped a hard hand on the man's shoulder, ripped the sign out of his hand, jerked the door open, and shoved him inside.



That sense of evil grew, but Keren didn't have to be a genius to know that the guy who'd just been shoved inside could be in big trouble.



A half-dozen Hispanic boys erupted from the brownstone and took up positions in front of the building as if they'd been assigned guard duty.



Keren slumped low in her seat, sitting on her backside while someone was being killed. But she couldn't take on a gang



alone. Minutes ticked by. "O'Shea, where are you? C'mon." She couldn't stand it anymore. She reached for the door handle



and her phone at the same time. An explosion blasted bricks loose from the building's foundation.



The kids standing guard were mowed down by shrapnel. Keren's car rocked on its axles. Its car alarm went off and the



airbag deployed and punched her in the face. A blast of heat hit next and gritty dust enveloped the car. She



leaped from her car and charged toward the crawling, bleeding boys.



Running and stumbling, she was blinded by the billowing smoke.



Another explosion knocked her down. She could hear glass shattering to her right. Flames shot out of the windows on an upper floor, cutting through the gritty air.



Bits of pulverized brick whizzed overhead. Choking dust coated the inside of her nose and throat. She covered her face and waited until the buzzing debris from the new explosion passed. Forcing herself to her feet, she tripped and went down and realized she'd stepped on a boy.



She caught the shoulders of his jacket. "Get up!" He looked up at her, dazed. "Get up and run!" She dragged the boy. She knew she shouldn't



move him, but another brick slashed inches from her face and she knew this was kill-or-cure time.



"You've got to get away." She thrust her face close to his, hoping to penetrate his daze.



Blood trickled down his forehead. Cinders rained down.



Keren staggered as she tried to haul the kid upright. "Run. Now. Move! Move! Move!"



He shook his head. His eyes cleared and he gained his feet and stumbled away. Keren moved forward and fell over shattered brick. This time she stayed down and crawled. The rubble on the ground cut her hands and knees. She reached another victim. This one was already trying to stand. Over the crackling flames and crashing stones, she shouted, "Run, get out of here!"



A falling brick struck Keren in the shoulder and she fell flat on her face just as someone ran out of the building.



"How many are in there?" she yelled. The kid didn't answer as he ran past. Keren saw a dark lump off to the side, crumpled on the



ground, and she got to him and yanked at another fallen, dazed teenager. The kid's face was shredded from brick fragments, his eyes glazed. Keren dragged him to his feet. She suspected only pure survival instinct made him move in the direction she shoved him. She saw two other boys crawling in the right direction and let them go it alone.



She was close enough to the building to see a young child hovered against the side of it. He was frozen, his eyes wide with terror. She crawled toward him.



A stream of staggering, screaming people came out of the building. The man who'd gone running up to the building right before it exploded—tall, dark-haired, commanding, covered with blood and gray soot—brought up the rear, shoving at two kids, yelling and urging them forward like a general on the battlefield. "Get out, go, go, go!"



As the man ran down the steps, the door he'd just charged out of blew off the building and whizzed inches from Keren's head. Flames raged out of the opening.The man threw his arms around both boys and dove under the shooting flames. They skidded across the cruel pavement.



The air turned white hot from the new blaze. It was alive with glowing embers and toxic smoke. Choking, Keren struggled on toward the little boy. A blaze flared out of a broken basement window and enveloped her. She dropped to her belly and wrapped her arms over her head, afraid her hair would catch fire. The instant the burst of fire ebbed, she crawled forward on broken bricks and glass.



When she reached the child, she caught him to her. Bricks rained down. She forced the child away from his hideout. He got the idea, wrenched away from her, and ran.



She looked at the inferno that engulfed the front entrance and every window in the building.There was no way to get inside to search for survivors. Turning away, she saw the man was on his knees, beating on the flames devouring one of the boys.



The man's face was coated. His clothes and hair were gray with ash.



Keren charged in, snagged one of the boys by the back of his sweatshirt, and jerked him to his feet. Something solid slammed the man to his knees beside her. A stream of blood cut through the grit on his face.



He staggered to his feet when Keren would have expected him to be down for good. "The whole building's coming down."



He tore at the boy's burning jacket. The panicked boy fought him, but the man ripped the coat off.



Keren shoved the other boy forward then turned to help the bleeding man. Turning to her, his eyes blazed with life in the midst of death. His spirit hit her almost as hard as the bricks. His square shoulders, and the honor and compassion in his eyes, didn't match with this soul-destroying neighborhood. What was he doing here? Besides bleeding. She reached to help him get away.



The old building howled like an angry monster. Flames reached for the heavens.The buildings on both sides were engulfed in flames and near collapse, too. The man glanced back. Keren's gaze followed his. Through the choking grit, she saw someone lying unconscious at the corner of the building, near the alleyway.



"Chico," the man said. "Please, God, not him." She heard the true prayer in his voice. The whole building, now engulfed in flames, shifted forward. She turned to order the man to get away before she went back



for the boy. But he was gone, running toward the boy, right into the teeth of the fire, toward certain death.



Another boy burst through the solid wall of raging flames that blocked the front door of the condemned brownstone. He screamed and beat at fire that had turned him into a human torch. He ran down the stoop of the tenement and plowed into Keren, shrieking and writhing in pain, and she staggered back as he fell at her feet. He rolled and flailed at the merciless flames.



Ignoring the white-hot raining ash, Keren tore off her blazer and smothered the fire. She slid her arm under the boy's shoulders. The stench of burned flesh was overwhelming.



The boy screamed, but he was conscious enough to get to his feet with her support. As she moved away from the raging fire, she looked back at the building. Her heart clutched. The man scooped up the fallen boy and turned to run, but he was out of time. Bricks rained down on his shoulders and he vanished as he was buried alive.



Then, through the smothering clouds of smoke, she saw the man rise up, with what seemed like superhuman strength, and shed the bricks on his back. He had the child's limp body cradled in his arms.



The boy beside Keren fell. She couldn't abandon this teenager



to go help the man. Her heart wrenched as she turned away from the man and virtually carried the wickedly burned boy toward safety.



She glanced back and saw the man run sideways down the street, trying to get past the collapsing building. Falling bricks and tortured metal clawed at him. Rocks and cinders pelted him with every step.



"God, help me. Help us save these boys. Help that man." She looked back. Something slammed into the man. He staggered then fell against the side of a stripped car. Keren knew that last blow was one too many. The man had no strength left.



As Keren hauled the semiconscious boy around a corner to shelter him, she risked one more look back into the blizzard of shrapnel. Hundreds of bricks hurtled straight at the man. Then he was swallowed up by the choking dust of the explosion. Buried under tons of stone. Keren cried out at the heroic man's failure. When he vanished, the evil she'd sensed earlier swept back, and Keren could swear she heard Satan laugh in the face of the horror that surrounded her.



Trying desperately to keep functioning, she fumbled for her phone and called 911.



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Excerpt - Building a Family by Lyn Cote

Building a Family

by

Lyn Cote



Lawyer Eleanor Washburn defends wayward teenagers and supervises volunteers for Habitat for Humanity without missing a beat. But she is unnerved by fascinating single dad Pete Beck—especially since his chaotic life includes a little girl wishing for a mother. Sweet Cassie has Eleanor yearning for what's been missing from her lonely existence. Soon, both dad and daughter are chipping away at Eleanor's defenses. Can she find the courage to risk losing her heart to this ready-made family?



And here's a word from Lyn:



Building a Family touches close to home. Literally

I set it in a fictitious town of Hope WI within easy driving distance of my own hometown in the northwoods of Wisconsin. I also mention a regional mascot, the Hodag. Don't know what a hodag is?

Follow this link and tell me what you think!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hodag

Does your locale have any mythic creatures or figures?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Under the intense June sun, Pete Beck parked his new blue pickup under a shady maple on New Friends Street in Hope, Wisconsin. "Here we are," he announced to his two teenaged passengers. Ignoring the negative vibes rippling from them, he slid out and folded his seat forward to help his exuberant four-year-old daughter Cassie out of her booster seat.



Under a blue, blue sky, he swung little Cassie up into his arms and kissed her cheek with a loud raspberry. She shrieked, "Daddy!" and giggled. The two teens climbed down from the truck and trailed after him, their hands shoved into their pockets. Pete experienced a flash of sympathy for the two teens. Maturing from a boy to a man wasn't ever easy.



Before he could stop her, Cassie squirmed and broke out of his arms, running ahead. "Cassie!" he called. "Wait!" He raced after her. He caught up to her just as she halted in front of a tall African-American man holding a little girl about the same age as Cassie.



"Hi." Cassie waved up at the little girl. "Pretty. In your hair." Cassie pointed to the bright beads braided into the dark hair.



"You need to say thank you," the man said, letting his daughter down to join Cassie.



"Thank you," his little girl parroted, pointing at Cassie. "You got sunshine in your hair."



"I do?" Cassie looked upward at her own hair.



"Some people call her hair strawberry-blond," a soft woman's voice said from behind Pete.



He turned and saw Eleanor Washburn approaching him. She looked different than she had that bleak day back in March when they'd met. More relaxed. Even kind of pretty.



"I'm Kevan Paxton," the African-American man said, offering Pete his hand.



Pete shook it. "You're the family that's getting this Habitat house, right?"



Kevan grinned. "Yes, we're the lucky family—"



"I'm Cassie," Pete's daughter said to Kevan's little girl. "What's your name?"



"I'm Tiesha. My mama's gonna have a baby." The little girl rested her head on her mother's rounded abdomen.



"I gotta big brother. He's at Little League with my grandma."



The adults, who'd paused to listen to this exchange, chuckled.



"I'm happy you came," Eleanor said, holding her hand out to Pete. "Kevan, this is Pete Beck, the building-trades teacher at the local high school. And I see he's brought along two of his students."



Pete took Eleanor's hand, surprised to feel calluses on her palm. That shouldn't surprise me. This is the third Habitat house project she's directed.



The two teens, one on either side of him, nodded, then mumbled something. Both refused to make eye contact. Kids. They thought they knew it all, yet they had so much to learn.



Eleanor glanced at her watch. "It's time for me to get the dedication started. Kevan, will you bring your family forward so I can introduce you?" She smiled at Pete and patted Cassie's head, then turned and walked toward an area already excavated for the foundation.



Pete couldn't help watching her go, assessing her.



"She's why we didn't want to come," Luis, one of the teens, said under his breath, near Pete's ear. "We been in trouble, you know? She defended us in juvenile court so she knows what we did. I mean, it was just stupid stuff, but we got in trouble for it." Luis lowered his voice more, as if not wanting Cassie to hear. "That lady's down on us, man."



"All in your imagination." Pete reached down to take Cassie's hand. But she was running again. He hurried after her. How could little legs move that fast?







Eleanor took her place at the front of the crowd. A bee buzzed past her nose. She began her welcome. "Good morning!" she called out, holding up her hands.



The crowd quieted and turned toward her.



"I'm so glad you've come to the dedication of the final Habitat house to be built here on New Friends Street." She smiled with all her might, hoping her zeal would prove contagious. "I'd like you to meet our Habitat family." She motioned with her hand. "Kevan, will you please come forward and bring your family with you?"



Kevan grasped his wife's hand and led his family to Eleanor, Cassie tagging along. "My pleasure, Ms. Washburn." He faced the crowd, exuding happiness. "I'm



Kevan Paxton. This little sweetheart is our four-year-old daughter." His little girl favored Kevan. "And this is my wife, my strength." With hair neatly beaded into corn rows, his wife looked happy, healthy—and very round. "As you might notice, another little Paxton is due to arrive in August."



Laughter punctuated the well-wishes called out.



Eleanor noted that the two little girls were holding hands. The sight of such innocent sweetness touched her deeply. "Thank you, Kevan," Eleanor said. "And thank you for your service in Iraq—"



Spontaneous applause and whistling broke out. When the applause ebbed, she started to speak about Habitat for Humanity. Kevan and his family moved away to stand beside Pete.



Then someone yanked her pant leg.



Eleanor glanced down to see Pete Beck's pretty little girl with her strawberry-blond hair. Cassie lifted her arms to Eleanor. The gesture was unmistakable; Eleanor's response was automatic. She swung the child into her arms—and felt herself swept up in brand-new sensations. She couldn't recall ever holding a child. The desire to have a child of her own coursed through her with startling force.



The little girl wrapped her arms around Eleanor's neck and hugged her. Then she leaned back and, nose to nose with Eleanor, said, "You're pretty."



More chuckles bubbled up from the crowd.



Eleanor couldn't speak. The child's innocent, impulsive gesture had wrapped around her vocal cords. And she loved the child's soft weight and chubbiness and strawberry-shampoo-scented hair. I want a little girl of my own, Lord.



Pete hurried forward, his arms outstretched. "I'm sorry. Cassie, you're interrupting Ms Washburn."



Cassie clung to her as Eleanor studied Pete's face. He looked chagrined. This loosened Eleanor's throat. "No harm done, Mr. Beck. She's no trouble." She looked at Cassie. "You can stay if you'll be quiet. You see, I need to talk to these people."



"I'll be quiet," Cassie vowed, her teeth denting her lower lip.



"You're sure?" Pete asked.



After both Eleanor and Cassie nodded, he returned to where he'd been standing with the two teens. Cassie's presence added a new zest to Eleanor's mood as she put her enthusiasm about the two previous Habitat houses into words.



The recipient of the first of these houses, Rosa Chambers, hurried over from Eleanor's yard a bit tardy and waved at her from the back of the crowd. All the while Eleanor talked, Pete's gaze never strayed from her face. Her face warmed not with the sun but from his attention. Could he be afraid that his daughter might say or do something embarrassing? She smiled at him, hoping he'd relax.



At the end of her talk, she urged, "Now, I need everyone who's interested in volunteering to give their contact info to our volunteer, Rosa Chambers, the recipient of our first Habitat house built last year."



She motioned to Rosa who—as planned—had gone over to a lawn chair in the shade of an oak tree and now sat with an open laptop. The crowd broke up. Some volunteers proceeded directly to Rosa; others stopped to chat. Pete and the two teens gravitated toward Eleanor. They hung back till the few people who'd stopped to exchange words with her moved away.



Cassie hugged Eleanor's neck again and then laid her head on her shoulder. The feel of the little girl in her arms broadened Eleanor's smile. And filled an ache within. How precious, this little girl. How lucky Pete Beck was.



She turned her attention to Pete, who must be in his mid-thirties, just a little older than she. Pete was good-looking, medium height, brawny build, with dark hair and eyes. The two teens, Luis, dark-haired and wiry, and Colby, blond and tall, flanked him. Her mind zipped back to more than one scene where these two teens had been her pro bono clients, defendants in juvenile court when she'd been their lawyer. Cassie babbled happily and quietly about the people she saw, waving to everybody from Eleanor's arms. A bee flew past Eleanor's ear.



Cassie squirmed to get down. "I want to go to Tiesha."



After Eleanor released her, Pete intercepted Cassie before she ran away. "Just a minute, Cassie. I need to talk to Ms. Washburn. Then we'll go see the little girl again."



Cassie frowned but didn't pout. Tethered by his hand, she twisted and turned, keeping track of the other little girl through the milling crowd of adults.



"I'm going to sign up, and I brought Luis and Colby to volunteer, too," Pete said, sounding as if he were measuring each word. "They just graduated and will probably only be working part-time this summer."



"Luis, Colby," Eleanor said, "you may go over to Rosa Chambers and give her your information. We'll be happy to use your muscle power for a good cause."



Luis and Colby looked to him. He nodded toward the young woman under the oak tree. The two of them loped away, grimacing.



Eleanor frowned as they walked off. Working here, helping others would be good for the teens, but these two might not be up to the challenge.



"I'll keep them in line."



His words were meant to reassure her. Yet he must be aware both teens had been designated "at risk." How could she handle this? While she appreciated his concern for these two young men, her goal was to build this house without delays. Two troubled teens could cause delays by misbehavior or carelessness on-site.



"I'll keep them in line," he repeated in a lowered voice.



"I'll hold you to that," Eleanor said quietly, but in her "courtroom" tone. Then she made the mistake of looking into Pete's eyes. They were a very deep brown. She caught herself staring into them a fraction of a second too long. She switched her gaze to Cassie, and her heart softened.



"I'll go sign up then, Ms. Washburn." Pete turned to go.



"If we're going to be working together, you should call me Eleanor, Pete."



He nodded and looked down at his daughter. "Okay, Cassie, we'll go see that little girl."



Cassie grinned up at him and then grabbed Eleanor's hand. "You come, too."



Pete's gaze met hers. "Please join us," he said, his tone somehow negating the invitation.



She flashed him a hesitant smile, wondering why and thinking she should really be mingling. But..



"Okay."



As they walked, Cassie grasped her hand, connecting the three of them.



Eleanor noted people glancing at the trio they made and—speculating. She loved this small town, but life here could be suffocating at times. Eyes were always watching. She kept her chin up and hoped she wasn't blushing. Cassie broke away from both of them and ran to Tiesha. "Hi again!"



"Thanks for volunteering to help out," Kevan said to Luis and Colby, his daughter clinging to his good leg. "It's great to see you young guys reaching out and volunteering. Appreciate it."



Luis and Colby grinned and shrugged, obviously out of their depths.



"It's our pleasure to be of help. We're grateful for your service to our country," Pete said.



Kevan ignored Pete's comment on his military career but smiled down at the two girls.



Cassie pulled Eleanor closer to Tiesha. "This is Ella—Ella—"



"Why don't you girls call her Miss Ellie?" Tiesha's mom spoke up.



"Okay," Cassie and Tiesha said slightly out of unison.



The new title made Eleanor smile, feel wanted in a new and special way. She touched each girl's hair and smiled.



"You haven't given me your contact information," Rosa said to Pete with a smile.



"I'm pleased to meet you, Rosa," Pete said, quickly giving Rosa what she needed. She handed him the schedule which showed that work started toward the end of the week.



"It's time we were off," he said. Both Cassie and Tiesha had squatted to observe a busy anthill nearby. "Come on, Cassie."



"But I don't want to leave Tiesha," Cassie objected.



"Cassie, you'll see Tiesha again sometime soon—promise. We've got to take Luis and Colby to apply for summer jobs today." He motioned to Cassie to come to him.



Cassie looked unhappy but obeyed. She halted beside Eleanor. "Will you come and see me, Miss Ellie? I live on my grandpa's farm—"



The last of her words were obliterated by a motorcycle roaring up New Friends Street. Pete recognized that motor. He turned to watch his brother rock to a halt at the curb. A sideways glance told him that Eleanor, "Miss Ellie," looked uncertain. Did she equate "biker" with "trouble" like a lot of people?



Like mindless moths to a flame, the two teens broke into a run, heading for the bike.



His brother Mike climbed off the cycle and shed his gloves and helmet. The two teens flocked around him. He greeted them but, arm upraised, headed toward Pete.



Pete sent another glance Eleanor's way. He found himself gazing at three little freckles on the bridge of her nose. And the way her long hair moved with a breath of breeze.



"Hey! Pete!" Mike called out, unzipping his leather jacket, which sported a Harley Davidson patch. Six-foot-six with shoulders nearly as broad, Mike towered over his brother. He had a voice like a grizzly bear.



"You like to make an entrance, don't you?" Pete replied in a wry tone.



Mike just shrugged. "Such a sunny day! Couldn't waste it driving my pickup. Where do I sign up?"



A shrill scream shattered the peace. Pete swung around, his heart lodged in his throat. He recognized that voice. Cassie! Where was she? Why had she screamed?

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Street Team book list excerpt - CAPTIVE TRAIL by Susan Page Davis

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Captive Trail

by

Susan Page Davis



Captive Trail is second in a six-book series about four generations of the Morgan family living, fighting, and thriving amidst a turbulent Texas history spanning from 1845 to 1896.  Although a series, each book can be read on its own.



Taabe Waipu has run away from her Comanche village and is fleeing south in Texas on a horse she stole from a dowry left outside her family's teepee.  The horse has an accident and she is left on foot, injured and exhausted.  She staggers onto a road near Fort Chadbourne and collapses.



On one of the first runs through Texas, Butterfield Overland Mail Company driver Ned Bright carries two Ursuline nuns returning to their mission station.  They come across a woman who is nearly dead from exposure and dehydration and take her to the mission.



With some detective work, Ned discovers Taabe Waipu identity. He plans to unite her with her family, but the Comanche have other ideas, and the two end up defending the mission station. Through Taabe and Ned we learn the true meaning of healing and restoration amid seemingly powerless situations.



Excerpt of chapter one:





Prologue



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



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



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



"English? She hit me because I am English?"



Pia shook her head and said in the Comanche's tongue, "You are Numinu now. No English."



Taabe's stomach tightened. "But I'm hungry."



Pia again shook her head."You talk English.Talk Numinu."



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



"No," Pia said in Comanche.



"Why?"



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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





CHAPTER ONE



PLAINS OF NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS, 1857



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



"Today's the day, Ned."



"Yup."



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



"Never thought everything would go through and we'd be carrying the mail."



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



"Sure."



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



Tree scowled. "We ain't gonna lose the mail, ya hear me?"



"I hear you."



"Right. We've made this run hundreds of times."



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

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