Camy Tang's Blog, page 144

Street Team book list excerpt - Love on the Line by Deeanne Gist

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!



Love on the Line

by

Deeanne Gist



Rural switchboard operator Georgie Gail is proud of her independence in a man's world ... which makes it twice as vexing when the telephone company sends a man to look over her shoulder.



Dashing Luke Palmer is more than he appears though. He's a Texas Ranger working undercover to infiltrate a notorious gang of train robbers. Repairing telephones and tangling with this tempestuous woman is the last thing he wants to do.  But when his stakeout puts Georgie in peril, he realizes more than his job is on the line.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Love on the Line



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Excerpt - Freezing Point by Elizabeth Goddard

Freezing Point

by

Elizabeth Goddard



Casey Wilkes didn't realize her simple human-interest story would put her life at risk—again. After fleeing her home and journalism job in Portland, she wanted to live under the radar for a while. But when her interviewee starts dodging her questions, her reporter instincts kick in and she finds herself in over her head….



Homeland security agent Jesse Mitchell has been undercover as an ice sculptor for months, trying to infiltrate a smuggling ring. He wants to avoid trouble, and that's just what Casey brings. Now someone has a target set on Casey. Saving her could blow his cover, but leaving her unprotected endangers him even more—especially his heart.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Beautiful…but dangerous.



Jesse finished shoving the last block of dry ice into the back of the specially designed truck—well insulated, yet ventilated to allow for sublimation—the melting that would give off deadly CO2gas.



The solid form of carbon dioxide would be used to create the snow effect around the ice sculptures along with fog—a mysterious yet stunning display.



He tugged off the gloves used to protect his hands from ice burns or, worse, frostbite. Because his father was a chef and master ice sculptor, Jesse had learned a few techniques of his own, even entering competitions during his college days.



That's what made him the perfect candidate for this covert operation, and the only reason Robert McCoffey, his superior, had pulled Jesse from the desk job and visits to the psychiatrist and put him back into the action. Working as an undercover agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Jesse had nearly blown his last assignment and thought he'd never get the chance to restore his reputation and career.



But ICE's bulk cash and smuggling division decided Helms Ice and Trucking Company was hot—laundering money for the Mexican cartel—and they wanted someone on the inside. Since the trucking company also had a catering side business specializing in ice sculptures, Jesse was it.



He shoved his hand through his hair. God had some sense of humor.



Miguel grinned as he assisted Jesse in closing off the back of the truck. He signaled to the driver that the truck was ready to go, and it lumbered away from the loading dock.



"You okay today?" Miguel asked.



"Everything's great," Jesse lied. With his superiors breathing down his neck, he had to come up with something and soon. He'd already been working undercover too long for his own good.



"You'd better get back to your hole. You got another gig in a few days." Miguel strode over to a counter and grabbed a pack of cigarettes.



Though Miguel referred to the ice-sculpture competition that Jesse needed to prepare for, Jesse was concerned about a far different gig, and that's what had him on edge today. He was desperate to get in on what he believed would be the next transport of bulk cash. As the truck departed, Jesse fought the tensing in his gut. Could this truck be driving off with millions in cash tucked away behind or in the ice, and Jesse had somehow missed it?



Carlos returned from his break. "We expecting another truck in a few?"



"You're not going anywhere. Jesse's got his own work. You're lucky he was here to cover for you," Miguel said.



Carlos gave a halfhearted snarl. Jesse didn't like the guy. After years spent working undercover assignments, Jesse had learned there were some people you met while undercover that you grew to care about and others you grew to hate. Carlos was someone to hate. He had no doubt that Carlos was capable of much worse than smuggling cash. He might have committed the murder on the loading dock that occurred several months ago, bringing the police down on this place and the cash smuggling operations to a complete halt for a few weeks.



Jesse had to remain and bide his time until things began moving again. Though he had proof of several small transactions, those crimes had already occurred. His goal was to gather intelligence, figure out all the players and be witness to the movement of a large amount of cash—catching them in the act. This would bring stiffer penalties under federal law.



When Carlos's eyes slid toward him, Jesse turned his back on the man. "Later," he said, and headed for the exit.



He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Guys like Carlos were the reason Jesse had grown to loathe working undercover. Memories from his last assignment flooded his mind—a man struggling with the thugs of a drug ring Jesse had infiltrated. He'd lived with the nightmare day and night. Jesse could have stepped into the fray, but that would have been kicking his cover in the teeth. He'd almost cracked under the moral dilemma. If only Jesse had gone a little out of his way, he could have prevented the man from strolling around the corner at that precise moment—the exact wrong moment. He would never allow that to happen again.



He promised himself then that once he got out, he'd never go back. In the end, he'd almost blown the mission and been reprimanded before being returned to a desk job. After months living life undercover as a drug runner, learning to walk and talk like them, to avoid the cops, he'd struggled to fit in with his fellow agents again.



What had the psychiatrist told him? "You 're suffering from anxiety and extreme suspiciousness." That he was near the breaking point.



A shiver swept over him when he passed the room-size freezer that took up a quarter of the loading dock. At the moment, he felt like he was near the freezing point—if he worked like this for much longer, his heart would turn stone-cold.



Right now, he knew one thing—if he wanted to transfer programs within the agency, he'd have to earn back the respect of his supervisors and the confidence of his fellow agents.



In order to do that he'd have to see this case through and make the bust of these so-called untouchables.



Nothing or no one would stand in his way this time. Nor would he allow anyone to stumble upon Carlos and Miguel on the loading dock. Not again. Not on his watch.







Casey Wilkes stood outside a door with a nameplate indicating it was the ice-sculpting studio, which she presumed was where she could find the ice sculptor. After knocking and receiving no response, she jiggled the doorknob.



Locked.



She forced her shoulders back, unwilling to give in to defeat. The receptionist probably lied to get rid of Casey, telling her the ice sculptor was here. The cute little brunette had been instructed not to allow visitors beyond the foyer, but Casey had pulled a trump card—she was the owner's niece, and needed an interview.



Casey didn't mention that until this week, she'd lived in a little town near Portland, Oregon—a far cry from Orange Crossings near San Diego—and had never been to the ice company before. Nor did she mention that John Helms had married her aunt three years ago, and Casey didn't know him that well.



She had no idea if Uncle John would allow her to get an interview, but since he and Aunt Leann were out of the country, traveling in Europe somewhere, and everyone else was leaving for the day or had already gone, there wasn't anyone around to question.



The receptionist didn't want to get fired for denying the owner's niece entry.



Casey looked down the hallway where she'd just walked. Helms Ice and Trucking Company conducted business from a large multifaceted warehouse, part of which had been converted into an office complex. Maybe the guy was around here somewhere.



Get the interview with the sculptor and you have a job.



The newspaper editor's words emboldened her, propelling her through a door and down another hallway where a few people remained working in their offices. A couple of women chatted and laughed when they passed her in the corridor—probably heading home for the day since they both held their purses—only giving her a cursory glance.



"Excuse me," Casey said.



The ladies paused and glanced back, as though uncertain Casey was talking to them.



"I'm looking for Jesse Dufour, the ice sculptor. He's not in his studio. Any ideas where I can find him?"



"Can't help you. Although…" The tall slender woman paused and stared at the ceiling for a moment as though gathering her thoughts. "His sculptures have to be delivered at some point, so try the loading dock."



"Thanks." Casey turned and walked in the opposite direction before it occurred to her she wasn't sure where to find the loading dock.



An unmarked exit and dark corridor later, she heard a voice behind a door and decided to ask for help. This was getting ridiculous.



After a quick, light knock, she opened the door to a small dimly lit room cluttered with papers strewn on empty desks and rank with the smell of cigarette smoke. A man stood in a shadowed corner, talking on his cell.



Finally. Relieved, she waited for him to notice her. As soon as he did, he stopped talking and skewered her with his gaze.



She shivered and sensed the sudden chill had nothing to do with the cold room.



Casey offered an apologetic look for interrupting his private communication and began backing from the room. Wait. He could answer a simple question.



"I'm sorry to bother you. Can you point me to the loading dock?"



The man scowled and pointed at the door. Casey frowned. Maybe she should have asked a different question.



As she made her way down a long corridor devoid of life and through another doorway, she prayed she would run into friendlier natives who could help her find the loading dock, or at least tell her where to find the ice sculptor.



In the shadows between boxes stacked to the ceiling, the only light streamed from a small window in a thick door of—if she had to guess, she'd say a giant freezer. She dropped her bag onto a box to give her shoulder a brief reprieve and examined the digital thermometer next to the door. Fifteen degrees. Definitely, it was some sort of cold storage room. She trembled.



This place was a veritable maze, and though as a seasoned reporter she hated to admit it, now she was lost.



From behind, a hand clamped her shoulder.



Her heart ricocheted. She jerked around to find a man with piercing blue eyes staring back. Though the look on his face was anything but friendly, relief swept through her.



For a fleeting moment, she feared Will Tannin had caught up with her. In almost the same manner, Tannin had grabbed her from behind and detailed how he planned to torture then kill her. Her throat constricted at the memory.



She'd fled Oregon that night a week ago.



But this man didn't have the look of a crazed killer. She should know. Her breathing slowed, if only a little.



"What are you doing here?" he asked.



Taken aback at his guarded tone, Casey struggled for words. "I'm sorry, I—"



"You shouldn't be here. Let's go." He glanced over her shoulder at something behind her, a sense of urgency in his eyes, and grabbed her arm. "The loading dock is off-limits to visitors. It isn't safe. You could get hurt."



Ah, so she'd at least found the loading dock. A small comfort.



Maintaining his hold on her, he tried to lead her away.



Casey stood her ground, attempting to tug her arm free. "Hey, you don't have to drag me."



"You'll follow me out?" He took his time slipping his hand away, looking into her eyes for assurance that she would obey.



"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" This was weird. Could Tannin have sent him? Dread stalked through her.



No. This insane fear of Tannin had to stop right now.



Again, he glanced behind her, deep lines of concern creasing his brow. She followed the guy into the corridor and then into an empty office. She figured he was escorting her somewhere "safe" to talk.



Once inside, she turned around to face him. He was closing the door. "Wait a minute. What are you doing?"



He ran a hand down his face. "The question is who are you and what were you doing trespassing?"



She opened her mouth to reply, but he had her there. "My name is Casey Wilkes. I'm a reporter here to do a story on the ice sculptor. That's all." She cringed inside. Since she was trying to fall off the grid, she'd have to remember to use her recently assumed pen name, Carson Williams.



While he appeared to contemplate her words, she studied him. If they'd met on different terms, she might have found him attractive. Scratch that. Regardless of the terms, he was good-looking. Thick dark hair, troubled but intense blue eyes and a strong clean-shaven jaw. She'd experienced firsthand that he was strong and muscular. Heat crawled up her neck.



Casey blew out a breath.



For a moment, she thought his expression might have softened but it hardened again. "A reporter, huh? That still gives you no right—"



"I'm sorry. I got lost and ended up on the loading dock. Why don't you just ask me to leave?"



"All right. Would you please leave?"



Something about his actions weren't tracking, but Casey didn't want to leave. Not really. She'd come here for a reason. She stomped to the door and placed her hand on the knob.



He put his hand over hers, sending a warm shudder through her. She yanked it back.



"Not so fast," he said.



"You can't keep me here." Her defiant words mocked her. He could, actually, and that scared her.



This time his gaze softened. "Look, if you want an interview with the ice sculptor, all you have to do is ask."



Casey felt like an idiot. He was right, and she wanted to explain, to start over. "The receptionist sent me back to look for him. But he wasn't in the studio, so…"



His mouth quirked in a grin and he crossed his arms, leaning against the door. She'd bet that was on purpose. "So, you thought you'd explore. What could it hurt, right? You might uncover the scoop of the century."



She hadn't gotten where she was today…Queasiness swirled inside. Where exactly was she today in her rising career as an investigative reporter?



Running for her life.



Still, his playful tone managed to bring a smile to the corner of her mouth. "Something like that." She wanted to kick herself. Oh, I am not responding to his flirting! Nix this.



He thrust his hand out. "I'm Jesse Dufour, the ice sculptor."

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Excerpt - Princess in Peril by Rachelle McCalla

[image error] Princess in Peril

by

Rachelle McCalla



When insurgents attack the king's motorcade, scattering the royal family, bodyguard Levi Granaldo has one goal—to protect the princess. Even though he knows Princess Isabelle distrusts him. On the run together, they flee to New York, to the shelter of a sanctuary established by Levi's father. But their safety can't last. After a surprise attack divides the pair, Isabelle is forced to face some hard truths. The danger she's in is getting deadlier by the day…and she'll never be able to face it without Levi by her side.



Excerpt of chapter one:



The royal motorcade lurched to an unexpected stop. Her Royal Highness Princess Isabelle of Lydia glanced at Levi Grenaldo, her recently appointed bodyguard, expecting him to make some reassuring gesture that would indicate nothing was amiss.



He didn't look her way. In the silvery sheen of his mirrored sunglasses, Isabelle saw only the rear bumper of her brother's limousine sitting still on the road in front of them. The seconds ticked by and they sat, unmoving, in the narrow streets of Sardis, Lydia's capital city.



Something had to be wrong. The motorcade represented the power and pageantry of the royal family and therefore never stopped until it arrived at its destination.



"Why are we stopped?"



Levi didn't acknowledge her question, but instead pressed the button for the intercom and told the driver, "Get us off this street."



When the driver hesitated, Levi pressed the button again. "Now."



Much as she wanted to remain calm, Isabelle felt her fingers tighten as they gripped the edge of the leather seat. She didn't like anything about this situation. For one thing, she didn't trust Levi.



He'd been abruptly appointed as her personal bodyguard five days earlier with no explanation given, and on top of that, he didn't fit the profile for a bodyguard. Although he was plenty tall and his shoulders were broad with muscles, he was otherwise trim, and the dark angles of his beard gave his face a scholarly look. Unlike all the bodyguards she'd ever had before, his neck wasn't thicker than his head, and he looked unusually sharp in the tuxedo he wore for the state dinner they were about to attend.



Besides that, the bodyguard read books. Intelligent ones. She'd seen him with his nose buried in political tomes whenever he waited for her to finish an appointment.



Out of place as those attributes seemed, what really bothered her was the way he overrode her requests and limited her freedom. As the eldest daughter of King Philip and Queen Elaine, Isabelle was used to having to change her plans to protect her safety, but Levi's impediments went far beyond the usual. They'd butted heads several times. After three days she'd asked to have him removed, but her father had refused her request.



All her instincts told her something was amiss.



The driver had the car two points into what promised to be an eighteen-point turn on the narrow street when suddenly a deafening blast rent the air, rattling the official limo, and an orange ball of fire seared the sky in front of them.



Levi's hand mashed the intercom button.



"Back! Back! Now!"



A second explosion rocked the air even closer behind them, and Isabelle felt the car shudder. Though the royal limousines were made of bulletproof materials, she doubted they'd be any match for that kind of explosion. Her heart twisted with concern for the rest of her family. Alexander, her only living brother, rode in the limousine ahead of her, which didn't appear to have been damaged by the blast, but her parents' car was out of sight ahead of those carrying other royal officials. It would have been close to where the first explosion hit.



And her sister, Anastasia, rode in a car somewhere behind hers. Black smoke filled the air. Isabelle couldn't see any sign of her sister's car.



Levi cracked the door open and looked down at the street, letting in a wave of heat and the stench of fire and explosives.



"Shut that!" Isabelle lunged past him to close the door, mindful that, inadequate as the car might seem against the fiery blasts, it was the only protection they had.



He pulled the door closed and would have met her eyes had his not been hidden behind his ever-present sunglasses. But his face was suddenly far closer than she was used to her bodyguards' faces being, even in the midst of pressing crowds and certainly not in the backseat of a car.



His hand hit the intercom again. "Back up three feet and a little to the left."



The driver obeyed promptly this time.



Even before the limousine had come to a stop, Levi had the door open again. He leaned out and wrestled with something on the ground.



For a second, Isabelle thought about shoving him out and locking the door after him. But much as she didn't like the man, she wouldn't stoop to such a move just to keep herself safe, though his actions seemed to endanger both of them, and it frightened her.



A moment later he pulled the door closed again and slid back, slipping one arm solidly around her waist.



Isabelle gave a yelp and tried to jump away.



The vise of his arms didn't allow her to budge. "Your Highness, I'm going to open the door and we're both going down the manhole."



"No!" She twisted her torso in an attempt to free herself.



Levi had her clamped against him so securely she couldn't move more than an inch in any direction. The touch of his hands and the tenacity of his grip sent memories scurrying out from the dark corners of her mind—memories she'd hoped to keep hidden forever.



She felt his neatly trimmed beard brush her temple as he spoke briskly into her ear. "Once I open the door we'll be vulnerable. We need to get below ground as quickly as possible. Don't fight me."



Isabelle took a shaky breath. To his credit, though he held her immobile, Levi wasn't squeezing her too hard for her to breathe. Maybe it was that small allowance that made her decide to trust him.



Or maybe it was because she didn't have any choice.



"The car is bulletproof," she reminded him in one last attempt to derail his plan. "We won't be safe if we leave it."



Another blast rocked the air, and the hood from another vehicle crashed against the limousine's windshield, the royal hood ornament visible for just a second as the dented metal scraped past them.



"We won't be safe if we stay here." Levi reached across the seat. "You can take your purse." He shoved the satin clutch into her hands. "Anything else you need?"



Isabelle tried to think, but her mind was filled with fears for the safety of the rest of her family. Judging by the proximity of the last blast, she was nearly certain it had been centered just ahead of Alexander's limo. That may have been the hood of his car that had fractured their windshield! She couldn't see anything through the black smoke, but she sent up a silent prayer and forced herself not to act on the instinct to leap from the safety of her vehicle to look for her brother. He was a grown man and a soldier. Surely he knew more than she did about staying alive.



"On three." Levi's words jerked her thoughts away from her brother and back to the crazy-sounding plan to leap through the manhole. "One, two—"



With no time to protest, Isabelle pinched her eyes shut as Levi opened the door and, in one swift movement, pulled her from the vehicle and shuttled her through the hole in the pavement. Much as she didn't trust him, she knew the danger outside was real, and she didn't want to be exposed to it any longer than was absolutely necessary. For that reason only, she cooperated with his actions.



She opened her eyes as the soles of her leather pumps slid against the slippery metal bars that formed a ladder secured to the wall of the tunnel. Although she couldn't get purchase on any of the rungs, Levi seemed to have a steady hold on both the ladder and her. She wished she'd chosen to wear something a bit more practical than a silk, floor-length evening gown, but the dress had been the perfect choice for the state dinner she was now about to miss.



Her trembling hands reached for the bars, and she managed to grip one securely.



"Hold on tight." Levi's instructions sounded close to her ear. "Got it?"



Unable to muster up words, she nodded. He surely couldn't see much in the darkness of the hole, but he must have felt her movement because he let go of her and reached above them to pull the manhole cover shut.



Metal grated against pavement and Levi's body rocked as he muscled the cover back into place above their heads.



Orange fire flashed above them and Isabelle felt its heat penetrate their hiding place.



Levi immediately let go of the manhole cover to shield her. As the simmering air stilled, he slid the manhole cover the last couple of inches closed, leaving them in total darkness. "Are you okay?"



Isabelle could feel herself trembling, but she forced her voice to speak. "Fine. You?"



"Fine," he echoed.



"You didn't scorch your hands, did you?"



"Not too bad."



Isabelle was aware that he hadn't denied being injured, but because he didn't complain, she didn't press the question. It wasn't as though she could do anything for him at the moment.



With the manhole cover blocking out all light, the darkness was damp and absolute, and Isabelle felt a wave of terror wash over her. Who was this man, and what were his intentions? What did the explosions above mean? And where were they? Her nose told her it wasn't the sewer.



"Can you climb down, Princess?" Levi's voice surprised her with its closeness.



Suddenly mindful of her position wrapped in the arms of a man she didn't trust, Isabelle resisted going any farther. Gripping the metal bar a little tighter, she ignored his prompt.



"What was that?"



"Ambush." He stated flatly. "Let's get moving."



Isabelle reached upward for the next higher rung. "My family is up there. My brother's car—"



"You're not going back up." Levi tugged her back down, closer against him.



The grip of his arms in the darkness brought more horrible memories rushing back. She fought him instinctively. "No! I don't know who you are or what you're doing—"



"Your father hired me to protect you." Levi's arms were too strong for her, and her position on the slippery metal rungs was a precarious one.



She tried to fight back. "The royal motorcade was ambushed and now you're trying to kidnap me. I demand to know why!"



Instead of responding, Levi wrenched her free of the rungs and climbed downward with her more or less slung across his shoulders. "We need to get moving. If the lid on this hole sustains a direct hit, you could be killed standing where you are."



"Where am I?" A shudder of fear chased through her, but Isabelle stopped fighting and relented to being carried down the dark hole. She felt the vibrations as another explosion rocked the earth in spite of the thick stone that surrounded them, so she didn't doubt Levi's warning was sincere.



"The Catacombs of Charlemagne."



Isabelle startled and nearly fell out of Levi's arms. He obviously hadn't expected her to jolt at his words.



"We're in the Catacombs of Charlemagne?"



"Yes."



"But they were filled in more than a thousand years ago." Her words, spoken in an awed whisper, echoed through the empty chamber.



"Your father had them excavated." Levi climbed downward, his movements slow and deliberate in the darkness.



"How do you know that, and I don't?" Isabelle couldn't fathom why her father hadn't told her. And how had Levi learned of them?



"I was just wondering the same thing." Levi's voice echoed louder, and Isabelle realized the chamber had widened with their descent. He continued. "Actually, your greatgrandfather King Alexander III began the excavation during the first World War, thinking the royal family might need the catacombs to escape if they were ever threatened on their own soil." His posture changed as he let go of the ladder, and Isabelle heard the scraping sound of his shoes against the floor of the tunnel. "Little did your great-grandfather know, he was right—just a century off."



Isabelle wished she could see his face, but the utter darkness hid everything. So much had happened so quickly, she wasn't sure she entirely understood what Levi was talking about. "The catacombs run beneath the city of Sardis." She recalled from history lessons. "Charlemagne built them in the ninth century when he used Lydia as an outpost in his attempt to further his kingdom and the spread of Christianity toward the east."



In a patient-sounding voice, Levi continued the story. "Lydia has always been a Christian nation, so they supported Charlemagne's efforts."



"Even though he was eventually thwarted." Isabelle wasn't sure how large a space they occupied, but from the way their voices carried, she judged it to be at least a few meters wide, with a ceiling well above their heads. Tentatively she stepped away from Levi, half expecting to feel cold stone against her back. She felt nothing. With a shiver, she took a step back toward him, unwilling to lose her only human contact in the vast darkness.



"Stay near me." He cautioned her abruptly. "We need to get moving."



Isabelle gulped a breath of the cool underground air. She had to think. Too much about this situation wasn't right, and just because the man knew about the catacombs, that didn't mean she ought to trust him. After all, there was surely little coincidence between the timing of his appointment and the attack on the royal motorcade. For all she knew he was in on the ambush and had brought her into the tunnel to finish her off or hand her over to a political enemy.



But how could she sort out what to do when she couldn't even see?



Levi tugged on her arm.



"Hold on." Isabelle pulled her cell phone from her purse and flicked it open, illuminating the screen, its miniscule light startling in the utter darkness of the tunnel, casting their faces and the rock walls around them in an eerie greenish glow.



"Thank you. That helps." Levi offered her a slight smile.



To Isabelle, his angled lips looked sinister in the flickering light. "You should take your sunglasses off."



As she watched his face, his jaw tightened under his close-cropped beard. He seemed reluctant to remove the mirrored shades, which, together with the facial hair, hid his face almost completely. At his hesitation, Isabelle realized she'd never seen him without the sunglasses on, not even indoors. For a moment, she wondered why.



Then he slowly peeled back the lenses and she knew the answer.

Print book:

Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Christianbook.com

BOOKSAMILLION.COM



Ebook:

Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)

Nookbook

Kindle

BOOKSAMILLION.COM

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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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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