Camy Tang's Blog, page 145
October 4, 2011
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.
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Ten Plaguesby
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.
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
October 3, 2011
Excerpt - Building a Family by Lyn Cote
Building a Familyby
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?
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
September 28, 2011
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.
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Captive Trailby
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.
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Excerpt and guest post: The Wounded Heart by Adina Senft
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! What's more, Faithwords has graciously given me FIVE copies to give away! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
The Wounded Heart
by
Adina Senft
When a business offer turns into something more personal, Amelia is torn between what logic tells her is right, and the desire of her heart.
A widow with two small children, Amelia Beiler is struggling to make ends meet. She is running her late husband's business, but it's not what she was raised to do, which is run a home. When she gets an offer for the business from Eli Fischer, she's only too relieved to consider it-especially when it looks like Eli's interest might include more than just the shop. But when she begins to experience strange physical symptoms and is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, it's difficult not to question God's will. If she pursues the treatment she believes in, she risks going under the bann. But how can she allow Eli to court her when she can't promise him a future?
Includes instructions to make the quilt block featured in the novel.
And now, here's Adina!
Thanks so much for hosting me, Camy! When I got the idea for The Wounded Heart, I knew there would be some research involved. What I didn't know was how much research there would be! Along with reading anthropological studies and history books and books about my location (Lancaster County), I traveled there to find out details—things that aren't in the books.
Take women's clothing, for instance. To an Englisch person, it looks like the women are all wearing the same thing … but they're not. The tiniest details make a statement, and it's usually a statement about the depth of their submission to the Ordnung (the unwritten rules of their community).
All the women wear a prayer covering, or Kapp, because it says in the Bible that a woman should have her head covered when she prays. The theory is that an Amish woman can pray at any time, so she's always covered just in case. But are the strings on her Kapp tied or not? If they are, it shows she's submitting to the Ordnung. If they're not (which in the case of the teenage girls, is pretty much all the time), the girl may be on Rumspringe or just pushing the rules a bit. If the strings aren't even cut, but form a U so they can't be tied, well … maybe her mother is going to have a talk with her rebel daughter!
The colors of the dresses say something, too. I learned to drive a buggy with an Amish man, who frowned at a girl on the side of the road wearing a beautiful golden yellow dress under her black bib apron. I said, "I thought the girls wore darker colors. I've never seen that yellow before." He shook his head. "North of Highway 340 the rules are lax and the girls get away with too much. South of the highway it's a different district and the women dress more modestly." I realized the meaning of what I'd been seeing. North of the highway the girls were wearing yellow, peach, and turquoise. Down south, they wore dark green, taupe, and blue. And if he hadn't said anything, I would never have known why.
I'm a firm believer in onsite research. You never know when you'll run across exactly the right detail to color in your people and your setting—and make them come alive.
Excerpt of chapter one:
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Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BooksaMillion
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
The Wounded Heart by
Adina Senft
When a business offer turns into something more personal, Amelia is torn between what logic tells her is right, and the desire of her heart.
A widow with two small children, Amelia Beiler is struggling to make ends meet. She is running her late husband's business, but it's not what she was raised to do, which is run a home. When she gets an offer for the business from Eli Fischer, she's only too relieved to consider it-especially when it looks like Eli's interest might include more than just the shop. But when she begins to experience strange physical symptoms and is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, it's difficult not to question God's will. If she pursues the treatment she believes in, she risks going under the bann. But how can she allow Eli to court her when she can't promise him a future?
Includes instructions to make the quilt block featured in the novel.
And now, here's Adina!
Thanks so much for hosting me, Camy! When I got the idea for The Wounded Heart, I knew there would be some research involved. What I didn't know was how much research there would be! Along with reading anthropological studies and history books and books about my location (Lancaster County), I traveled there to find out details—things that aren't in the books.
Take women's clothing, for instance. To an Englisch person, it looks like the women are all wearing the same thing … but they're not. The tiniest details make a statement, and it's usually a statement about the depth of their submission to the Ordnung (the unwritten rules of their community).
All the women wear a prayer covering, or Kapp, because it says in the Bible that a woman should have her head covered when she prays. The theory is that an Amish woman can pray at any time, so she's always covered just in case. But are the strings on her Kapp tied or not? If they are, it shows she's submitting to the Ordnung. If they're not (which in the case of the teenage girls, is pretty much all the time), the girl may be on Rumspringe or just pushing the rules a bit. If the strings aren't even cut, but form a U so they can't be tied, well … maybe her mother is going to have a talk with her rebel daughter!
The colors of the dresses say something, too. I learned to drive a buggy with an Amish man, who frowned at a girl on the side of the road wearing a beautiful golden yellow dress under her black bib apron. I said, "I thought the girls wore darker colors. I've never seen that yellow before." He shook his head. "North of Highway 340 the rules are lax and the girls get away with too much. South of the highway it's a different district and the women dress more modestly." I realized the meaning of what I'd been seeing. North of the highway the girls were wearing yellow, peach, and turquoise. Down south, they wore dark green, taupe, and blue. And if he hadn't said anything, I would never have known why.
I'm a firm believer in onsite research. You never know when you'll run across exactly the right detail to color in your people and your setting—and make them come alive.
Excerpt of chapter one:
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September 19, 2011
Street Team book list excerpt - Here's to Friends by Melody Carlson
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!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Here's to Friends David C. Cook (September 1, 2011) by Melody Carlson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Over the years, Melody Carlson has worn many hats, from pre-school teacher to youth counselor to political activist to senior editor. But most of all, she loves to write! Currently she freelances from her home. In the past eight years, she has published over ninety books for children, teens, and adults--with sales totaling more than two million and many titles appearing on the ECPA Bestsellers List. Several of her books have been finalists for, and winners of, various writing awards. And her "Diary of a Teenage Girl" series has received great reviews and a large box of fan mail.
She has two grown sons and lives in Central Oregon with her husband and chocolate lab retriever. They enjoy skiing, hiking, gardening, camping and biking in the beautiful Cascade Mountains.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Once upon a time in a little town on the Oregon coast lived four Lindas—all in the same first-grade classroom. So they decided to go by their middle names. And form a club. And be friends forever.
Decades later, they're all back home in Clifden and reinventing their lives, but the holidays bring a whole new set of challenges. Abby's new B&B is getting bad reviews and husband Paul is acting strange. Still grieving for her mom, Caroline is remodeling the family home, but boyfriend Mitch keeps pressuring her to go away with him. Artist Marley, distracted by a friend's family drama (and a touch of jealousy), can't find her creative groove. And Janie's drug-addicted daughter has just appeared up on her doorstep! When a long-planned New Year's cruise turns into a bumpy ride, they learn once again that, in your fifties, friends aren't just for fun—they're a necessity!
If you would like to read the first chapter of Here's to Friends, go HERE.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Here's to Friends David C. Cook (September 1, 2011) by Melody Carlson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Over the years, Melody Carlson has worn many hats, from pre-school teacher to youth counselor to political activist to senior editor. But most of all, she loves to write! Currently she freelances from her home. In the past eight years, she has published over ninety books for children, teens, and adults--with sales totaling more than two million and many titles appearing on the ECPA Bestsellers List. Several of her books have been finalists for, and winners of, various writing awards. And her "Diary of a Teenage Girl" series has received great reviews and a large box of fan mail.She has two grown sons and lives in Central Oregon with her husband and chocolate lab retriever. They enjoy skiing, hiking, gardening, camping and biking in the beautiful Cascade Mountains.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Once upon a time in a little town on the Oregon coast lived four Lindas—all in the same first-grade classroom. So they decided to go by their middle names. And form a club. And be friends forever.Decades later, they're all back home in Clifden and reinventing their lives, but the holidays bring a whole new set of challenges. Abby's new B&B is getting bad reviews and husband Paul is acting strange. Still grieving for her mom, Caroline is remodeling the family home, but boyfriend Mitch keeps pressuring her to go away with him. Artist Marley, distracted by a friend's family drama (and a touch of jealousy), can't find her creative groove. And Janie's drug-addicted daughter has just appeared up on her doorstep! When a long-planned New Year's cruise turns into a bumpy ride, they learn once again that, in your fifties, friends aren't just for fun—they're a necessity!
If you would like to read the first chapter of Here's to Friends, go HERE.
Excerpt - The Last Target by Christy Barritt
The Last Target by
Christy Barritt
The paper found in a terrorist's pocket holds six names—and single mom Rachel Reynolds is the only one on the list who's still alive. Private security contractor Jack Sergeant wants to ensure she stays that way, but first he must convince Rachel the danger is real.
Rachel can't believe that someone's after her…until she's grazed by a shooter's bullet. She won't take chances with her son's life—but she doesn't want Jack getting too close. Yet as Jack comes to care for both mother and son, the target he's after is a family to love and protect for a lifetime.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Rachel Reynolds scanned the playground for any signs of trouble. Unsupervised children. Bullies. Swarming insects.
None. Just another day at the park for a dozen or so moms with their toddlers.
Her gaze shot back to her son, four-year-old Aidan, who was playing on the other side of the waist-high fence, not even ten feet away. He climbed up the plastic steps of the slide—the tallest one at the park—and stopped at the top.
"Look at me, Mommy!" His wide, brown eyes connected with hers and glowed with satisfaction.
Rachel waved and wiped at the perspiration on her forehead. Even under the shade of the pine tree, the summer heat still felt sweltering. "I'm watching, honey."
Just as he propelled himself down the slide, something hot whizzed past her arm. The smell of acid filled her nostrils. Pain sliced into her skin.
"Get down!" A man shoved her to the ground, his body shielding hers. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. His mouth went to a wire at his wrist. "We've got shots fired. I repeat, shots have been fired."
Shots fired? Aidan. She had to get Aidan.
She raised her head up, gaze darting around the playground. Mobs of children and their mothers fled the park, screams filling the air. Where was Aidan?
Her gaze stopped at the slide. Aidan had climbed to the top again. She had to get him, to keep him safe.
"Aidan! Aidan!" She twisted her body, desperate to get away from the man who'd thrown her out of harm's way. Her fingers clawed at the grass. Her legs thrashed.
Her screams caught in her throat as a man approached the slide and grabbed Aidan. Her son's tear-filled gaze shot toward her, big eyes pleading for help. His arms reached for her just as the man who'd snatched him disappeared into the thick foliage of the woods.
A guttural cry rose from Rachel. "Aidan!" She pounded on the chest of the man shielding her as tears pushed their way out. The other man was getting away…with her son.
"That's one of my men who took your son. He'll keep him safe."
Her heart slowed a moment. "One of your men? Who are you?"
"I'll explain once you're safe."
Safe. She had felt safe only moments ago. That was pretty much all she wanted in life—to, as a single mom, provide a stable home for her son. In the blink of an eye, that life had been turned upside down.
What was going on? Why had someone opened fire at a playground? Were they crazy? She prayed no one was injured.
She needed to thank the men who'd saved her and Aidan and then retreat home. Lock her doors. Call the police. File a report.
"We need to lay low for a couple more minutes before I can get you out of here," the man said.
How had this man known there would be gunfire at the park today? Tension pinched her muscles. How had he gotten to her just in time? He'd known the shooting was going to happen, she realized. She felt the blood drain from her face.
What if he wasn't one of the good guys at all? She had to get away. Get Aidan.
The man's large frame easily overpowered her, though. What could she do? She ran through everything she'd learned in self-defense class. She had to use the weapons God had naturally given her.
Before she could reconsider, she pulled her elbow back and jabbed the man in the eye. "Get off me!"
As he blanched, she clawed the grass, pulling herself to safety.
Too late. The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. "Are you crazy?"
Eyes wide with terror, she shook her head. "No, you're crazy if you think I'm going anywhere with you. Get away from me!"
She tried to sock him in the jaw, but his strong grip clamped down on her wrist. "Listen to me a minute. Your uncle sent me."
She paused. "My uncle?"
"Vice Admiral Harris."
Her world began spinning.
"I'll explain everything. But right now, I've got to get you to safety." The man's iron-like hand gripped her arm. "Come on, we've got to get you out of here."
If Rachel wanted her safe life back, she had no choice but to trust this stranger. But the very thought caused fear to pulse through her.
Jack Sergeant scanned the park for the gunman. The shot had come from the woods behind him. That meant he'd have to get Rachel Reynolds to the waiting SUV with only his body as a shield. A few pines trees would offer measly protection against a bullet. At this point, they had little choice.
Rachel trembled in his grasp. Blood blurred across her skin. Fear seemed to seize her breaths. If only he'd arrived at the park five minutes earlier; maybe they wouldn't be in this situation.
He'd think about that later. Now, he had to get the sweet-smelling woman out of here in one piece. He would have never guessed the gunman to be this aggressive or Rachel this stubborn.
"Rachel." He looked down at her wide, perfectly sculpted brown eyes. Finally, her gaze locked with his. "On the count of three, we're going to run toward the street. You'll be in front, I'll be behind you. Got it?"
She nodded, but apprehension showed in her shifting gaze. She was scared. She should be. This wasn't a game. Lives were in danger.
Another shot whizzed above them. They had to move and fast. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to her or her son.
"One." He shifted to the side, in position to lunge.
A small cry escaped from Rachel.
"Two." He tensed, ready to spring.
"Three!" He rushed to his feet, grabbed Rachel, pushed her in front of him and charged across the grass. A bullet splintered the tree beside them.
They sprinted toward the street at the park's entrance. Jack's body blocked Rachel. He was a good foot taller than her, and her strides couldn't meet his. He grabbed her elbow, propelling her onward.
Only a few more feet. He looked at the street, now cleared of cars. Where were his men?
In front of him, sweat glistened over Rachel's face. She pulled in ragged breaths. Her arms trembled beneath his grasp.
Another bullet panged into a brown metal sign. Rachel gasped, froze for a moment. That had been close, mere feet away. Jack put his arm around her waist, urged her forward.
An SUV pulled to a screeching halt in front of them. The door opened and one of his men motioned to them. The air electrified as another shot rang out. Jack grabbed Rachel, swung her into his arms and slid her into the backseat. He shoved in after her and slammed the door.
Another bullet pierced the glass behind them as they squealed away. Jack could feel Rachel's heart hammering into his chest. As soon as she spotted her son on the floor, she reached for him. "Aidan!"
The car swerved again and sent all of them crashing into the door. The shooters were still on their trail. Jack and his men had to lose them, get Rachel and Aidan to safety.
"Hugs later." Jack reached over them. "Right now, seat belts on and heads down." He jerked the seat belts across them and clicked the buckles in place. Once they were secure and hunkered down, Jack grabbed his gun and looked out the back window. Two SUVs trailed them.
Another shot hit the back windshield, shattering it this time. Luke Black, the driver, swerved, and their SUV skittered close to the ditch beside them. The vehicle righted before zigzagging down the road in an attempt to avoid the gunfire behind them. Veins popped out on Luke's temple, and he had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
"We've got to lose them, Luke!"
"I'm trying." He took a quick left turn onto a busy Virginia Beach street. They charged through the yellow light at an intersection. The pursuing vehicles darted behind them. Two bystander cars skidded to a halt to avoid a crash.
Luke swerved again, this time onto a road that led away from the rush-hour congestion. The SUV nudged their bumper. Mark Denton, the other agent, stuck his gun out the window and fired, catching the front tire of one of the SUVs pursuing them. The vehicle jolted onto its side and rolled off the road. Rachel screamed and clung to her son.
Where did this road lead? Jack thought quickly until a plan settled in his mind. He glanced at his watch. "Go to the drawbridge!" It was scheduled to open on the hour. If they could get there and get across it before the SUV behind them, they might escape.
Rachel looked up with wide eyes. "The drawbridge? Are you crazy?"
Maybe. But it was their only chance. "You've got to trust me."
"I don't even know you!"
"I'm Jack Sergeant."
"FBI?"
The glass shattered on the window beside him. He threw himself over Rachel and Aidan, shielding them from flying glass and bullets.
"No, but I've been hired to protect you."
"Why in the world do I need protection?"
"Because your name was found on a hit list. Everyone else is—" He glanced at Aidan and then mouthed the word dead.
By the stark white appearance of Rachel's face, she got the message loud and clear. She ducked and placed herself over Aidan, kissing the top of his head.
The drawbridge waited ahead of them. Red stoplights flashed on either side of it, and a line of cars had already begun braking in front of them.
"The gates are going down!" Luke yelled.
"We can make it," Jack said, adrenaline charging through him. "Step on it!"
The SUV swerved into the opposite lane, charging forward toward the opening bridge.
"Hold on tight," he told Rachel. He pulled his own seat belt over him as they crashed through the gates. He prayed to God that they'd make it.
Print book:
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Ebook:
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September 18, 2011
Excerpt - Hidden in the Everglades by Margaret Daley
Hidden in the Everglades by
Margaret Daley
"I need your help"
Bodyguarding is Kyra Morgan's business—but this was supposed to be a vacation! Still, she can't refuse the request from childhood friend and neighbor Michael Hunt. Michael's sister Amy ran away after witnessing a murder. Michael needs Kyra's help to find her and keep her safe. Yet as Kyra and Michael follow the trail along the Florida coast, their search grows more dangerous by the day. Terrorists are at work, and the stakes are perilously high. It will take everything they have—including trust they're both reluctant to give—to escape the Everglades alive…
Excerpt of chapter one:
A wave broke and rolled across the white sandy beach, the warm water bubbling around Kyra Morgan's feet before receding back into the Gulf of Mexico. The sun peeked over the tops of the palm trees behind her, flooding the day with light. Her favorite time, at dawn when all was still right with the world. Before her day began.
The screech of a seagull pierced the tranquillity. A momentary disturbance until everything went back to a calmness that she'd needed after spending six straight years establishing Guardians, Inc. into a premier international company of female bodyguards. Drawing in a soothing breath, she relished the scent of the sea mingling with the sweet fragrance of the flowers her dad had planted right before his death a few years ago.
This was her time to rest and relax. One week in Flamingo Cay, Florida, where she'd grown up. One week of no work. No emergencies. No—
A click and muffled pop invaded her tranquillity.
Sounds she'd heard as a police officer.
She pivoted, her survival instinct kicking into play as she raced to her beach bag a few yards away. When she reached it, she plunged her hand inside and grasped the handle of her Glock while panning the house next door where the sound of a gun with a silencer going off had come from.
Another pop invaded the early-morning quiet. She started moving toward the noise. Every sense locked on finding the source of the danger.
Suddenly a young man burst out of the hibiscus hedge edging the neighbor's property, staggering toward her, his face clenched in pain. He clutched his stomach, blood pouring out between his fingers. Stopping, he fell to his knees, a plea in his eyes as they homed in on Kyra.
"Help us."
Us? Kyra glanced around as she covered the short distance to the young man. He collapsed to the sand, his eyes wide-open, giving her the dead man's stare she'd seen countless times as a homicide detective. She felt for his pulse and found none.
She pulled her cell from her shorts pocket and dialed 911. "Shots have been fired at 523 Pelican Lane. One man down—dead."
Another shot, coming from inside the house, sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins. "Hurry." She disconnected, stuffed her phone into her pocket and ran toward the neighbor's back deck—the sliding glass door was partially open. The house was up for sale. She'd noticed the sign out front when she'd arrived yesterday evening. She hadn't thought anyone was living there.
Every nerve tingled with the threat of danger, but she couldn't get the young man's plea out of her mind. Help us. Who else was in trouble?
As she neared the back that faced the water, she slowed, scanning the overgrown yard. The place had a vacant look to it, with no furniture on the deck. She ascended the stairs and crept toward the sliding glass door. Through it she looked inside. Totally empty.
When she stepped over the threshold into the living room, a large expanse of taupe-colored tiles, her heartbeat accelerated. She paused and listened for any noise that indicated where the killer was.
Silence.
Another pop echoed through the vacant house, coming from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A scream cleaved the air. The sound of pounding footsteps racing down the corridor toward Kyra propelled her into action. She flattened herself against the wall, her gun up, her total concentration on the opening. Heart hammering against her rib cage, she waited.
A teenage girl burst out of the hall and darted across the room, blood on her hands and shirt, her features chiseled in fear. She glimpsed Kyra out of the corner of her eye and gasped, momentarily slowing. Their gazes connected for a few seconds. Kyra put her forefinger to her lips to indicate she keep quiet.
The intrusion of a deep gravelly voice saying, "You can't get away from me," leached the rest of the color from the teen's face. Her eyes grew huge. She sped toward the exit.
Kyra focused on the entrance into the living room while the racing footsteps of the girl resonated through the air. From the hallway a shot sounded, shattering the glass in the door. She glanced toward the girl to see her disappear down the stairs and into the backyard.
Any second she expected to see the killer burst into the living room to hunt down the teen and finish her off. Kyra stiffened, every muscle primed for action.
Five heartbeats later she knew something was wrong. She inched closer to the edge of the wall to peer into the corridor. The thundering in her head pulsated through her mind, sending out an alarm. One, two deep breaths and she swiveled out into the entrance, her Glock pointing toward the bedrooms. Emptiness taunted her. Followed by a sliver of fear.
Had the killer sensed she was there waiting for him to appear? Did the girl's gasp alert him? Maybe. Was he now lying in wait for her somewhere down this hall? Or did he flee out another way and was doubling around the house to go after the girl?
Each possibility only reinforced the peril. Kyra eased down the hall, approaching each room with caution. After a visual check from the doorway, she continued her search until she reached the last bedroom, its entrance wide-open. The silence lured her forward, at the same time cautioning her against the action.
The memory of the fright on the teen's face propelled her toward the room. The girl was no match for a killer. Swinging into the bedroom, every sense homed outward, she scanned the area. A young man lay face up, his eyes closed, his chest barely rising and falling. Blood pooled on the tile floor by him, in front of an open sliding glass door, as a soft breeze blew the curtains.
Had the killer already escaped? Or was he in the bathroom or closet? She slunk along the wall to the first door and threw it wide. After inspecting the empty closet, she quickly moved on. At the bathroom, the door was ajar, and she nudged it farther open. As soon as she assessed no threat, she hurried to the man on the floor to see if there was anything she could do.
Tattoos covering both arms and an elaborate black dagger inked on his neck, the victim, probably between eighteen and twenty-two, wore blue jeans, the bottoms encrusted with wet mud, and a snow-white T-shirt, now saturated with blood from multiple shots to his gut. In her line of work she'd seen lethal wounds. This was one of them.
She placed another call to 911 to let them know a person was critically injured in the bedroom of the vacant house and the shooter had fled the scene possibly pursuing a potential witness. As she hung up, a flash caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Leaping to her feet, she saw a man dressed in camouflage plunge into the thick underbrush on the right side of the house—into the thicket that led to the swamp nearby.
Was he going after the girl to finish her off?
Kyra couldn't let that happen. She'd done all she could for the young man, but maybe she could protect the teenage girl from getting killed, too.
She rushed out onto the small deck at the side of the house and scoured the area for any sign of an accomplice or the witness, then followed the assailant into the tangle of vegetation.
Dr. Michael Hunt scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to keep awake after pulling an all-nighter with a patient, a mother who finally delivered her baby boy at 5:13 a.m. this morning. Pouring his third mug of coffee, he wandered toward his bedroom to change, so he could turn around and go back to the clinic for today's appointments. At least his partner would be back from vacation to help take some of the load off.
The blare of a siren halted Michael's progress. He glanced toward the front of his house. The sound grew closer. Curiosity led him toward the entryway. He opened his door as two police cars passed his home on Pelican Lane and came to a stop five houses down from his place.
The old Patterson house? Was someone hurt? No one lived there. Hadn't for the past six months, according to his kid sister, Amy.
He heard the click of the back door and swiveled around, catching a glimpse of his youngest sister hurrying down the hallway. What was Amy doing up so early? She wasn't a morning person. He started forward to find out where she'd been when the shrill ring of his phone sliced through the silence.
Not far from the table in the entryway where it sat, he snatched up the receiver. "Hello."
"Dr. Hunt, this is Officer Wilson with Flamingo Cay Police. A man is injured at the Pattersons' place. He was shot. An ambulance won't get here for at least fifteen more minutes from Clear Springs. Since you only live—"
"I'll be there." Michael grabbed his black bag from a chair nearby and headed out the front door.
The urgency in the officer's voice prodded him to quicken his pace. As he neared the vacant house, Levi Wilson came around from the side, a frown on his face.
He waved Michael toward him. "There's a dead man on the beach, but there's one in the bedroom alive. Barely."
"Shot where?"
"In the gut."
Michael rushed up the steps to the small deck on the side of the house. Just inside the sliding glass door lay a young man, faceup. He'd seen his fair share of fatal gunshot wounds. This one looked bad.
Michael knelt on the tile floor next to the injured young man who moaned, fixing his eyes on Michael. The young man's eyes fluttered right before his head lolled to the side and the breath went out of him.
In seconds, Kyra plunged into the wooded area and found herself ankle-deep in muddy water, a tangle of green vegetation hemming her in. Up ahead, she spotted movement and pressed ahead, branches clawing at her. Sweat coated her face. The realization that she didn't know which way the young girl had gone hastened her pace, even though the soggy ground weighed each step down. She couldn't let the killer add another victim to his list.
As she progressed, she spied the trampled bushes and vines where the assailant had run through. Then suddenly she came out onto a path with boot prints, about size eleven, which headed toward the canal. If she could remember correctly, the old pier people in the neighborhood used was in that direction—at least it had when she'd been growing up in Flamingo Cay.
Quickening her pace, she kept combing the area for any sign the killer had deviated from the trail. In the background she heard sirens coming closer but decided to keep going after the assailant. Deep into the green jungle of plants, her old fear began to encroach in her mind, robbing her of her full concentration. She nearly tripped over a half-buried log, managing at the last second to steady herself.
A muzzled pop sounded, followed immediately by a bullet whistling by her ear. She ducked behind a cypress not far from the path. With the loud beating of her heart vying with the drone of the insects, she peeked around the tree. Another pop echoed through the swamp. Splinters of bark flew off the cypress. She waited a minute, inching toward the other side of the large tree. Aiming high in case the girl was nearby, Kyra squeezed off several shots.
The noise of a motor revving came from the canal. Kyra peered in that direction. Through the foliage she saw a motorboat pull away. She hurried toward the old pier about twenty yards away. By the time she got to the bank of the water, the craft had disappeared around a bend going south.
Breathing hard, she bent over and tried to fill her lungs with oxygen. From behind her sloshing footsteps announced she had company. She straightened, bringing her gun up, and whirled to face any new threat.
Kyra lowered her Glock when she saw Gabe Stanford, the Flamingo Cay police chief, and another officer hurrying down the path toward her. For the first time since she'd heard the muffled noise of the first gunshot she relaxed her tense muscles, rolling her head to work the aches out of her neck and shoulders.
Gabe stopped in front of her, a little out of breath. "This isn't the way I envisioned us meeting when your aunt told me you were finally coming home for a visit."
Smiling at the man who had been her inspiration to become a law-enforcement officer, she went to him and gave him a hug. "Me neither. I came back for my first vacation in six years and got caught up in a murder."
Gabe frowned, peered back at the officer and said, "I've got this, Connors. You can go back and help Wilson."
The large thirtysomething man nodded and retraced his steps toward Pelican Lane.
"What happened here? I was checking the yard by the swamp and heard gunshots." Gabe glanced down at the Glock.
"I returned the killer's fire. He ran out of the Pattersons', and I went after him. He shot twice at me then got into a motorboat and went that way." Kyra pointed to the south.
"Did you get a good look at him?" He holstered his gun.
"No. He was too far away and his head was turned from me. He was wearing camouflage pants and shirt, boots and a ball cap, pulled down low on his forehead. He was about six feet, slender build. That's all I got. Sorry." As a police officer for twelve years before founding Guardians, Inc., she knew the importance of a detailed and correct description of an assailant.
"It's better than a lot I've gotten. Did you see the man kill either victim back at the Pattersons'?"
She shook her head. "I did see him shoot at a girl who fled the scene. I don't think he hit her. I thought he might be going after her so I took off after him."
"What's the girl look like?"
"Sixteen, maybe seventeen. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Black hair."
"Do you think the killer had her in the boat?"
Kyra shook her head. "Not from what I saw. Is the guy in the bedroom still alive?"
"No, he didn't have a chance."
"I didn't think he would even with immediate medical help. I've seen nasty gunshot wounds like he had, and they usually don't end well." Remembering the young man on the tile floor by the sliding glass door only reinforced why she left the police force. Six years ago she'd seen too much death and had needed to do something different. She'd still wanted to help make this world a safer place, but she couldn't continue investigating one murder after another. The Lord had something else in mind for her. Guardians, Inc. gave her the sense she was helping others without being personally involved in so much death.
Gabe began walking back toward the crime scene.
"That's what I thought, but we called the local doctor who lives down the street to help. The victim died before Dr. Hunt could do anything."
"Michael Hunt, Ginny's little brother?"
"Yep, he's all grown up and has returned to Flamingo Cay to run the medical clinic. We've needed another doctor in town for quite some time."
Print book:
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Amazon
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Ebook:
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Nookbook
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BooksaMillion
September 17, 2011
Excerpt - Lone Defender by Shirlee McCoy
Lone Defender by
Shirlee McCoy
When private investigator Skylar Grady finds herself abandoned in the Arizona desert, she knows two things. First, her "simple" case tracking a deadbeat dad has someone spooked. Second—that someone will kill to keep her off the trail. So even when her rescuer, former patrol agent Jonas Sampson, wants her to leave, Skylar knows she's staying. No one gets rid of her that easily. If Jonas wants her safe, then he'll have to stick by her side. But her new partner is a mystery, too—one Skylar will risk her heart to solve.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Dying shouldn't be so difficult.
At least, in Skylar Grady's estimation it shouldn't be.
The way she saw it, if it were her time to die, she should be allowed to go quickly. No fuss. No muss. No wandering through the wilderness for days.
Her time to die?
No way did she plan for it to be that. Then again, she hadn't planned to get lost in the Sonoran Desert, but there she was. Lost.
She frowned, forcing herself to keep walking toward the shadowy mesa. A couple more miles and she'd be there. God willing, civilization would be on the other side. It better be, because six days with no food and minimal water had taken its toll. Much as she wanted to deny it, truth was truth. If she didn't find her way out soon, she wouldn't find her way out at all.
And that would be a shame. Not just because Skylar would be dead but because it also meant that the guy who'd drugged her, driven her out into the desert and left her to die would get away with it.
That definitely wasn't how Skylar planned for things to play out.
Unfortunately, she wasn't sure she had much of a choice in the matter.
Desert wilderness stretched out as far as the eye could see. No roads. No buildings. Nothing but an endless landscape of cacti and low-lying desert scrub, with the mesa in the distance. It's all she'd seen since she'd left her jeep, everything she had lived, breathed and felt for six days. She wanted out with a desperation that left her hollow and empty inside.
If there wasn't something or someone on the other side of the mesa….
She pulled her thoughts up short. Going there wouldn't help things. She had to keep walking, keep moving and, above all, keep hoping.
Lightning flashed in the distance, and the quiet rumble of thunder followed. Another storm. Was it the third or fourth since she'd made the decision to leave the rental jeep she'd woken in?
Did it matter?
Another winter storm meant water. Water meant life.
Her foot caught in thick desert scrub, and she fell hard, her breath leaving on a painful gasp. She forced herself up again, shivering as icy wind seeped through her T-shirt. Warm days. Cold nights. Sunburned skin and bone-deep chill. They'd taken their toll, and she wanted to rest more than just about anything.
But not more than she wanted to live.
Not more than she wanted justice.
And she did want that.
Someone had tried to kill her. She was going to find out who, she was going to find out why and she was going to smile when her would-be murderer was thrown in jail. First, though, she had to survive.
One trudging painful step after another to the mesa.
That was the only way to do it.
All around her, the night throbbed with energy and life; creatures moving in the darkness. Slithering, creeping, jumping creatures.
Were there wildcats in the desert?
Skylar didn't know, and she didn't want to find out.
Something shifted in the blackness, a deep shadow against the darkness. She blinked and it was gone, leaving nothing but a stillness that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Something was out there. Something that was stalking her through the blackness. Skylar was as sure of that as she was of anything.
Something or someone.
Maybe the guy who'd left her to die had returned to make sure she'd done so.
She crouched low, not taking her eyes off the spot where the shadow had been, her hand skimming the ground. A weapon. Any weapon. That's what she needed.
But there was nothing.
No thick tree branches.
No heavy rocks.
She grabbed a fistful of dirt, her heart thumping a hard irregular beat, the desert pulsing with tension from something she couldn't see, but knew was there. Endless seconds passed, each moment a lifetime.
Please, God, let it be my imagination.
A figure appeared inches from where she crouched, stepping from blackness so suddenly Skylar was sure he'd disappear just as quickly.
She reached out, her fingers brushing a leather boot.
Real.
He was real.
"Skylar Grady?" His voice was smooth and deep, and Skylar didn't bother asking what he wanted. No way was this guy part of a search-and-rescue team. If he were, he wouldn't be alone. She jerked back, letting the handful of dirt fly before breaking into a sprint. Endless desert stretched out around her with no hope of rescue or safety. She knew it, but she ran anyway.
Please, Lord, get me out of this alive. Please.
Please.
Please.
The prayer chanted through her mind, matching pace with the frantic thrum of her pulse. Something snagged her shirt, pulled her back and she went fighting, swinging her fists the same way she had when she'd been a runty freshman in a high school overflowing with drug dealers and gang members.
"Cool it, Grady. I'm not in the mood to have my face beaten in." The command barely registered, and she swung again, her fist connecting with a rock-hard jaw.
"I said cool it." There was no heat in his words, and he grabbed her arm, pulling it behind her back with just enough pressure to hold her still.
"Let me go!" She stepped back, trying to unbalance him and loosen his grip, but he was as solid and unmoving as a mountain.
"I'm thinking your boss wouldn't be happy if I did that. Neither would I. I've lost and found your trail a dozen times these past couple days. I lose it again, and you may be lost for good."
"My boss?" She stilled, her heart beating too rapidly, her breath spilling out in great heaving gasps.
"Kane Dougherty. He's an old college friend. He called me the day before yesterday. Asked me to take part in the search-and-rescue operation that was launched to find you." His grip loosened, his hand smoothing up her arm and resting against her neck. "Take a deep breath, before you keel over."
"I'm not going to keel over." But she inhaled deeply, trying to force her racing heart to slow.
"I'm not sure I believe you. You've been out here for six days. That's a long time." His hand dropped away, and then he was in front of her, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.
"Long enough for people to stop looking for me. I haven't seen a search plane in two days, and then it was too far away to see me. I thought for sure I was going to have to find my own way out of here." She dropped onto the ground, relief making her light-headed.
Maybe she was going to pass out.
"They haven't stopped looking, they've just scaled back."
"Because they're looking for a body?" It made sense, but that didn't mean she wanted to hear it.
"It happens all the time. People drive into the desert to take pictures of the scenery, and they don't realize how unforgiving the terrain is. They get lost or hurt, and they run out of supplies."
"Look, buddy—"
"Jonas. Sampson."
"Look, Jonas, I didn't drive myself out here. Someone drove me. I didn't choose to go on a six-day sojourn. Someone else decided to send me on one."
"Who?"
"I don't know, but as soon as I get back to civilization, I plan to find out."
"You didn't see him?"
"I didn't see anything. I was out cold."
"Then, I guess the next question would be, 'Why?'"
"That's another thing I plan to find out once I get back to Cave Creek. So, how about we get in your jeep or truck or whatever you rode in on and get out of here?" She shivered, adrenaline fading and leaving her colder than she'd ever felt before.
"Sorry. No truck. No jeep. I track people on foot. Makes it easier to follow their trail." "You're kidding, right?"
"No. Here." He crouched beside her, slid out of his backpack and pulled a jacket from it. "You'd better put this on. It's going to get a lot colder."
"Thanks." She put on the jacket, tried to zip it closed, but her hands were clumsy from too many days with no food.
"Let me." Jonas brushed her fingers away, his knuckles skimming her jaw as he pulled up the collar around her neck. Warmth lingered where his hands had been, and Skylar could feel it seeping into her.
Surprised, she shifted away, trying to see him through the blackness. Dark hair that was a little long and a little shaggy. High cheekbones. Eyes that could have been any color. He looked like an ancient warrior, and for a moment she wondered if she'd imagined the feel of boot leather, the conversation, even the scent of soap that hung in the air.
She reached toward him, realized what she was about to do and let her hand drop away.
"You okay?" he asked, and she nodded.
"Fine."
"Good. There's a storm blowing in, and we need to find shelter for the night." He offered a hand and pulled her upright.
"Five nights out here was plenty. How about we find shelter in town?"
"There's no way Phoenix Search and Rescue can send a helicopter for us until morning. No way we'll make it out on foot. Like it or not, we're stuck here until dawn."
"Then I guess we'll be walking all night, because there is no way I'm going to bunk down and accept my fate." She started walking, and Jonas pulled her to a stop.
"Even if we walk all night we won't reach the highway before morning, and there's no way you're going to make it that long."
"I've been walking for days. One more night won't hurt me." Her teeth chattered on the last word, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She felt cold to the bone, tired to the core. Every muscle in her body ached, but if it meant a hot meal, dry clothes and a warm bed, she'd walk all night.
"That's what most people probably think before the desert takes them." "Nice, Jonas."
"I'm not nice. I'm realistic. You probably haven't eaten in a week and if you make it another mile, I'll be surprised. So, how about we do things my way? We head to the mesa, find some shelter and hunker down until first light." He handed her a water bottle, and she took a long swallow, letting the lukewarm liquid pour down her parched throat. Her hand shook as she wiped moisture from her lips, her stomach heaving in protest. Empty. That's what she was running on, and as much as she wanted to deny it, Jonas was right.
Her brain might be telling her to keep going, but her body was giving out. Quickly. As much as it aggravated her to depend on anyone, she'd have to follow Jonas's lead in this. "All right. Let's do this your way."
She didn't give him time to respond, just moved toward the mesa, hoping she didn't lose the water that seemed to be sloshing around in her empty stomach.
That's all she needed. Humiliation on top of exhaustion and pain.
"That was quick." His words rumbled through the darkness, a reminder that she might be cold and tired and sick, but she was not alone anymore.
That, at least, was something to be thankful for.
"What?"
"Convincing you to go along with my plan. Kane said you'd probably fight me tooth and nail on everything." "Kane talks too much."
"That worked out well for you this time. If he hadn't told me that you were too stubborn to die, I wouldn't have agreed to help with the search." He didn't say what he must be thinking, what Skylar knew to be the truth. If not for Kane's intervention, she'd be facing another night alone in the desert. She might even be facing her last night alone in the desert. Her last night period.
She wasn't, though.
That was the important thing. Kane had sent help. Skylar would survive her trip to Arizona and her six-day hike through the desert. One more night. That's all she had to do, then she'd get a hot shower, a warm bed. Food. Her stomach rumbled loudly, the sound spilling out into the darkness.
"Hungry, huh?"
"What would make you say that?" She'd didn't hold back the snarky response, but maybe she should have. Jonas was, after all, her way out of the mess she was in. No sense getting on his bad side.
"Just a guess." He pulled something out of his pocket, barely breaking stride as he handed it to her. "Eat that, but take it slow. We don't have time to stop while you empty your guts."
"Your concern is touching." She glanced down at the protein bar, her mouth watering. Not a juicy burger, but she'd eat cardboard if it meant easing the gnawing hunger she'd been feeling for days. She tore the wrapper off, took the first bite and the second and the third.
Jonas grabbed the bar from her hand before she could take another.
"Hey!"
"I said take it slow. Not inhale it."
"If I were inhaling it, it would already be gone." She snatched the bar back, took another bite, actually managing to taste the nutty flavor before she swallowed. "It's good."
"I have more. I'll get them out when we stop."
"How about we stop now? Because I could eat another dozen of those." She licked crumbs from her fingers, thought about dragging Jonas to a stop and demanding whatever food he was carrying.
"Weren't you just saying you wanted to walk all night?"
"That was before I realized you had food."
"Three more miles and you can eat all the protein bars you want."
"Is that a bribe?"
"Whatever keeps you moving."
"More food would do it."
"Sorry. Everything else is in my pack. Getting it out would slow us down." "Are we in a hurry?" "Only if we want to beat the storm." "I've weathered several storms already. One more won't kill me."
"The storm isn't the only thing I'm worried about." His pace had increased, and Skylar struggled to keep up, her sluggish movements no match for his long, easy stride.
"Please, don't tell me there are mountain lions out here. I really don't want to end up being cat food."
"Mountain lions aren't the worst predator we might run into. I've seen campfires the past couple nights. I thought members of the search party were following my trail, but the search-and-rescue coordinator said none of his people were out here."
"Maybe it's someone enjoying the desert," she offered, but she didn't believe it any more than she believed the person who'd drugged her and left her in the desert hadn't meant her any harm.
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September 16, 2011
Guest blog and excerpt - Deep Cover by Sandra Orchard
Deep Cover by
Sandra Orchard
Maintaining his cover cost undercover cop Rick Gray the woman he loved. Sweet Ginny Bryson never really knew Rick—he never gave her the chance. Not then, and not now, when he's back with a new alias to gather evidence against Ginny's uncle. The man's crimes led to Rick's partner's death, and Rick wants justice to be served. But his investigation is stirring up trouble, and Ginny is smack-dab in the middle. Someone wants Ginny to pay the price for what her uncle has done. But how can Rick protect her without blowing his cover, jeopardizing his assignment…and risking both their lives?
And now, here's Sandra!
Thank you, Camy. Hi everyone. I'm delighted to be here. Well, video trailers for novels are all the rage these days, but I'm afraid I don't have one of those. Instead, I thought I'd share "the extras" that might most help you fine tune your own novels—deleted scenes and director's cut with commentary.
Deleted Scenes: One look at Laud's grim expression and Rick knew he was in trouble. A dark cloud crept across the sky, blanketing the construction site in a shadow as dark as his probable future. Rick trudged behind his boss toward the portable office. Laud, attired in his usual Armani suit, walked with his arms away from his sides as though he might be wearing a shoulder holster.A slow burn began in the pit of Rick's stomach. He'd laid awake all night cataloging break-in suspects, and assessing their potential interference to this case. But maybe, Zach had been right. If Laud was behind last night's break-in, Rick had about ten seconds to come up with a reasonable explanation to disparage whatever conclusions Laud had drawn. His fingers itched to grab the Glock secured behind the seat of his truck. Laud must've heard Rick's steps slow because he turned and slid his hand inside his suit jacket. "Did you need something from your truck?" Rick suppressed an instinctive urge to dive for cover, as Laud drew out a … pocket watch, and glanced at the time. Rick found his breath and picked up his pace. "No, I'm good. I was just trying to remember where I left my thermos." With a bit of luck, or divine intervention, Laud's desire to see the group home finished might outweigh any inclination to neutralize the spy in his midst. Laud pushed through the door of the portable onsite office, and waited for Rick to enter. "Shut the door." Sandra again…Of all the scenes I deleted to get to the final cut, this was one of the ones I least wanted to lose. I like how it depicts Rick's emotions, provides a brief sequel to his previous scene, and sets up the goal for the coming one. But the reality was that I needed to cut words to meet word count limits, and most of these details were unessential. The bare bones fix ended up reading: When Laud motioned Rick into the portable onsite office, a slow burn ignited in the pit of his stomach. If Laud was behind last night's break-in, Rick had about ten seconds to concoct an explanation to counter whatever conclusions he'd drawn, especially where Ginny was concerned. Laud took a seat behind the desk. "Shut the door." Director's Cut with commentary: Typically for a novelist, this would read editor's cut, but since my editor made only minor changes to my manuscript, I'll share an example of how my critiquer Wenda Dottridge helped me strengthen my first villain scene. The original version was suspenseful. It showed Laud impatient with incompetent staff, nervous about the suspicious character watching his place, and angry that the insurance company hadn't paid out yet on his arson claim. It showed him receiving info from the PI he hired to investigate the hero, and ended with innuendoes of sinister plans for him. The problem was that Laud's depiction verged on a mustache-twirling caricature. Wenda reminded me that I needed to give him a redeeming quality. We brainstormed ideas and found that by sprinkling in hints that Laud wasn't as bad as I was making him out to be, I could up the stakes and urgency even more without going over the top. Here's a snippet of what we came up with: As the please wait circle swirled on his computer screen, Laud fed Duke's resignation letter to the shredder. The man might be just the distraction he needed to preoccupy his niece, and her meddling mother, until his plans fell into place. He should've silenced his sister-in-law when he had the chance. His banking info blipped onto the computer screen. A lousy three grand in the account—not enough to cover a week's interest on the three million he owed Petroski, let alone a month's. The heat in his chest intensified. He rubbed his knuckles over his ribs and popped another antacid. Lori smiled at him from the hand-drawn picture on the corner of his desk. The sloppy scrawl looked like a three-year-old colored it, all big heads and stick arms outlined in worn-down Crayolas. His insides twisted. The latest blackmail note lay, unopened on his desk. Popping a second antacid into his mouth, he tore open the envelope. Bold-faced letters, cut and pasted from a newspaper, said: You'll pay. One way or another, you'll pay. The scene goes on to show Laud struggling to overcome a panic attack and telling himself that he can't afford to give into weakness. So instead of the scene just being about his concern over the apparent loan shark goon outside and his financial woes and his investigation of the hero, I added an additional threat against him. This raises all kinds of questions for the reader as to who is really the bad guy. The rewrite also reveals one of Laud's redeeming qualities—his soft spot for Lori, his eighteen-year-old, mentally-challenged niece. Bloopers:Well, unlike movie clips, novel clips consume much more space, so I'll end my DVD extras with a fun blooper. The hero has just offered to make supper for the heroine's sister and asks her what she'd like…Lori pulled a tin of beans from the cupboard. "Like chili."He laughed—a laugh filled with memories of weekends in the kitchen with Ginny concocting outrageous combinations of food, but none as peculiar as the birthday cake Lori had made for him. When the bottle of whipped cream she'd been using to ice his cake had run dry, she'd thought the picture on the aerosol tin in her mom's bathroom looked like the same stuff. He worked his mouth, still able to taste the lemony-scented shaving cream. "Okay, chili it is."Thank you for joining me for Deep Cover's DVD extras. I hope I've intrigued you enough in the story that you'll want to read it. :)Have any of the "extras" given you insight into how you might strengthen some of your own scenes? We'd love to hear about it in the comments. Or if you have any questions for me, I'd be happy to answer them. If you'd like to connect with me online, you can…Visit my website ~ www.SandraOrchard.com Follow my personal blog ~ http://www.SandraOrchard.blogspot.com Like my Facebook Page ~ www.Facebook.com/SandraOrchardSubscribe to my newsletter ~ http://bit.ly/OrchardNews
Excerpt of chapter one:
Stop now, or else.
Rick Gray strode toward the spray-painted warning inside the half-framed building. The sawdust-strewn floor groaned under his weight, then suddenly gave way, dropping him ten feet onto his back in basement mud. His hard hat cracked against a rock and the air rushed from his lungs. Pain streaked through his body. He tried to suck in a breath, but his chest seized.
He willed his muscles to relax and tried again. This time a gasp squeaked through.
He squinted past the flashes of color dancing in front of his eyes and focused on the floor joists that dangled over his head. He might be an undercover cop just posing as the foreman on this group-home project, but he didn't have to be the real thing to spot the clean saw lines bisecting three of the struts.
Fury blazed through his veins. If the basement slab had been poured yesterday as planned, he'd be a dead man.
Holding his breath against the throbbing pain, Rick crawled up the ladder to the main floor. Last night's rain had turned the Southern Ontario sandy loam into a soupy mess, and the late winter chill layering the air around Miller's Bay bit through his damp jeans. Bit like the suspicion nipping at his thoughts that this wasn't the handiwork of another disgruntled neighbor.
The warning to stop construction on the controversial home for the mentally challenged might be from an angry Not-In-My-Backyarder, but if his "boss" had figured out why Rick really took this job, staging an accident that looked like the work of local protesters was an inspired way to take him out.
Two shiny leather shoes, enveloped in thin rubber sole guards, met his nose at the top of the ladder. Rick shot out his hand and dug his fingers into the floorboards, bracing himself for the push that would send the ladder, and him, toppling back to the ground.
Emile Laud's well-manicured hand reached for Rick's free arm and hoisted him up the last three rungs. In a three-piece suit and Burberry overcoat, his boss clearly hadn't planned on picking his way across a construction site. "What happened?"
"Sabotage," Rick grunted, his suspicion of Laud masked by his struggle to pull in a full breath.
The panic that flashed in Laud's eyes wasn't the response of a man who'd just tried to kill off his foreman. His gaze traveled across the splintered wood, up Rick's mud-caked pants and paused on the cracked hard hat clutched in Rick's fist. "Are you okay?"
"I'll live." Rick watched Laud's reaction, but nothing in his expression suggested he hoped otherwise. So who was their saboteur? And what did he really want?
Laud pried a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped the mud from his hands. "Those crazy radicals have gone too far this time. I've got my new PR girl stopping by this morning. We'll have her take pictures and write a news article to rally public opinion to our side."
Rick kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. Here to nail Laud for the arson murder of two—maybe more—people, Rick couldn't afford to have an innocent get in his way. And that's exactly what would happen if this new PR person acted on Laud's suggestion. She'd become the face and voice of this project, and far too enticing a target for their saboteur.
A beat-up green Impala crested the hill beyond the site.
"Here she comes now," Laud said, motioning toward the car.
Rick's heart slammed into his aching ribs. He'd know that car—and its driver—anywhere. Ginny Bryson. The one person who could blow his cover wide open.
She may not know what he really was, but she knew he was no construction foreman. Rick braced his hand on the nearest stud and razored a breath into his lungs. His ex-girlfriend couldn't have picked a worse time to careen back into his life. How was he supposed to keep her safe this time?
She parked next to Laud's BMW, and the instant her sleek legs dropped into view below the driver's door, Rick's mouth went dry. The sight of her roused memories he'd been trying to forget for fifteen long months.
The wind tousled her hair and reflexively his fingers curled. He could almost feel the silky caress of her blond tresses. In those moments when he let her take over his thoughts, he could still breathe in her lavender scent and hear the sweet ring of her laughter.
Laud tiptoed through the mud to greet his niece, and then led her across strips of plywood toward the building.
Instinctively, Rick limped into the shadows; the second Ginny looked past his new mustache and bristly hair and recognized him, she'd rat him out to her Uncle Emile. The uncle she'd claimed tonever see.
Rick glanced skyward and prayed for a miracle.
A lone backhoe loomed on the horizon, silhouetted against the steel-gray sky, its tires caked in mud. Too bad the machine wasn't big enough to dig him out of this mess.
The last thing he wanted to do was lie to Ginny. Again.
He'd relived her betrayed expression too many times during the lonely months since the last time. Rick slapped on his hard hat and steeled himself against his regrets. He'd been undercover on another case when they met and he'd made the choice not to tell her he was a cop. There was no going back now.
Laud's hand slid like a snake across Ginny's shoulders, and Rick wanted to hurtle across the boards, rip her away from his grasp, sink his fist into Laud's pretty face and scream the truth—the man killed people. People like Tom, and that old woman, trapped in her wheelchair as smoke ate the breath from her lungs.
Instead, Rick shoved his fists into his coat pockets and hobbled toward them, trying to conceal the pain still crushing his ribs. If only his partner hadn't run back into the burning building, he'd still be alive.
Rick shook the image from his mind. Given the trail of dummy companies and insurance claims he'd unearthed following Tom's death, Rick had no doubt that Laud torched his real estate for the insurance money, but Ginny would never believe his story. Her uncle had done too good a job covering his tracks by playing the town philanthropist. And in Ginny's eyes, Rick was nothing more than something she'd scrape off her shoes.
He'd let her keep that misconception, too, because once again, he had a job to finish. A job she could jeopardize if she knew what he really was—an undercover cop who wanted to dump her uncle in the dankest, darkest, dirtiest prison cell the province had to offer.
Ginny turned and, for an instant, Rick forgot his mission as he drank in the flush of her cheek. The sparkle in her eyes. The ever-present smile.
He took a second to enjoy the fact she still looked wonderful, uncontaminated by the scum he crossed paths with on a regular basis. The scum he'd wanted to protect her from. Yes, he'd made the right choice when he let her walk away believing he was a lying lowlife.
He'd been fooling himself to think he could shield her from the danger of his profession. While out at dinner with Ginny, he hadn't been wearing the acid-washed jeans and tattooed jacket that flagged him as a fellow gang member, but that hadn't stopped Snake from recognizing him. And if the thought of what Snake might do to her if he'd figured out Rick was a cop hadn't convinced him to let Ginny walk away, her horrified who-are-you expression would have.
Ginny blinked once and then again more deliberately.
He'd forgotten how strikingly green her eyes were, like a forest he could get lost in for hours. Only now they seemed to be measuring him and finding him wanting. Her smile wilted, and just once he wished he could see trust in those eyes again. Laud's next words obliterated that hope.
"Duke, this is my niece, Ginny Bryson. Ginny, meet my foreman, Duke Black."
Ginny's gaze snapped to her uncle, then locked on Rick. "Duke?" she said, and then clearly struggling over how to respond, repeated stupidly, "Duke?"
The memory of her parting words—you lied to me—knifed through his thoughts. All these months later, nothing had changed.
Rick thrust out his hand and put as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could muster with the black clouds looming overhead. "Good morning, Miss Bryson. I look forward to working with you." He held his breath, praying she would play the game.
Her hand met his easily. Too easily.
He'd forgotten how delicate her fingers felt, how soft against his work-worn palm.
"I used to know a guy…." she said slowly, as though savoring each word. "He looked a lot like…you."
"Really?" He struggled to sound unfazed even as the specter of a saboteur targeting Ginny strangled his breath. "I get that a lot."
Ginny pulled her hand back and folded her arms over her chest. "Yeah, his name was Rick."
Shivers of frustration and anger played havoc with Ginny's insides as Rick, or Duke, or whatever he called himself these days, darted a glance at Uncle Emile. This project was too important to her to put at risk. Why should she care if Rick got into trouble?
She should've blurted the truth about his alias on the spot, not let his pleading eyes win her sympathy. How dare he put her in this position? It was Uncle Emile—deceived by Rick's lies— that she should be worried for. When she dropped Duke's real name, her uncle had been too distracted by the sudden arrival of his secretary to hear. But the beads of moisture on Rick's forehead didn't look like raindrops.
Good. Maybe he'd do the smart thing and quit before she really blew the whistle on him.
Uncle Emile's secretary handed him a file folder through her car window, said a few words and then drove off.
Tucking the folder under his arm, Uncle Emile returned to Ginny's side. "I have to go. Duke, I'll leave you to discuss that other matter with my niece."
A light that said "with pleasure" glimmered in Rick's eyes.
Ginny grabbed her uncle's arm. "There is no way I'm working with him."
Her uncle gave Rick-slash-Duke a once-over, while Rick had the gall to just stand there—the picture of innocence. "He looks a little rough, but you'll like him once you get to know him."
Rough? Her uncle should've seen Rick with his head shaved. This new soldierlike buzz cut made him look almost decent.
But she knew better than to trust appearances. She'd give him one more chance to bow out, and if he was too cocky to take it, he'd be sorry.
Uncle Emile paused at the door of his BMW. "It's not as if the two of you will work together that closely. But for today, Duke's your man. He'll answer all your questions."
Oh, she doubted that.
As soon as Uncle Emile drove away, she turned on Rick. "What are you doing here?"
His steel-blue eyes searched hers, slowly, thoroughly. "It's good to see you again, Ginny."
Her name toppled from his lips with a huskiness that made her skin tingle. Long-buried feelings resurfaced, more fervent than ever. She dug her fingernails into her palms and fought to escape the emotional ambush.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, low and ominous.
"Do you seriously think I'll fall for your smooth talk a second time?" Her mind reeled back to the day they'd met. From the moment she'd seen him across the gym, those magnetic eyes had compelled her to look past the intimidating bald-guy appearance to the man inside. And his patient coaching of the special-needs kids had won her heart.
His gaze dropped to the ground. "I never meant to hurt you."
Right. Like after dating for two months, his easy camaraderie with the leering gang member who'd spotted them outside a restaurant in Hamilton shouldn't have upset her. She could still remember how the creep's tongue made a slow circuit around his lips and then flicked out of his mouth like the tongue of the snake tattooed on his arm. And Rick's "Hey, bro!" followed by his nervous glance at her. And the near-total transformation from the security guard he'd claimed to be into the gang member he clearly was.
Oh yeah, he'd been into security all right—how to bypass it. She hadn't needed to hang around and listen to the rest of Snake Man's loosely veiled robbery scheme to figure that out. Or to figure out that Rick wasn't the God-fearing man he'd let her believe.
She'd ended the relationship on the spot. Almost changed her phone number, even contemplated moving, but she hadn't needed to bother. He didn't attempt to defend himself, let alone try to see her again.
"How's Lori doing? Still playing basketball?" he asked now, and the warmth in his tone stole Ginny's thunder.
He'd always been kind to her mentally challenged sister. Part of her longed to know that Rick again. But she'd never really known him, had she?
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September 14, 2011
Street Team Book list excerpt - The Doctor's Lady by Jody Hedlund
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 Doctor's Lady
by
Jody Hedlund
Lauren Holloway's ex-fiance, Tucker Kane, is without an alibi when his ex-wife is murdered. Tucker claims to have been alone at a job site at the time, but he needs Lauren to lie for him so that he won't become a suspect in the murder. She refuses; now as a prime suspect, Tucker disappears without a trace. Years later, she sees him at an antique fair, and worried that Lauren will reveal his carefully constructed life, he forces his into her hotel room and tells her that he's trying to find evidence to clear his name. As Lauren tries to help Tucker, she questions her ability to judge character as she uncovers a labyrinth of deceit, putting her very life in danger.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The Doctor's Lady
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The Doctor's Lady by
Jody Hedlund
Lauren Holloway's ex-fiance, Tucker Kane, is without an alibi when his ex-wife is murdered. Tucker claims to have been alone at a job site at the time, but he needs Lauren to lie for him so that he won't become a suspect in the murder. She refuses; now as a prime suspect, Tucker disappears without a trace. Years later, she sees him at an antique fair, and worried that Lauren will reveal his carefully constructed life, he forces his into her hotel room and tells her that he's trying to find evidence to clear his name. As Lauren tries to help Tucker, she questions her ability to judge character as she uncovers a labyrinth of deceit, putting her very life in danger.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The Doctor's Lady
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