Camy Tang's Blog, page 147
August 19, 2011
Excerpt - The Baby's Bodyguard by Stephanie Newton
The Baby's Bodyguardby
Stephanie Newton
A shocking discovery
When an anonymous text message arrives with photos of tiny hands and feet—and GPS coordinates—Florida cop Ethan Clark believes it's a prank. Then he follows the coordinates to an abandoned toddler. Handing Janie Doe over to caring child services worker Kelsey Rogers, Ethan thinks his job is done…until the little girl turns out to be a kidnap victim. To protect the child, Ethan and Kelsey stumble into an investigation that digs up a tragedy from Ethan's past. Will they uncover the truth before the kidnappers bury the trail forever?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Ethan Clark had always preferred the gentle slap of water on a fishing boat to the raucous houseful of boys that he'd grown up in. He still had that old wooden fishing boat he'd inherited from his grandpa, but these days his ride was a dual-outboard powerboat fitted with blue lights.
Policing Florida's waterways kept Ethan Clark out of his house. Away from the memories. Away from concerned friends and relatives, from walls painted with cars and trucks—a room his little boy would never again sleep in.
His cell phone buzzed in his uniform pocket. He started to reach for it, but hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist. He'd been getting text messages for the last two weeks. Close-ups of a baby—a tiny foot, the curve of a cheek, a little hand, chubby and creased.
He had a trace put on the number, but it was untraceable—a throwaway cell phone. He slowed the boat to a troll, barely making waves, and opened his phone.
This time it wasn't a photo. It was geographical coordinates.
Ethan keyed the numbers into his onboard navigating system. It was his job to know the ocean well—and as the map popped up, he recognized this spot. Shallows about four miles out, half an hour from his location.
If the FWC—Florida's Fish and Wildlife service— had a plane in the area, they could scope it out from the air. He called in the coordinates and asked for aerial backup, really the only kind available on short notice out here.
He gunned the big engines on his boat, sending it plowing through the waves. Every stop, even the routine ones, had the potential for danger. A situation like this had all the earmarks of an ambush.
The radio squawked. "Marine Four, this is Eagle Two-ten. We've got eyes on that location. Looks like an abandoned boat. Over."
"Copy that, Eagle Two-ten. Thanks for the look-see. Over." Abandoned could mean a lot of things. Engine problems. Drugs. Crime scene.
Considering the text message directly to him, it definitely could mean the boat was set as some kind of trap. He had a lot of enemies from his time spent in the FBI. The fact that he'd laid low in the years since didn't mean squat. Some of those guys had extremely long memories.
"We'll circle until you're clear, Marine Four. Over."
"Roger. Marine Four out."
The boat in sight now, Ethan slowed his launch to a crawl. Waves slapped against the bow, spraying arcs of salt water into the air. He trolled closer. Even through binoculars, he could see no movement on the anchored craft.
Flipping his speaker on, he announced his presence as law enforcement and his intention to board the craft.
Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement. The large pleasure cruiser rocked on its anchor with the motion of the waves.
Ethan cut his motor.
He dropped and set anchor in fast, efficient movements, prepping to board the other boat. Despite everything, he didn't have a death wish. Pulse thudding in his veins, he checked his sidearm, took a deep breath… and leaped.
The other boat rocked as he landed on the foredeck and braced his feet. He pulled his weapon and swung around toward the driver's position. Nothing. He blew out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Used to the roll and pitch of the ocean, he moved easily toward the stern, checking for signs of what might've happened here. There was no sign of struggle. Every cushion was in place. No scratches or scrapes marred the fiberglass surface of the deck.
Ethan heard a sound and whipped around. A little kid's sippy cup rolled in one corner of the otherwise completely empty boat.
A blue waterproof tarp covered one section of seats and the space underneath. Only one thing to do.
He jerked the tarp off.
Blue eyes blinked in the bright April sunlight. A tiny rosebud mouth opened wide to scream.
Ethan took a step back. He couldn't have been more flummoxed if he'd found a bomb under the tarp.
Instead he'd found a toddler.
Social worker Kelsey Rogers stood on the pier at the marina, her hair whipping in the early fall breeze. Her peasant blouse and capris were optimistic. She should've worn a coat, but like most everyone else in Florida, she preferred to pretend that the Sunshine State was always sunny and warm.
She dug in the pocket of her pants and pulled out her cherry ChapStick. Uncapping it, she slicked it on and shoved it back in her pocket. She'd gotten the emergency call an hour ago from the FWC. One of their law enforcement officers had found a baby abandoned at sea. Personally, she couldn't imagine it, but since she'd gone to work for the Department of Children and Families she'd seen a lot of things that she couldn't imagine parents ever doing to a child, so she tried not to have preconceived expectations.
She could see the flashing blue lights of the cop's boat long before she could actually see the occupants of the boat, but when he made the turn around the no-wake buoy into the marina, she caught her breath. Ethan Clark stood with his feet braced, one hand on the wheel, the other muscular arm around a curly-headed munchkin.
She'd met him once before on a search-and-rescue mission in a nearby state park. From what she'd seen, he was the strong, silent type. He commanded respect without saying a word.
Ethan cut the engine and glided in to bump gently against the posts of the pier. Even with the toddler firmly gripped in one arm, he still managed to toss Kelsey a line.
A worker from the marina, a young man around eighteen, came jogging down the dock. "Looks like you could use a hand."
Ethan tossed the teenager another line and within minutes had the big boat securely tied off to cleats on the pier.
He pulled aviator glasses off and tossed them onto the console in the middle of the boat. "Kelsey, thanks for coming down here."
"Wouldn't miss it. Hi, pumpkin. Wanna come to me?" She held her hands out for the baby as Ethan tried to disengage himself from the little arms. The child screeched and wrapped its arms tighter around Ethan's neck.
He shot her a what-now look.
"Maybe you should get out first—give the baby a chance to become familiar with me." She studied the tot in his arms. "A little girl?"
His blank look told her the answer to her question before he could. She grinned. "Well, she's wearing pink overalls, so I think it's a good guess."
"All I could really think about was getting uh, her, back to shore. It never crossed my mind to try to figure out a name or anything." Ethan stepped easily across the space between the boat and the pier, balancing not only his weight but the toddler's as well.
"Has she had anything to drink?" Kelsey dropped into step beside Ethan as he walked up the pier toward the marina sandwich shop.
"Yes, I carry water on board. I also gave her a few crackers." He shrugged. "I don't have much experience with kids."
The wind caught a piece of Kelsey's hair and tangled it around Ethan's arm. She laughed and stopped him with a hand on his arm.
He didn't move as she unwound the strand, his blue-gray eyes never leaving her face. The baby watched her, too, her little hands fisted in Ethan's uniform shirt.
She laughed again. "There. No harm done. I keep meaning to get it cut, but never have time."
Ethan took the few remaining steps to the sandwich shop and ducked inside. He dropped into a chair and rearranged the little girl so she was sitting on his knee.
Kelsey pulled a chair out beside the two of them and dug around in her tapestry bag. A toy cell phone might break the ice. She pulled it out and punched a button, pretending to talk. "Hello? Oh, yes, you want to speak to Ethan. He's right here. Hold on a second."
She held the toy phone out to Ethan, who gave it the same look he might give a live grenade. She wiggled it at him. "Ethan? It's for you."
He took it from her hand and held it to his ear. "Uh-huh. Yeah, thanks. Okay, bye." He punched the red heart-shaped button and the phone played a silly song.
The baby loosened her grip on her shirt and lunged for the toy.
"She's small, but still—she looks seventeen or eighteen months old to me. Did you try talking to her? " Kelsey studied the little girl. Tangled blond curls bounced around the baby's cheeks.
"Just the basics. Name, rank, serial number."
Kelsey smiled. So there was a sense of humor in there. Somewhere.
"In fact, she looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language." He jiggled his knee like a pro.
"Hmm. Maybe you were. We've seen a lot of orphans from Eastern Europe in the last few years." She tapped the table to get the little girl's attention and said in Russian, "Hello, baby. Where's your mommy?"
No response. No reaction at all, in fact, from the baby.
Ethan was staring at her again, like she'd grown a second head. "Was that Russian?"
"Yeah, but she doesn't recognize it. It doesn't mean much, though. There are so many countries, and each one's language is just a little different."
"Where'd you learn Russian?" The toddler dropped the phone to the floor. Ethan picked it up, rubbed it on his pant leg, and handed it back to her.
"Russia." Pulling another toy out of her purse, a play remote control that made noise, she pushed the bright blue button. She reached her arms out to the baby, the toy in one hand. Without a second thought, the toddler threw herself into Kelsey's arms.
"Ha, success." She looked up to meet Ethan's steady blue eyes. "I learned the language when I lived in Russia. My parents were missionaries. I've lived a lot of places."
She looked down at the baby and made a silly face.
Ethan smiled, but not a real smile, just a tilt of one corner of his mouth. It was a start, though. And without the baby holding on to him, she noticed something else. "What's that over your shoulder?"
He looked. "Forgot I picked it up. I guess it's a diaper bag."
"Do we need to wait for someone to look at it?" The toddler primped her mouth like she might cry, so Kelsey reached into the never-ending purse again and pulled out a bag of Goldfish crackers.
"Executive decision." Ethan unzipped the bag, his hands never faltering. He was so serious. So different from her. She bet he never wore flip-flops in the offseason.
He tilted up the side. "It has 'Jane' written in marker in the side of the bag. No birth date. Do you think that's her name?"
"We have to call you something, don't we, pumpkin?" Kelsey ruffled the little girl's curls. "Is your name Jane?"
The toddler grinned at her with a row of pearly baby teeth.
"Okay, then. We'll go with Janie." Kelsey handed her a cracker and popped one in her own mouth. "Did you just see an empty boat floating in the middle of the ocean with her in it?"
Ethan pulled out diapers and an extra outfit, very well-worn. Then he pulled out a card with a small handprint on it. He laid it on the table and stared at it.
"Ethan?"
"Ah…no. I didn't just find her. Someone sent me to the boat."
His hands shook now as he turned over the photograph—a picture of an infant around six months old. It wasn't the one Kelsey held in her lap.
"Ethan, who is that?" Her voice grew gentler. It was obvious the picture meant something to him.
He shook his head, his eyes on the photo.
Kelsey put her free hand over his, blocking his view. "Ethan, look at me. Who is the baby in the picture?"
He swallowed hard, his eyes dark with pain. "That baby is my son, Charlie. It was taken right before he died."
Ethan shot to his feet. He couldn't figure out how this tiny blonde toddler figured into what happened to Charlie. What was going on? Why would someone use her to get to him? Why would they have him find her?
None of it made a bit of sense.
Kelsey pressed a drink into his hand. "Drink this. You need some sugar."
He looked down at her. "I'm fine. Just trying to figure out if I've missed something."
Print book:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BooksaMillion
Ebook:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle
BooksaMillion
August 18, 2011
Galleys - and not the cooking kind
I'm over at Seekerville today talking about galley proofs!
Click here to read the rest of the post and join the conversation!
Camy here! As I write this, I have just finished going through the galley proofs for my November humorous romantic suspense novel, Protection for Hire. But as soon as I finished it, I started on my galley proofs for my January 2012 Love Inspired Suspense novel, Stalker in the Shadows, which are due in less than a week.
So what are galley proofs?
Click here to read the rest of the post and join the conversation!
Excerpt - Agent Undercover by Lynette Eason
Agent Undercoverby
Lynette Eason
What does little Alex know?
The traumatized six-year-old boy hasn't said one word since the unsolved murder of his single mother. And now, the killer is after the child—and the devoted uncle raising him, Dr. Dylan Seabrook. Working undercover in the boy's school, DEA agent Paige Ashworth is determined to find the murderer. But she can't tell Dylan her real identity, what she knows—or just how close to the case she really is. Dylan's strength and fierce love for his nephew soon have Paige longing to join their family. First, though, they must catch a killer who never wants little Alex to speak again.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Undercover Drug Enforcement Agent Paige Ashworth, known as Paige Worth in the little town of Rose Mountain, North Carolina, realized she had only seconds to act or the child would be dead. Shoving her right foot down on the bicycle pedal, she ignored her pounding heart and the desperate fear that said she didn't have enough time.
The little boy stood frozen in the middle of the school's crosswalk, eyes locked on the approaching vehicle. Time slowed until everything blurred except the child.
The crossing guard yelled something and, from the corner of her eye, Paige saw the man to her left bolt toward the terrified boy. The agonized expression on his face revealed that he knew he wouldn't make it in time.
"Will!" The hoarse scream tore from his throat, echoing in the air.
Doing her best not to think about the danger, she pedaled furiously, weaving in and out of the few stragglers still on the sidewalk, and swept into the crosswalk. The sun beat down in her eyes as the car's engine screamed in her ears, warning her she would lose this game of chicken.
But she had to try.
Paige could feel the heat radiating from the vehicle as she reached out to snag the boy around his waist. She knew she would be off balance and would probably hit the ground. Her only thought was to get clear of the car.
In spite of the muscles screaming in her right arm with the weight of the boy, she felt elation sweep through her.
She'd made it. Then something clipped her back wheel.
The bicycle handlebar lurched from her one-handed grasp and she lost control.
Felt herself going down.
Saw the ground coming up.
And twisted at the last minute so she was the one who crashed first, the child's body slamming onto her.
A sharp pain lanced the back of her head and then blackness descended.
Doctor Dylan Seabrook shook with fear and adrenaline. "Will!"
He raced to his nephew and grabbed him from his prone position on top of the woman who'd just saved Will's life. Dropping to his knees beside her, he did his best to assess the damage as quickly as possible.
She wasn't moving, her face white like death, blond hair splayed on the ground. But he could see her breathing. With one hand, he felt for a pulse under her chin, even as his other ran over Will's small frame checking for injuries.
He looked up at the nearest person. "Has someone called 911?"
"I did," a voice said to his left.
One person at a time, Dylan told himself. He gave Will a more thorough check and breathed a grateful sigh that he appeared physically unhurt, but the blank stare sent fear racing through Dylan. Will hadn't spoken in over eight weeks. Ever since his mother had died in a house fire. What would this do to him?
But he couldn't think about that now. The woman was hurt. Again, he glanced at Will. The boy just watched him with no expression on his face. Dylan grabbed his hand and pulled him down next to him. "Sit here, buddy, all right?"
Obedience, but no other response.
Switching to doctor mode, he glanced at the second hand on his watch while he took the woman's pulse. Steady and strong. Relief hit him.
As did the fact that she was undeniably beautiful. Beautiful and hurt.
He'd not only seen her head crack against the asphalt, he'd heard it. Just the memory of it made him sick. Why hadn't she been wearing a helmet? With one hand, he lifted each lid, noting the startling blue of her eyes even as he professionally assessed her pupils. One big, one small. A concussion.
A siren screamed in the distance. He placed a hand under her head to feel for a bump—and felt a warm wetness.
Pulling his hand away, he wiped the blood on his jeans. A brief thought that he should have waited until he had gloves flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. The woman had saved Will's life. He would do whatever he had to do to save hers.
Sounds rushed at him, and he realized people were gathering around them in a crush. "Hey, move back and let her breathe, will you? "
Several people complied. But the concerned conversations buzzed around him like a swarm of bees.
Startled, he watched his nephew reach out and touch the woman's hand then slip his small fingers into her palm.
Emotion gripped Dylan's throat and wonder exploded through him. But he didn't have to time to think about what Will's reaching out to her meant.
Dylan wanted to examine the wound on the back of her head, but didn't want to turn her neck. He ran his hands down her arms, his gaze once again drawn to Will's small hand in hers. Then back to business. Scrapes, bruises, a couple of gashes but nothing broken. He repeated his inspection on her legs. Same story.
His heart started to slow. No broken bones.
He glanced at her white face. No doubt along with the bad concussion, she'd have an even worse headache. Hopefully, that would be the extent of her injuries except for a few bumps and bruises.
The sirens continued to grow closer until the ambulance came into view.
A man stood in the street directing traffic. Two police cars pulled up and one of the officers took over. The other approached, a frown on his face. Spying Dylan, recognition dawned. "What happened, Doc?"
"Hey, Franco. She saved Will's life and got hit by a car for her trouble. The car kept going. Never put on the brakes, I don't think."
"Anybody get a plate? "
"I don't know. I know I didn't."
"I'm going to start taking statements."
Dylan acknowledged him with a nod and felt for her pulse one more time.
The paramedics pushed their way through the crowd, and Dylan recognized Lisa Bell and her partner, Sam Clark. Dylan told them, "We need a neck collar. She wasn't wearing a helmet and she took a hard hit to the head. Her pulse is steady, and there are no broken bones that I could feel."
The paramedics got to work on her. Soon she was ready for transport, and Dylan watched them load her up to be transported to the hospital about thirty minutes away in Bryson City.
Turning, he asked, "Who is she? Does anyone know?"
"Her name's Paige Worth."
Dylan eyed the man who'd spoken. Principal Tom Bridges. "Does she have any family that we can contact?"
Tom frowned and gave a shrug. "I don't know. I'll see who she listed on her application as an emergency contact. Today was supposed to be her first day on the job. She's my new guidance counselor."
The ambulance screamed off, and Dylan picked Will up to hold him and hopefully offer the child some comfort. "Okay." He studied his nephew. "I think Will is okay, but I'm going to take him to the hospital just to make sure, maybe have a couple of X-rays. I'll check on Ms. Worth while I'm there." He pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to the man. "I know you can get my number from Will's file, but this will be easier. Please call and let me know who her contact person is." Dylan swallowed. "I want to talk to him or her."
Compassion lit the man's eyes. "Sure."
Dylan headed back to his house for his car, feeling Will's slight weight in his arms. Giving thanks for the life he held, a life that was almost cut short, he settled Will in his booster seat and wondered how he'd ever be able to pay Ms. Worth back for her selfless deed. He decided he'd pick up her totaled bike and keep it for her in case she wanted to salvage it for parts. He made a quick call to Principal Bridges, who assured Dylan that he'd hold the bike for him.
He started the car and pulled into the street. "Hey, Will, you all right, bud? "
Will simply met his eyes in the rearview mirror. Dylan sighed, wondering when the child would decide to speak. But even Will's counselor couldn't offer him a time frame. She just said they had to give him his space and time to heal.
Dylan noticed the car on his rear bumper. A car that looked suspiciously like the one that had almost hit Will. Dylan pressed the brake and slowed, giving the car the opportunity to go around him.
Instead, the vehicle slowed to keep the same amount of distance between them.
His pulse sped up and he swallowed hard.
Was he being followed?
Dylan put on his blinker and moved into the right-hand lane.
The car behind him did the same. Sweat pooled on his forehead as Dylan considered his options. He took a right at the next block. So did his tail.
The dark tint to the windshield prevented him from getting a good look at the driver, but it was definitely a male. He glanced at Will. The boy was oblivious to the possible danger, simply gazing out his window, trusting his uncle knew what he was doing.
Dylan flexed his fingers on the wheel and made the next turn that would take him to the police station two blocks away.
And the car behind him sped away.
There was no way to get a license number. He pulled into the police station parking lot and turned the car off.
Pulling a napkin from the glove compartment, Dylan wiped the sweat off his face and gathered his thoughts.
Should he go in and report the incident?
What incident? he mocked himself. Someone followed you a little too close, then turned off.
But the car resembled the one from this morning. "It was white."
Will looked at him with a frown, and Dylan realized he'd spoken the words aloud. With a sigh and a prayer, Dylan turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. His eyes swept the surrounding area and didn't notice the white car waiting on him.
The tension in his shoulders released its grip and he relaxed a bit. "Sorry for the winding route, Will. I just had to check something out."
The little boy didn't respond other than to rub his eyes as though tired.
Dylan may have decided not to report the incident, but knew he wouldn't forget it.
Pain. That was her first thought. Her first feeling. Her first moment of awareness.
It felt like shards of glass biting into her skull with relentless determination. Her eyelids fluttered, and she thought she saw someone seated on the chair next to her.
Why was she in bed?
Memories flitted back. Bits and pieces. A little boy. A school. A crosswalk. A speeding car.
And she'd pedaled like a madwoman to dart in front of the car to rescue the child.
A gasp escaped her and she woke a little more. The pain faded to a dull throb. Where was the little boy? Was he all right?
Cool wetness touched her lips, and she jolted to realize how thirsty she was. Greedily, she gulped at the water. Awareness struggled into full consciousness, and she
opened her eyes. Light filtered in around the closed curtains, and she squinted, her head sending warning signals.
Instead of listening, Paige pried her eyes fully open to stare into one of the most beautiful faces she'd ever seen. Aquamarine eyes crinkled at the corners, and full lips curved into a smile. She wanted to respond but was scared the movement would bring back the pounding pain. The lips spoke. "Hello. Welcome back." Another sweet face pushed its way into her line of sight. A little boy about six years old. Solemn blue eyes stared at her. His lips didn't smile, but a lone wrinkle on his forehead alerted her that he was worried about her.
With an effort, Paige forced her lips to curve upward. "Hi," she whispered.
The wrinkle smoothed, and she thought she saw the beginnings of a smile before it disappeared.
The hand over hers squeezed. "You saved Will's life, you know."
She had? Will. The little boy had a name. "Oh. Good." Her smiled slipped into a frown. "I was afraid I couldn't do it. That car…" She licked her lips, and the man reached over Will's head to pick up the cup. He held the straw to her lips, and she took a long swallow. "Thanks."
He set the cup back down. "I'm Dylan Seabrook. This is my nephew, Will Price."
The name jolted her. Doing her best to keep her expression neutral, she simply smiled at him. She wanted to nod but didn't dare. "Hello, Dylan, Will." She focused on the boy. "I'm so glad you're all right."
"And he is, thanks to you. I tried…" He swallowed hard. "There's no way I would have been able to reach him in time. The crossing guard gave the all clear. Every day, I stand on the sidewalk and watch him cross to the waiting teacher who leads that group into the school." His voice had a raspy sound to it, and she realized he was doing his best to keep his emotions from overflowing.
Closing her eyes, Paige could see the racing car coming closer, hear the roar of the engine…
She flicked her eyelids up. "Did they catch him? Whoever was in the car?"
Dylan shook his head. "No. He—or she—never stopped. And we were all so focused on getting you help that no one even got the license number."
She sighed. "Well, I'm glad Will is okay. That's all that really matters."
"Why didn't you have a helmet on?"
Paige couldn't stop the flush that crept up her neck. Quite sure her cheeks were a rosy red, she said, "Because I—" She cut her eyes to the child who watched her with such a solemn expression. "I should have. It was very irresponsible of me not to have the helmet on. I got in a hurry and didn't grab it and then didn't want to go back and get it." She grimaced. "I won't make that mistake again. So—" she fingered the IV in her left arm "—when do I get to get out of here? "
"We'll go tell the doctor you're awake." He took the boy's hand. "Come on, buddy."
But Will pulled his hand from his uncle's and slid it into Paige's. Shock darkened Dylan's eyes, then they brightened and she thought she saw a flash of.hope?
"Will?"
But Will didn't budge. Paige smiled around the sharp throb of the headache that had started to put in an appearance. "He's fine. He can stay with me if he wants to."
Uncertainty flickered on his face, then he shrugged. "I'll only be a minute."
Print book:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BooksaMillion
Ebook:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle
BooksaMillion
August 17, 2011
Need title ideas!
Captain's Log, Stardate 08.17.2011
My editor has asked for title ideas for the second book in my Protection for Hire series, so I'm polling you guys for ideas!
Here's the short blurb:
A Christian ex-yakuza bodyguard must work with the Louisiana lawyer who helped sentence her to jail to protect a contestant from a nationally televised singing competition who has information that the show is rigged.
Here's a longer blurb:
Tessa Lancaster, niece of the San Francisco yakuza boss, became a born-again Christian while in prison for a murder she didn't commit, and now that she's released, she wants to use her unique skills to help people as a bodyguard while keeping her distance from her yakuza connections. So far, she has refused help from her yakuza boss uncle because she wants to be legit.
She takes a job as bodyguard to a contestant on an American Idol-like singing competition and his thirteen year old daughter, who has discovered evidence that one of the producers is involved in gambling and possibly rigging the show.
Tessa reluctantly asks for help from Charles Britton, a lawyer who, unknown to Tessa, is being paid by her yakuza boss uncle on her behalf. Tessa also has the feeling she's being watched and she receives an email supposedly from her father, who had mysteriously abandoned her family when she was ten.
Family mayhem and dark secrets will come out as Tessa learns about the power of prayer in her new life in Christ.
Camy here: Ideally, I'd like the new title to have the same "X for Y" pattern as Protection for Hire.
Any ideas?
My editor has asked for title ideas for the second book in my Protection for Hire series, so I'm polling you guys for ideas!
Here's the short blurb:
A Christian ex-yakuza bodyguard must work with the Louisiana lawyer who helped sentence her to jail to protect a contestant from a nationally televised singing competition who has information that the show is rigged.
Here's a longer blurb:
Tessa Lancaster, niece of the San Francisco yakuza boss, became a born-again Christian while in prison for a murder she didn't commit, and now that she's released, she wants to use her unique skills to help people as a bodyguard while keeping her distance from her yakuza connections. So far, she has refused help from her yakuza boss uncle because she wants to be legit.
She takes a job as bodyguard to a contestant on an American Idol-like singing competition and his thirteen year old daughter, who has discovered evidence that one of the producers is involved in gambling and possibly rigging the show.
Tessa reluctantly asks for help from Charles Britton, a lawyer who, unknown to Tessa, is being paid by her yakuza boss uncle on her behalf. Tessa also has the feeling she's being watched and she receives an email supposedly from her father, who had mysteriously abandoned her family when she was ten.
Family mayhem and dark secrets will come out as Tessa learns about the power of prayer in her new life in Christ.
Camy here: Ideally, I'd like the new title to have the same "X for Y" pattern as Protection for Hire.
Any ideas?
August 16, 2011
Cataloguing my books!
I am over at the Love Inspired Authors blog today with something I'm a bit passionate about--cataloguing my books!
Click here to read the rest of the post and to join the discussion!
Camy here! Thanks to my friend Dream, who's also the eHosty at the Love Inspired forum boards, I found a cataloguing program for all my books. I used to use an Excel file, but I wanted something a bit more robust which would also have a matching iPhone app so I can take a copy of my catalog with me on my phone, and that way if I'm at a store and I don't know if I already have a particular title, I can look it up really quick.
Click here to read the rest of the post and to join the discussion!
August 15, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Surrender the Dawn by MaryLu Tyndall
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!
Surrender the Dawn by MaryLu Tyndall
When the war of 1812 robs Cassandra Channing of her father and brothers, she must find a way to support her mother and younger siblings without being forced to marry a man she does not love. Determined to remain independent, she hires a privateer, captained by the town rogue.
Tortured by guilt for his parents' death, Luke Heaton spends his time drinking and gambling. When Cassandra offers him enough money to fix up his ship, he sees an opportunity to redeem his reputation and help the lady he has loved from afar. Things go well until the British blackmail him into selling supplies to their ships. Still Luke cannot allow Cassandra's family to be tossed on the streets.
Cassandra has fallen in love with Luke. When she begins to suspect his nefarious activities, she is heartbroken. Hoping to prove her suspicions wrong, she sets out to catch him in the act. But what she doesn't expect is to get caught up in a massive British invasion.
When the entire British fleet heads toward Baltimore and begins to bombard Fort McHenry, lives, liberty, and the future of a nation are at stake. What destiny awaits the couple in one of the most decisive battles of the war?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
March 26, 1814 Merchants Coffee House, Baltimore, Maryland
"Miss Channing, no privateer in his right mind would consider a woman investor. It is simply bad luck."
Raucous laughter—all male—shot through the tiny coffee shop that smelled more like ale and sweat than coffee.
Wrinkling her nose beneath the odor and bracing her heart against the mounting impediment to her well-laid plans, Cassandra rose from her seat, avoiding the cynical gazes fastened upon her. "That is merely a foolish superstition, Mr. McCulloch. I assure you, my money is as good as any man's."
Snickers and grins interspersed with the occasional salacious glance continued to fire her way. But Cassandra brushed them off as naught but excess chaff. After an hour of sitting in the muggy, male-dominated room, listening to various merchants selling shares for the equipping of their vessels into privateers, she had grown numb to the attention.
When the customs agent had finally announced eight shares offered at two-hundred dollars each for the equipping of a Letter of Marque, the Contradiction—a one-hundred-and-three ton schooner out of Dorchester, housing one long nine, ten men, and captained by Peter Pascal—Cassandra had raised her hand. With her one thousand dollars, she could purchase over half the shares rather than be one of many investors in a larger, better equipped ship. Owning more of a privateer meant higher returns. And she definitely was in dire need of higher returns.
Mr. McCulloch shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and shot Cassandra the same patronizing look her mother often gave her younger sisters when they failed to comprehend what she was saying. "Aye, your money is good, Miss Channing. It's the mind behind the coin that begs concern."
"How dare you, sir! Why you are no more. . ." Cassandra clutched her reticule close to her chest and shoved back the rest of her angry retort. "My money and my mind are equal to any man's here."
Again laughter pulsated through the room.
"It's the comely exterior of that mind that I'm partial to," one man yelled from the back, introducing yet another chorus of chuckles.
Cassandra narrowed her eyes and scanned the mob. Did these men honestly believe they were amusing? Most of them—with the exception of a few unsavory types loitering around the fringes of the assembly—were hard working merchants, bankers, shop owners, mill workers, and farmers. Men who often tipped their hat at her on the street. Her gaze locked with the wife of the coffee house proprietor, who was scrubbing a counter in the right corner. Sympathy poured from her eyes.
Mr. McCulloch scratched his head and gave a sigh of frustration. "A share in any privateer gives you a voice in its affairs. A business voice, miss. A voice that needs to be schooled in matters of financial investments and risk assessment."
The men nodded and grunted in approval like a band of mindless lackeys.
Cassandra tapped her shoe on the wooden floor, the hollow echo thrumming her disdain through the room. "A mind like Mr. Nash's here, I presume." She gestured toward the gentleman standing to her right. "No offense sir"—she offered him a conciliatory smile—"I'm sure you have acquired a plethora of financial wisdom while shoeing horses all day."
The low rumble of laughter that ensued was quickly squelched by a scowl from Mr. McCulloch.
"And Mr. Ackers." She nodded toward the stout man sitting at the table next to hers. "Surely you have become a master of investment while out tilling your field?"
The proprietor's wife emitted an unladylike chortle that drew all gazes her way. Her face reddening, she disappeared through a side door.
"Besides," Cassandra huffed. "What business decisions need be made for a privateer already armed, captained, and ready to set sail?"
No reply came save the look of complete annoyance shadowing the customs agent's face.
Cassandra pursed her lips. "Let me make this very easy for you, sir. You need investors, I have money to invest." She clutched the silk reticule until her fingers ached. "I am not without good sense, and I assure you I will seek out advice from those more experienced should the need arrive."
"We cannot trust that you will do so."
"That is absurd!"
"Trouble is, miss, there's not a man among us who'd be willing to partner with you."
Nods of affirmation bobbed through a sea of heads.
"Is there no man here brave enough to stand with me?" Cassandra demanded.
The hiss of coals in the fireplace was her only reply.
Mr. McCulloch sifted through the stack of papers before him. "Perhaps we could allow you to invest a much smaller percentage in a privateer if you promise to forsake your voice in any decisions and if the other shareholders would agree to it." He scanned the crowd with his beady eyes, but not a single gentleman spoke up.
Cassandra batted her gloved hand through the air. "I will not accept a smaller percentage, sir."
"Then I fear we are at an impasse." Mr. McCulloch plucked out a pocket watch, flipped it open and stared at it as if it contained the answer to ridding himself of her company. His gaze lifted to hers. "Miss, your father was a good man. I am sorry for your loss. But not even he would risk the bad luck that would surely come from aligning with a woman in any seafaring venture."
Tears burned in Cassandra's eyes, but she shoved them behind a shield of determination.
Mr. Parnell, a local worker at the flour mill, gave her a sympathetic smile.
"Perhaps you should marry, Miss Channing," Mr. Kendrick, the young banker assisting Mr. McCulloch said. "A woman your age should not be unattached." A wave of interested eyes flooded her. "Then with your husband's signature, you may invest in whatever you wish."
Cassandra's blood boiled. She wouldn't tell them that she had no intention of marrying any time soon, and certainly not for the sole purpose of investing in a privateer. "Any man I marry will allow me to do with my money as I see fit, sir."
Again, a quiver of laughter assailed her.
Withdrawing a handkerchief from within his waistcoat, Mr. McCulloch dabbed at the sweat on his bald head. "If you don't mind, Miss Channing, we have serious business to discuss."
An angry flush heated Cassandra's face, her neck, and stormed down her arms as a hundred unladylike retorts flirted with her tongue. Tightening her lips to keep them from escaping, she grabbed her cloak, turned and shoved her way through the crowd as the man began once again taking bids for the Contradiction.
Contradiction, indeed. This whole meeting was a contradiction of good sense.
After turning down more than one gentleman's offer to walk her home, Cassandra stepped from the shop into a gust of chilled March wind that tore her bonnet from her hand and sent it tumbling down South Street. Frozen in place, she stared after it as if all her dreams blew away with it. Perhaps they had. Perhaps her dreams had been overtaken by the nightmare of this past year.
Yes, only a nightmare. And soon she would wake up and be comfortable and carefree as she once had been. And her country would not be at war. And her father would still be with her.
But as she watched the sun drag its last vestiges of light from the brick buildings, elm trees and the dirt street, her dreamlike state vanished. It would soon be dark, and she had a mile to traverse to reach her home.
Through a rather unsavory section of town.
Swinging her fur-lined cloak over her shoulders, she shoved her reticule tightly between her arm and body, pressed a wayward curl into her loosely pinned bun, and started down the street, nodding her greeting toward a passing couple, a single gentleman, and a group of militiamen as she went. The snap of reins, clomp of horse hooves, rattle of carriage wheels filled her ears as she wove between passing phaetons and horses. An icy breeze tore at her hair and fluttered the lace of her blue muslin gown. She drew her cloak tighter around her neck. A bell rang in the distance. A baby cried. Sordid chuckles, much like the type she'd just endured in the coffee house, blared from a tavern along Pratt Street. Was the entire town mocking her?
Up ahead, the bare masts of countless ships swayed into the darkening sky like thickets in a winter wind. Most were abandoned merchant ships. Some, however, were privateers, while others were merchantmen that had been issued Letters of Marque to board and confiscate enemy vessels—both forbidden investments to her.
Simply because she was a woman.
The briny scent of fish and salt curled her nose as she turned down Pratt Street. Dark water caressed the hulls of the ships like a lover luring them out to sea. Where they could damage British commerce and put an end to this horrendous war. But the blockade kept many of Baltimore's finest vessels imprisoned in the harbor. Only the fastest privateers could slip past the fortress of British ships capping the mouth of the Chesapeake and only then, during inclement weather. The rest remained at sea, hauling their prizes to ports along the eastern seaboard where they sold them, along with the goods in their holds, for considerable sums of money.
Which was precisely why Cassandra must invest the money left to her by her father and brothers in a privateer. She patted the reticule containing the bank note for a thousand dollars—all the wealth her family had left in the world. Now what was she to do? Cassandra swallowed down a rising fear. Investing in a privateer had been her last hope. How else could a single woman with no skills provide for a family? Cassandra's mother and sisters depended on her, and she had let them down.
Surrender the Dawn by MaryLu TyndallWhen the war of 1812 robs Cassandra Channing of her father and brothers, she must find a way to support her mother and younger siblings without being forced to marry a man she does not love. Determined to remain independent, she hires a privateer, captained by the town rogue.
Tortured by guilt for his parents' death, Luke Heaton spends his time drinking and gambling. When Cassandra offers him enough money to fix up his ship, he sees an opportunity to redeem his reputation and help the lady he has loved from afar. Things go well until the British blackmail him into selling supplies to their ships. Still Luke cannot allow Cassandra's family to be tossed on the streets.
Cassandra has fallen in love with Luke. When she begins to suspect his nefarious activities, she is heartbroken. Hoping to prove her suspicions wrong, she sets out to catch him in the act. But what she doesn't expect is to get caught up in a massive British invasion.
When the entire British fleet heads toward Baltimore and begins to bombard Fort McHenry, lives, liberty, and the future of a nation are at stake. What destiny awaits the couple in one of the most decisive battles of the war?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
March 26, 1814 Merchants Coffee House, Baltimore, Maryland
"Miss Channing, no privateer in his right mind would consider a woman investor. It is simply bad luck."
Raucous laughter—all male—shot through the tiny coffee shop that smelled more like ale and sweat than coffee.
Wrinkling her nose beneath the odor and bracing her heart against the mounting impediment to her well-laid plans, Cassandra rose from her seat, avoiding the cynical gazes fastened upon her. "That is merely a foolish superstition, Mr. McCulloch. I assure you, my money is as good as any man's."
Snickers and grins interspersed with the occasional salacious glance continued to fire her way. But Cassandra brushed them off as naught but excess chaff. After an hour of sitting in the muggy, male-dominated room, listening to various merchants selling shares for the equipping of their vessels into privateers, she had grown numb to the attention.
When the customs agent had finally announced eight shares offered at two-hundred dollars each for the equipping of a Letter of Marque, the Contradiction—a one-hundred-and-three ton schooner out of Dorchester, housing one long nine, ten men, and captained by Peter Pascal—Cassandra had raised her hand. With her one thousand dollars, she could purchase over half the shares rather than be one of many investors in a larger, better equipped ship. Owning more of a privateer meant higher returns. And she definitely was in dire need of higher returns.
Mr. McCulloch shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and shot Cassandra the same patronizing look her mother often gave her younger sisters when they failed to comprehend what she was saying. "Aye, your money is good, Miss Channing. It's the mind behind the coin that begs concern."
"How dare you, sir! Why you are no more. . ." Cassandra clutched her reticule close to her chest and shoved back the rest of her angry retort. "My money and my mind are equal to any man's here."
Again laughter pulsated through the room.
"It's the comely exterior of that mind that I'm partial to," one man yelled from the back, introducing yet another chorus of chuckles.
Cassandra narrowed her eyes and scanned the mob. Did these men honestly believe they were amusing? Most of them—with the exception of a few unsavory types loitering around the fringes of the assembly—were hard working merchants, bankers, shop owners, mill workers, and farmers. Men who often tipped their hat at her on the street. Her gaze locked with the wife of the coffee house proprietor, who was scrubbing a counter in the right corner. Sympathy poured from her eyes.
Mr. McCulloch scratched his head and gave a sigh of frustration. "A share in any privateer gives you a voice in its affairs. A business voice, miss. A voice that needs to be schooled in matters of financial investments and risk assessment."
The men nodded and grunted in approval like a band of mindless lackeys.
Cassandra tapped her shoe on the wooden floor, the hollow echo thrumming her disdain through the room. "A mind like Mr. Nash's here, I presume." She gestured toward the gentleman standing to her right. "No offense sir"—she offered him a conciliatory smile—"I'm sure you have acquired a plethora of financial wisdom while shoeing horses all day."
The low rumble of laughter that ensued was quickly squelched by a scowl from Mr. McCulloch.
"And Mr. Ackers." She nodded toward the stout man sitting at the table next to hers. "Surely you have become a master of investment while out tilling your field?"
The proprietor's wife emitted an unladylike chortle that drew all gazes her way. Her face reddening, she disappeared through a side door.
"Besides," Cassandra huffed. "What business decisions need be made for a privateer already armed, captained, and ready to set sail?"
No reply came save the look of complete annoyance shadowing the customs agent's face.
Cassandra pursed her lips. "Let me make this very easy for you, sir. You need investors, I have money to invest." She clutched the silk reticule until her fingers ached. "I am not without good sense, and I assure you I will seek out advice from those more experienced should the need arrive."
"We cannot trust that you will do so."
"That is absurd!"
"Trouble is, miss, there's not a man among us who'd be willing to partner with you."
Nods of affirmation bobbed through a sea of heads.
"Is there no man here brave enough to stand with me?" Cassandra demanded.
The hiss of coals in the fireplace was her only reply.
Mr. McCulloch sifted through the stack of papers before him. "Perhaps we could allow you to invest a much smaller percentage in a privateer if you promise to forsake your voice in any decisions and if the other shareholders would agree to it." He scanned the crowd with his beady eyes, but not a single gentleman spoke up.
Cassandra batted her gloved hand through the air. "I will not accept a smaller percentage, sir."
"Then I fear we are at an impasse." Mr. McCulloch plucked out a pocket watch, flipped it open and stared at it as if it contained the answer to ridding himself of her company. His gaze lifted to hers. "Miss, your father was a good man. I am sorry for your loss. But not even he would risk the bad luck that would surely come from aligning with a woman in any seafaring venture."
Tears burned in Cassandra's eyes, but she shoved them behind a shield of determination.
Mr. Parnell, a local worker at the flour mill, gave her a sympathetic smile.
"Perhaps you should marry, Miss Channing," Mr. Kendrick, the young banker assisting Mr. McCulloch said. "A woman your age should not be unattached." A wave of interested eyes flooded her. "Then with your husband's signature, you may invest in whatever you wish."
Cassandra's blood boiled. She wouldn't tell them that she had no intention of marrying any time soon, and certainly not for the sole purpose of investing in a privateer. "Any man I marry will allow me to do with my money as I see fit, sir."
Again, a quiver of laughter assailed her.
Withdrawing a handkerchief from within his waistcoat, Mr. McCulloch dabbed at the sweat on his bald head. "If you don't mind, Miss Channing, we have serious business to discuss."
An angry flush heated Cassandra's face, her neck, and stormed down her arms as a hundred unladylike retorts flirted with her tongue. Tightening her lips to keep them from escaping, she grabbed her cloak, turned and shoved her way through the crowd as the man began once again taking bids for the Contradiction.
Contradiction, indeed. This whole meeting was a contradiction of good sense.
After turning down more than one gentleman's offer to walk her home, Cassandra stepped from the shop into a gust of chilled March wind that tore her bonnet from her hand and sent it tumbling down South Street. Frozen in place, she stared after it as if all her dreams blew away with it. Perhaps they had. Perhaps her dreams had been overtaken by the nightmare of this past year.
Yes, only a nightmare. And soon she would wake up and be comfortable and carefree as she once had been. And her country would not be at war. And her father would still be with her.
But as she watched the sun drag its last vestiges of light from the brick buildings, elm trees and the dirt street, her dreamlike state vanished. It would soon be dark, and she had a mile to traverse to reach her home.
Through a rather unsavory section of town.
Swinging her fur-lined cloak over her shoulders, she shoved her reticule tightly between her arm and body, pressed a wayward curl into her loosely pinned bun, and started down the street, nodding her greeting toward a passing couple, a single gentleman, and a group of militiamen as she went. The snap of reins, clomp of horse hooves, rattle of carriage wheels filled her ears as she wove between passing phaetons and horses. An icy breeze tore at her hair and fluttered the lace of her blue muslin gown. She drew her cloak tighter around her neck. A bell rang in the distance. A baby cried. Sordid chuckles, much like the type she'd just endured in the coffee house, blared from a tavern along Pratt Street. Was the entire town mocking her?
Up ahead, the bare masts of countless ships swayed into the darkening sky like thickets in a winter wind. Most were abandoned merchant ships. Some, however, were privateers, while others were merchantmen that had been issued Letters of Marque to board and confiscate enemy vessels—both forbidden investments to her.
Simply because she was a woman.
The briny scent of fish and salt curled her nose as she turned down Pratt Street. Dark water caressed the hulls of the ships like a lover luring them out to sea. Where they could damage British commerce and put an end to this horrendous war. But the blockade kept many of Baltimore's finest vessels imprisoned in the harbor. Only the fastest privateers could slip past the fortress of British ships capping the mouth of the Chesapeake and only then, during inclement weather. The rest remained at sea, hauling their prizes to ports along the eastern seaboard where they sold them, along with the goods in their holds, for considerable sums of money.
Which was precisely why Cassandra must invest the money left to her by her father and brothers in a privateer. She patted the reticule containing the bank note for a thousand dollars—all the wealth her family had left in the world. Now what was she to do? Cassandra swallowed down a rising fear. Investing in a privateer had been her last hope. How else could a single woman with no skills provide for a family? Cassandra's mother and sisters depended on her, and she had let them down.
August 14, 2011
A word for the school year
I'm over at the Girls, God, and the Good Life blog today with "A word for the school year":
Click here to read the rest of my blog post and join the conversation!
Camy here! Most of you are probably getting excited about going back to school, since you'll see all your friends and get back into your sports and clubs.
But as you're preparing to reenter the world of homework, team practices, and club meetings, also consider how God can use you this coming school year.
Click here to read the rest of my blog post and join the conversation!
August 12, 2011
Green smoothie
Captain's Log, Stardate 08.12.2011
So, this requires a little explaining.
On the advice of my friend Tosca Lee, who was Mrs. Nebraska, I read the book Fast Track One-Day Detox Diet by Ann Louise Gittleman.
I did not do the one-day detox, but I was fascinated by her explanation of liver function (yes, my geeky biologist side is coming out) and the foods that help the liver out. Apparently in order to break down toxins, the liver uses a two-step process (which I vaguely remembered from my college biology classes).
The first step sometimes creates a compound even more toxic than the original, but that's so that the liver can then go to the second step and break down the compound entirely into a form that can be eliminated from the body. It's a common thing that I remembered from organic chemistry. Sometimes you need to make a more complex-looking compound in order to use a certain catalyst and break the compound down into what endpoint you want.
Anyway, the body needs certain things for both steps of the process, but if you're lacking in things for the second step, you're stuck with a toxic compound in your body that your liver can't break down. That's why you get headaches and stuff when you're in detox.
For the detox diet, the author recommends eating certain foods the days before the detox so that your liver isn't lacking in anything. Which makes logical sense. I didn't do the detox, but I try to eat the foods that she recommends so that I have a happy liver.
Some things are harder to eat than others. Like beets. There are other things in the list that I can eat besides beets, but since we've been getting lots of beets in our organic co-op basket each week, I figure I should eat them rather than going out to buy some of the other veggies in the same list just so I can avoid eating beets.
But then I was looking at a raw foods website and saw a recipe for a green smoothie that didn't seem too bad. The woman added a lot of fruit to her smoothie as opposed to having it be all green.
And since Captain Caffeine bought his nifty super-duper Blendtec blender, I figured I'd try a green smoothie in order to get my beets and other veggies.
I put in a chopped raw beet, a chopped raw carrot, 6-8 stalks of chopped Swiss Chard with the stems cut off, about 1.5 cups of frozen strawberries, and an overflowing tablespoon of honey. I also added a bit of water.
Can I just say, the Blendtec blender is totally awesome!!!!!! The consistency is very smooth and the blender is incredibly easy to clean, as opposed to my old KitchenAid blender (that thing was at least 15 years old).
And the smoothie tastes okay. There's a slight "green" smell of the raw beets/chard that I'm not nuts about, but the flavor is good, nicely sweetened by the honey and strawberries. I have to admit it looks a bit repulsively mold-green, but it tastes fine as long as I don't stare at it.
Another benefit is that it's a great smoothie for me to drink in the morning when my stomach is usually a bit nauseated. The smoothie is no-fat and easy on my stomach, and it has greens in it, and they say that you should try to eat veggies with breakfast somehow anyway for a well-rounded meal.
We'll see how this goes. Any thoughts?
So, this requires a little explaining.
On the advice of my friend Tosca Lee, who was Mrs. Nebraska, I read the book Fast Track One-Day Detox Diet by Ann Louise Gittleman
.I did not do the one-day detox, but I was fascinated by her explanation of liver function (yes, my geeky biologist side is coming out) and the foods that help the liver out. Apparently in order to break down toxins, the liver uses a two-step process (which I vaguely remembered from my college biology classes).
The first step sometimes creates a compound even more toxic than the original, but that's so that the liver can then go to the second step and break down the compound entirely into a form that can be eliminated from the body. It's a common thing that I remembered from organic chemistry. Sometimes you need to make a more complex-looking compound in order to use a certain catalyst and break the compound down into what endpoint you want.
Anyway, the body needs certain things for both steps of the process, but if you're lacking in things for the second step, you're stuck with a toxic compound in your body that your liver can't break down. That's why you get headaches and stuff when you're in detox.
For the detox diet, the author recommends eating certain foods the days before the detox so that your liver isn't lacking in anything. Which makes logical sense. I didn't do the detox, but I try to eat the foods that she recommends so that I have a happy liver.
Some things are harder to eat than others. Like beets. There are other things in the list that I can eat besides beets, but since we've been getting lots of beets in our organic co-op basket each week, I figure I should eat them rather than going out to buy some of the other veggies in the same list just so I can avoid eating beets.
But then I was looking at a raw foods website and saw a recipe for a green smoothie that didn't seem too bad. The woman added a lot of fruit to her smoothie as opposed to having it be all green.
And since Captain Caffeine bought his nifty super-duper Blendtec blender, I figured I'd try a green smoothie in order to get my beets and other veggies.
I put in a chopped raw beet, a chopped raw carrot, 6-8 stalks of chopped Swiss Chard with the stems cut off, about 1.5 cups of frozen strawberries, and an overflowing tablespoon of honey. I also added a bit of water.Can I just say, the Blendtec blender is totally awesome!!!!!! The consistency is very smooth and the blender is incredibly easy to clean, as opposed to my old KitchenAid blender (that thing was at least 15 years old).
And the smoothie tastes okay. There's a slight "green" smell of the raw beets/chard that I'm not nuts about, but the flavor is good, nicely sweetened by the honey and strawberries. I have to admit it looks a bit repulsively mold-green, but it tastes fine as long as I don't stare at it.
Another benefit is that it's a great smoothie for me to drink in the morning when my stomach is usually a bit nauseated. The smoothie is no-fat and easy on my stomach, and it has greens in it, and they say that you should try to eat veggies with breakfast somehow anyway for a well-rounded meal.
We'll see how this goes. Any thoughts?
Street Team Book List excerpt - The One Who Waits for Me by Lori Copeland
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Lori Copeland
and the book:
The One Who Waits for Me
Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011) ***Special thanks to Karri James, Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lori Copeland is the author of more than 90 titles, both historical and contemporary fiction. With more than 3 million copies of her books in print, she has developed a loyal following among her rapidly growing fans in the inspirational market. She has been honored with the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, The Holt Medallion, and Walden Books' Best Seller award. In 2000, Lori was inducted into the Missouri Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband, Lance, and their three children and five grandchildren.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
This new series from bestselling author Lori Copeland, set in North Carolina three months after the Civil War ends, illuminates the gift of hope even in chaos, as the lives of six engaging characters intersect and unfold with the possibility of faith, love, and God's promise of a future.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736930183
ISBN-13: 978-0736930185
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Joanie?"
Beth's sister stirred, coughing.
Beth gently shook Joanie's shoulder again, and the young woman opened her eyes, confusion shining in their depths.
"Pa?"
"He passed a few minutes ago. Trella will be waiting for us."
Joanie lifted her wrist to her mouth and smothered sudden sobbing. "I'm scared, Beth."
"So am I. Dress quickly."
The young woman slid out of bed, her bare feet touching the dirt-packed floor. Outside, the familiar sound of pond frogs nearly drowned out soft movements, though there was no need to be silent any more. Ma had preceded Pa in death two days ago. Beth and Joanie had been waiting, praying for the hour of Pa's death to come swiftly. Together, they lifted their father's silent form and gently carried him out the front door. He was a slight man, easy to carry. Beth's heart broke as they took him to the shallow grave they had dug the day before. Ma's fever had taken her swiftly. Pa had held on for as long as he could. Beth could still hear his voice in her ear: "Take care of your sister, little Beth." He didn't have to remind her that there was no protection at all now to save either of them from Uncle Walt and his son, Bear. Beth had known all of her life that one day she and Joanie would have to escape this place—a place of misery.
It was her father's stubborn act that started the situation Beth and Joanie were immersed in. Pa had hid the plantation deed from his brother and refused to tell him where it was. Their land had belonged to a Jornigan for two hundred years, but Walt claimed that because he was the older brother and allowed Pa to live on his land the deed belonged to him. Pa was a proud man and had no respect for his brother, though his family depended on Walt for a roof over their heads and food on their table. For meager wages they worked Walt's fields, picked his cotton, and suffered his tyranny along with the other workers. Pa took the location of the hidden deed to his grave—almost. Walt probably figured Beth knew where it was because Pa always favored her. And she did, but she would die before she shared the location with her vile uncle.
By the light of the waning moon the women made short work of placing the corpse in the grave and then filling the hole with dirt. Finished, they stood back and Joanie bowed her head in prayer. "Dear Father, thank You for taking Ma and Pa away from this world. I know they're with You now, and I promise we won't cry." Hot tears streaming down both women's cheeks belied her words.
Returning to the shanty, Joanie removed her nightshirt and put on boy's clothes. Dressed in similar denim trousers and a dark shirt, Beth turned and picked up the oil lamp and poured the liquid carefully around the one-room shanty. Yesterday she had packed Ma's best dishes and quilts and dragged them to the root cellar. It was useless effort. She would never be back here, but she couldn't bear the thought of fire consuming Ma's few pretty things. She glanced over her shoulder when the stench of fuel heightened Joanie's cough. The struggle to breathe had been a constant companion since her younger sister's birth.
Many nights Beth lay tense and fearful, certain that come light Joanie would be gone. Now that Ma and Pa were dead, Joanie was the one thing left on this earth that held meaning for Beth. She put down the lamp on the table. Walking over to Joanie, she buttoned the last button on her sister's shirt and tugged her hat brim lower.
"Do you have everything?"
"Yes."
"Then go outside and wait."
Nodding, Joanie paused briefly beside the bed where Pa's tall frame had been earlier. She hesitantly reached out and touched the empty spot. "May you rest in peace, Pa."
Moonlight shone through the one glass pane facing the south. Beth shook her head. "He was a good man. It's hard to believe Uncle Walt had the same mother and father."
Joanie's breath caught. "Pa was so good and Walt is so…evil."
"If it were up to me, he would be lying in that grave outside the window, not Pa."
Beth tried to recall one single time in her life when Walt Jornigan had ever shown an ounce of mercy to anyone. Certainly not to his wife when she was alive. Certainly not to Beth or Joanie. If Joanie was right and there was a God, what would Walt say when he faced Him? She shook the thought aside. She had no compassion for the man or reverence for the God her sister believed in and worshipped.
"We have to go now, Joanie."
"Yes." She picked up her Bible from the little table beside the rocking chair and then followed Beth outside the shanty, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pausing, Joanie bent and succumbed to a coughing spasm. Beth helplessly waited, hoping her sister could make the anticipated trip through the cotton fields. The women had planned for days now to escape if Ma and Pa both passed.
Beth asked gently, "Can you do this?"
Joanie held up a restraining hand. "Just need…a minute."
Beth wasn't certain that they could wait long; time was short. Dawn would be breaking soon, and then Walt would discover that Pa had died and the sisters were missing. But they had to leave. Joanie's asthma was getting worse. Each gasping breath left her drained and hopeless, and Walt refused to let her see a doctor.
When Joanie had mentioned the notice in a discarded Savannah newspaper advertising a piece of land, Beth knew she had to buy the property and provide a home for Joanie. Pa had allowed her and Joanie to keep the wage Uncle Walt paid monthly. Over the years they had saved enough to survive, and the owner was practically giving the small acreage away. They wouldn't be able to build a permanent structure on their land until she found work, but she and Joanie would own their own place where no one could control them. Beth planned to eventually buy a cow and a few setting hens. At first they could live in a tent—Beth's eyes roamed the small shanty. It would be better than how they lived now.
Joanie's spasm passed and she glanced up. "Okay. You…can do it now."
Beth struck a match.
She glanced at Joanie. The young woman nodded and clutched her Bible to her chest. Beth had found it in one of the cotton picker's beds after he had moved on and given it to Joanie. Her sister had kept the Bible hidden from sight for fear that Walt would spot it on one of his weekly visits. Beth had known, as Joanie had, that if their uncle had found it he'd have had extra reason to hand out his daily lashing. Joanie kept the deed to their new land between its pages.
After pitching the lighted match into the cabin, Beth quickly closed the heavy door. Stepping to the window, she watched the puddles of kerosene ignite one by one. In just minutes flames were licking the walls and gobbling up the dry tinder. A peculiar sense of relief came over her when she saw tendrils of fire racing through the room, latching onto the front curtain and encompassing the bed.
"Don't watch." Joanie slipped her hand into Beth's. "We have to hurry before Uncle Walt spots the flames."
Hand in hand, the sisters stepped off the porch, and Beth turned to the mounds of fresh dirt heaped not far from the shanty. Pausing before the fresh graves, she whispered. "I love you both. Rest in peace."
Joanie had her own goodbyes for their mother. "We don't want to leave you and Pa here alone, but I know you understand—"
As the flames licked higher, Beth said, "We have to go, Joanie. Don't look back."
"I won't." Her small hand quivered inside Beth's. "God has something better for us."
Beth didn't answer. She didn't know whether Ma and Pa were in a good place or not. She didn't know anything about such things. She just knew they had to run.
The two women dressed in men's clothing struck off across the cotton fields carrying everything they owned in a small bag. It wasn't much. A dress for each, clean underclothes, and their nightshirts. Beth had a hairbrush one of the pickers had left behind. She'd kept the treasure well hidden so Walt wouldn't see it. He'd have taken it from her. He didn't hold with primping—said combing tangles from one's hair was a vain act. Finger-picking river-washed hair was all a woman needed.
Fire now raced inside the cabin. By the time Uncle Walt noticed the smoke from the plantation house across the fields, the two sisters would be long gone. No longer would they be under the tyrannical thumb of Walt or Bear Jornigan.
Freedom.
Beth sniffed the night air, thinking she could smell the precious state. Never again would she or Joanie answer to any man. She would run hard and far and find help for Joanie so that she could finally breathe free. In her pocket she fingered the remaining bills she'd taken from the fruit jar in the cabinet. It was all the ready cash Pa and Ma had. They wouldn't be needing money where they were.
Suddenly there was a sound of a large explosion. Heavy black smoke blanketed the night air. Then another blast.
Kerosene! She'd forgotten the small barrel sitting just outside the back porch.
It was the last sound Beth heard.
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Lori Copeland
and the book:
The One Who Waits for Me
Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011) ***Special thanks to Karri James, Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.*** ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lori Copeland is the author of more than 90 titles, both historical and contemporary fiction. With more than 3 million copies of her books in print, she has developed a loyal following among her rapidly growing fans in the inspirational market. She has been honored with the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, The Holt Medallion, and Walden Books' Best Seller award. In 2000, Lori was inducted into the Missouri Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband, Lance, and their three children and five grandchildren. Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
This new series from bestselling author Lori Copeland, set in North Carolina three months after the Civil War ends, illuminates the gift of hope even in chaos, as the lives of six engaging characters intersect and unfold with the possibility of faith, love, and God's promise of a future.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736930183
ISBN-13: 978-0736930185
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Joanie?"
Beth's sister stirred, coughing.
Beth gently shook Joanie's shoulder again, and the young woman opened her eyes, confusion shining in their depths.
"Pa?"
"He passed a few minutes ago. Trella will be waiting for us."
Joanie lifted her wrist to her mouth and smothered sudden sobbing. "I'm scared, Beth."
"So am I. Dress quickly."
The young woman slid out of bed, her bare feet touching the dirt-packed floor. Outside, the familiar sound of pond frogs nearly drowned out soft movements, though there was no need to be silent any more. Ma had preceded Pa in death two days ago. Beth and Joanie had been waiting, praying for the hour of Pa's death to come swiftly. Together, they lifted their father's silent form and gently carried him out the front door. He was a slight man, easy to carry. Beth's heart broke as they took him to the shallow grave they had dug the day before. Ma's fever had taken her swiftly. Pa had held on for as long as he could. Beth could still hear his voice in her ear: "Take care of your sister, little Beth." He didn't have to remind her that there was no protection at all now to save either of them from Uncle Walt and his son, Bear. Beth had known all of her life that one day she and Joanie would have to escape this place—a place of misery.
It was her father's stubborn act that started the situation Beth and Joanie were immersed in. Pa had hid the plantation deed from his brother and refused to tell him where it was. Their land had belonged to a Jornigan for two hundred years, but Walt claimed that because he was the older brother and allowed Pa to live on his land the deed belonged to him. Pa was a proud man and had no respect for his brother, though his family depended on Walt for a roof over their heads and food on their table. For meager wages they worked Walt's fields, picked his cotton, and suffered his tyranny along with the other workers. Pa took the location of the hidden deed to his grave—almost. Walt probably figured Beth knew where it was because Pa always favored her. And she did, but she would die before she shared the location with her vile uncle.
By the light of the waning moon the women made short work of placing the corpse in the grave and then filling the hole with dirt. Finished, they stood back and Joanie bowed her head in prayer. "Dear Father, thank You for taking Ma and Pa away from this world. I know they're with You now, and I promise we won't cry." Hot tears streaming down both women's cheeks belied her words.
Returning to the shanty, Joanie removed her nightshirt and put on boy's clothes. Dressed in similar denim trousers and a dark shirt, Beth turned and picked up the oil lamp and poured the liquid carefully around the one-room shanty. Yesterday she had packed Ma's best dishes and quilts and dragged them to the root cellar. It was useless effort. She would never be back here, but she couldn't bear the thought of fire consuming Ma's few pretty things. She glanced over her shoulder when the stench of fuel heightened Joanie's cough. The struggle to breathe had been a constant companion since her younger sister's birth.
Many nights Beth lay tense and fearful, certain that come light Joanie would be gone. Now that Ma and Pa were dead, Joanie was the one thing left on this earth that held meaning for Beth. She put down the lamp on the table. Walking over to Joanie, she buttoned the last button on her sister's shirt and tugged her hat brim lower.
"Do you have everything?"
"Yes."
"Then go outside and wait."
Nodding, Joanie paused briefly beside the bed where Pa's tall frame had been earlier. She hesitantly reached out and touched the empty spot. "May you rest in peace, Pa."
Moonlight shone through the one glass pane facing the south. Beth shook her head. "He was a good man. It's hard to believe Uncle Walt had the same mother and father."
Joanie's breath caught. "Pa was so good and Walt is so…evil."
"If it were up to me, he would be lying in that grave outside the window, not Pa."
Beth tried to recall one single time in her life when Walt Jornigan had ever shown an ounce of mercy to anyone. Certainly not to his wife when she was alive. Certainly not to Beth or Joanie. If Joanie was right and there was a God, what would Walt say when he faced Him? She shook the thought aside. She had no compassion for the man or reverence for the God her sister believed in and worshipped.
"We have to go now, Joanie."
"Yes." She picked up her Bible from the little table beside the rocking chair and then followed Beth outside the shanty, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pausing, Joanie bent and succumbed to a coughing spasm. Beth helplessly waited, hoping her sister could make the anticipated trip through the cotton fields. The women had planned for days now to escape if Ma and Pa both passed.
Beth asked gently, "Can you do this?"
Joanie held up a restraining hand. "Just need…a minute."
Beth wasn't certain that they could wait long; time was short. Dawn would be breaking soon, and then Walt would discover that Pa had died and the sisters were missing. But they had to leave. Joanie's asthma was getting worse. Each gasping breath left her drained and hopeless, and Walt refused to let her see a doctor.
When Joanie had mentioned the notice in a discarded Savannah newspaper advertising a piece of land, Beth knew she had to buy the property and provide a home for Joanie. Pa had allowed her and Joanie to keep the wage Uncle Walt paid monthly. Over the years they had saved enough to survive, and the owner was practically giving the small acreage away. They wouldn't be able to build a permanent structure on their land until she found work, but she and Joanie would own their own place where no one could control them. Beth planned to eventually buy a cow and a few setting hens. At first they could live in a tent—Beth's eyes roamed the small shanty. It would be better than how they lived now.
Joanie's spasm passed and she glanced up. "Okay. You…can do it now."
Beth struck a match.
She glanced at Joanie. The young woman nodded and clutched her Bible to her chest. Beth had found it in one of the cotton picker's beds after he had moved on and given it to Joanie. Her sister had kept the Bible hidden from sight for fear that Walt would spot it on one of his weekly visits. Beth had known, as Joanie had, that if their uncle had found it he'd have had extra reason to hand out his daily lashing. Joanie kept the deed to their new land between its pages.
After pitching the lighted match into the cabin, Beth quickly closed the heavy door. Stepping to the window, she watched the puddles of kerosene ignite one by one. In just minutes flames were licking the walls and gobbling up the dry tinder. A peculiar sense of relief came over her when she saw tendrils of fire racing through the room, latching onto the front curtain and encompassing the bed.
"Don't watch." Joanie slipped her hand into Beth's. "We have to hurry before Uncle Walt spots the flames."
Hand in hand, the sisters stepped off the porch, and Beth turned to the mounds of fresh dirt heaped not far from the shanty. Pausing before the fresh graves, she whispered. "I love you both. Rest in peace."
Joanie had her own goodbyes for their mother. "We don't want to leave you and Pa here alone, but I know you understand—"
As the flames licked higher, Beth said, "We have to go, Joanie. Don't look back."
"I won't." Her small hand quivered inside Beth's. "God has something better for us."
Beth didn't answer. She didn't know whether Ma and Pa were in a good place or not. She didn't know anything about such things. She just knew they had to run.
The two women dressed in men's clothing struck off across the cotton fields carrying everything they owned in a small bag. It wasn't much. A dress for each, clean underclothes, and their nightshirts. Beth had a hairbrush one of the pickers had left behind. She'd kept the treasure well hidden so Walt wouldn't see it. He'd have taken it from her. He didn't hold with primping—said combing tangles from one's hair was a vain act. Finger-picking river-washed hair was all a woman needed.
Fire now raced inside the cabin. By the time Uncle Walt noticed the smoke from the plantation house across the fields, the two sisters would be long gone. No longer would they be under the tyrannical thumb of Walt or Bear Jornigan.
Freedom.
Beth sniffed the night air, thinking she could smell the precious state. Never again would she or Joanie answer to any man. She would run hard and far and find help for Joanie so that she could finally breathe free. In her pocket she fingered the remaining bills she'd taken from the fruit jar in the cabinet. It was all the ready cash Pa and Ma had. They wouldn't be needing money where they were.
Suddenly there was a sound of a large explosion. Heavy black smoke blanketed the night air. Then another blast.
Kerosene! She'd forgotten the small barrel sitting just outside the back porch.
It was the last sound Beth heard.
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book! You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
August 11, 2011
Nookie love - BN came through
Captain's Log, Stardate 08.11.2011
So remember how I was complaining about how if I wanted to download a backup ebook file from BN.com, it would automatically download .pdb files for Mac users when the new Nook doesn't even read .pdb files? At the time I mentioned that it might be a glitch they'll fix eventually either on the website or the Nook itself.
Well, they've fixed it on the BN.com website. Now when I download a backup copy of my purchased Nookbooks, they download as .epub files. Yay!
I did complain about it, but now I miss the .pdb files a little because if I read ebooks on my computer, I vastly prefer using the eReader app rather than Adobe Digital Editions or the Nook for Mac app. ADE is too limited--I can't change font size or style, for example--and Nook for Mac takes forever to load on my computer.
However, now that I have my Nook touch, I can just read the books on my Nook anyway, so I don't know why I'm missing the .pdb files. I'm such a whiner.
So remember how I was complaining about how if I wanted to download a backup ebook file from BN.com, it would automatically download .pdb files for Mac users when the new Nook doesn't even read .pdb files? At the time I mentioned that it might be a glitch they'll fix eventually either on the website or the Nook itself. Well, they've fixed it on the BN.com website. Now when I download a backup copy of my purchased Nookbooks, they download as .epub files. Yay!
I did complain about it, but now I miss the .pdb files a little because if I read ebooks on my computer, I vastly prefer using the eReader app rather than Adobe Digital Editions or the Nook for Mac app. ADE is too limited--I can't change font size or style, for example--and Nook for Mac takes forever to load on my computer.
However, now that I have my Nook touch, I can just read the books on my Nook anyway, so I don't know why I'm missing the .pdb files. I'm such a whiner.
