Camy Tang's Blog, page 147
August 22, 2011
Excerpt - Buried Truth by Dana Mentink
Buried Truthby
Dana Mentink
"Coming for you."
A note, impaled by a knife on Bill Cloudman's door, tells the former tribal agent a murderer has escaped. The vicious madman who murdered Bill's partner—and cost Bill the community's trust and his job—is on the loose in the South Dakota badlands again. Bill vows to put him behind bars once and for all. But when the woman he loved and lost returns to Eagle Rock reservation as a newspaper reporter determined to restore her own reputation with the story, Bill has to protect her…and his guarded heart.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The heat shimmered up from the asphalt as Bill Cloudman drove the pickup, Tank barking enthusiastically in the back. It had taken eight months away from Rockvale for him to realize he'd actually missed the ferocious heat. After two days back home, he felt as if he'd never left. This small town, snuggled up next to the Eagle Rock reservation, was undeniably a part of him, as much as he'd tried to escape it. He eased off the road that led away from his aunt Jean's dilapidated trailer, deep in reservation territory.
Aunt Jean was the reason he'd returned, her nasty fall the only thing that could draw him back to this place filled with bitter memories. Thankfully, she was recovering well, already back in her trailer making every guest feel welcome. Sharing a glass of iced tea and listening to her chatter had taken his mind off the past for a little while. Even though she was not his aunt by blood, he never thought of her as anything else. With her, he could pretend things were fine, that his sister, Leanne, was alive and they were a family, that his partner, Johnny Moon, hadn't been murdered.
That game got him only so far. Leanne was dead. Johnny was dead. No amount of wishing would bring them back again. His tension increased as he drove away, losing himself in acres of sunbaked trees and dry grass that surrounded him.
He breathed deeply as he drove the five miles to the small home he'd left in the months following his partner's death. It was remote, far from the nearest reservation neighbor, and he liked it like that. Working as a Tribal Ranger, one of twelve officers who protected life and property on the reservation and surrounding areas, he'd appreciated the distance sometimes, the quiet. It had been a sanctuary—until Johnny was killed. Then everywhere he looked he saw friends and neighbors who knew how he'd let his partner die. Bill had packed his bags and resolved never to come back—and he hadn't, until Aunt Jean had her fall.
Bill exhaled slowly, trying to quell a sudden feeling of unease. The tingle of alarm grew stronger even before he crested the last ridge and his house came in sight. There was an unfamiliar tang in the air, an odor that caused Tank to growl as they crunched up the winding driveway.
Wrong.
Something was wrong.
He eased the truck to a stop, breath tight in his chest.
He got out and ordered Tank to stay. The dog barked his displeasure, but obeyed.
Broken glass littered the ground, blazing in the sunlight. All the front windows were fractured into bits except for sharp teeth of glass that remained stubbornly in the frames.
Vandals with nothing better to do. Teens, he told himself. Who else would cause such destruction?
Who else?
Muscles tight, he moved closer. A bucket of crimson paint had been thrown at the walls. It stained the stucco like the red spurt of blood. Angry, hateful.
The note was impaled to the wall by the blade of a knife, plunged to the hilt into the wood.
Coming for you.
It needed no signature.
Oscar Birch's rage seeped through the scrawled letters.
Oscar, the man he had imprisoned.
The man who murdered his partner.
He didn't know how Oscar had wrecked his place when the man was supposed to be in jail, but he might as well have signed his name in the vicious smears of paint.
Paint that was still wet.
"You're not welcome here."
Bill Cloudman knew it, felt it, long before he found himself on Charlie Moon's gritty doormat two hours later. It had taken that long for his former colleagues to finish their investigation at his home and pass the information on to federal authorities. They told him the brutal truth with as much compassion as they could muster.
Oscar Birch had escaped.
The officers would try their best, but Bill knew with sickening certainty they would not capture the fugitive. Oscar was smart and wily and desired only one thing—Bill's death. Oscar wouldn't be captured or contained until he got what he was after.
Bill tried to focus on the hostile face of Johnny's uncle. "I came to warn you."
Charlie grunted. "Then you did what you set out to do."
Bill suddenly felt every one of his forty-five years weighing him down as he stood on the front porch of the small house, the South Dakota sun scorching through him with unrelenting fire. "And I wanted to see how you were doing. And Tina."
Charlie Moon raised a grizzled eyebrow. "Since you let her brother die? "
Bill exhaled. The words weren't unexpected, but they cut deep anyway. "I loved Johnny like a son, you know that."
"I don't know any such thing. I only know you were my nephew's senior officer. You were supposed to take care of him, watch his back." Charlie shook his head. "He was so proud when he joined the Tribal Rangers. So proud to work for you."
"I trained him the best way I knew how." Bill felt the surge of frustration that caused his voice to edge up a notch. With an effort, he kept it level. "It was a bust gone bad. Oscar knew we were coming."
Charlie's calloused fingers gripped the door frame, the pressure turning his knuckles white through the natural tan of his skin. "Words. Just words. Johnny went in first, a nineteen-year-old rookie—he went in first and got blown up. Can you tell me any of that ain't true?"
Bill looked at the red dust coating his boots. "No."
"And can you stand there and say to me it wasn't your fault? You've been a Tribal Ranger for what? Twenty years? And a rookie walks in after a fugitive first, without waiting for a backup team? That how it's supposed to go, Bill?"
He could not answer against the thickening of his throat.
Charlie looked at him, lips in a tight line. "If you came back to Rockvale for forgiveness, you're not going to find it here. Not with me. Maybe not from anybody."
A six-year-old girl with a thick braid of black hair peeked past Charlie. "Hiya, Uncle Bill. Have you come back?"
Bill knelt and blinked back an unexpected wash of tears. "Hey there, Tina. I've missed you."
"Me, too," she said. "I got the birthday card you sent and I put the stickers on my lunch box. Where's your dog?"
He nodded toward the massive rottweiler watching their every move from the back of the truck. "Right over there."
"Can I play with him? I want to see if he's learned to fetch."
Bill was about to answer when Charlie pulled the girl back.
"Mr. Cloudman is not your uncle and he's leaving now. He can't play with you anymore."
Tina shot her uncle a puzzled look. "Never? "
Charlie nodded grimly. "Never."
"Is it 'cuz Johnny went to heaven?"
Charlie patted her shoulder. "We'll talk about it later. Go back to your room and put your books in order."
"But Uncle—"
"Go," Charlie said, voice hard.
Tina's face was puzzled as she wiggled her fingers at Bill before she disappeared into the house.
Bill straightened. "Is she…how is she doing?"
"Better than you'd think for someone who lost her mother to cancer and her big brother to murder. 'Course, Johnny was more like her father, him being so much older and since her father took off before she was born. So all she's got left is her old uncle Charlie and this piece of wasteland." He gestured to the horizon, harsh cliffs painted against the setting sun. "How's that gonna get her any kind of future?"
Images of a previous sunset flashed through Bill's brain. The explosion, the ferocious hatred of the man bent on killing them. The ease with which Oscar Birch had been able to murder Bill's partner. And now the murderer was back with a different target in his sights. Bill looked up to find Charlie staring at him.
"Heard you helped bust Oscar's son near the Badlands."
"Yeah." He'd gone to assist his friend Logan to keep Oscar's son, Autie, from killing a woman named Isabel Ling. They'd gotten Autie, all right, and remanded him into custody. In the process Logan had found his soul mate in the strong-willed Isabel. At least there was a silver lining—for Logan anyway. The guy deserved it. Charlie's voice intruded on Bill's thoughts.
"Heard Oscar's son died."
"Yes." Autie had finally run out of luck. He'd made a break for it on his way to prison and been felled by a volley of police fire. Bill had felt nothing when he heard, no grief, no satisfaction; just the same numbness that had taken hold of him since the afternoon Johnny Moon was killed. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and let his gaze wander to his boots again.
Charlie's laugh was harsh. "That's justice, I guess. Oscar killed Johnny. You killed his kid. Now he knows something about my pain."
Though Bill said nothing, he knew Charlie was wrong, dead wrong. Oscar was filled with hate and anger that sizzled hotter than the Dakota desert, an incendiary rage that would not be satisfied or dulled by grief. And he was here. He might even be watching right now. Bill felt a chill in spite of the heat.
A bark from the bed of the truck pulled Bill from his thoughts. He noticed the curtain move in the front window of the small house. Tina was still watching. He tried to make his expression more pleasant. "Anyway, I thought you should know Oscar's escaped."
The old man wiped a hand over his mouth. "Listen, I got enough problems. Not my job to help you catch him again."
"I wasn't asking for your help. I'm not a Tribal Ranger anymore. I just wanted to tell you and see if you or Tina needed anything."
"She needs her big brother, but you can't give her that, can you?"
The door swung shut, the sharp click loud in the stifling air.
Bill put his palm to the wood, warm from the late afternoon heat. If I could have that minute back, Johnny would be alive.
The curtain fluttered again and Tina's little face peeked out. She mouthed something, a gap showing where she'd lost a tooth in the time he'd been away. Her expression so resembled her brother's that he was momentarily frozen. He forced a smile and walked down the drive, the enormous mass of a child's lost innocence weighing him down.
Heather Fernandes heaved a sigh. The guard at the entrance to the massive underground research facility, DUSEL, looked down at her, no expression on his stern face except for the slight uplift of one thick eyebrow.
She straightened, the steering wheel hot, since she'd turned off the air to prevent the Jeep from overheating. It was already making strange noises and she couldn't afford a repair bill. "All I want to do is talk to Dr. Egan. I've called dozens of times and gotten no response. I'm a reporter with the Desert Blaze."
She didn't entirely blame Egan. In his position, she wouldn't speak to reporters, either, especially not hacks for a local rag that was mostly filled with ads for used trucks and prickly pear jam. Egan was used to being interviewed by respected science magazines, like the kind she'd worked for in the past. "I used to write for Horizons in Science."
His eyes flickered as he took in her beat-up Jeep. "And I used to guard Buckingham Palace. This is just my summer job."
It wouldn't do any good to prove she was telling the truth. She gritted her teeth and looked past him as the dying sunlight painted the distant cliffs. Somewhere, concealed by construction equipment and the dip and swell of brown-covered hills, was the deepest mine in North America. Only, now the goal was no longer hauling out gold, but building the finest Deep Underground Science and Engineering Laboratory in the world. The best of the best, the most cutting-edge science so close, yet it might as well be on the moon. "Here's my number. Please have Dr. Egan call me."
She snapped out her business card and reversed the Jeep, suspecting the guard was laughing as he returned to his air-conditioned post.
Laughing that a seasoned forty-three-year-old reporter was so easily defeated? Or amused that Heather actually claimed she had written for Horizons? She groaned. If it weren't for the framed copies of long-ago articles, she might have believed it was a joke herself. Now she was reduced to writing a piece about some piddly fossil find and covering the local town events. She eased the Jeep down the road a couple of miles, rounded a corner and pulled over to the shoulder. Turning off the engine, she sipped some iced tea out of the thermos and considered. In years prior, her Horizons press pass had given her access to anybody, anywhere. The who's who in the science world practically salivated for the chance to air their discoveries in the magazine.
She recalled a time when she thought Rockvale might even become a home to her. She remembered a trip a year and a half before to this town, when she and Bill Cloudman had struck up a friendship. Her cheeks warmed. More than a friendship, on her side anyway. But things had ended badly after six months. Very badly. Shame licked at her insides again.
She'd decided to return to her father's house in this nowhere town a week ago only after she'd learned that Bill had gone, checked out from the world after the murder of his partner. Where was he now?
It was probably good for him to have left. Maybe he'd found a new life. She shifted uncomfortably on the seat, remembering the emotion that had shimmered in his dark eyes the day he'd arrested her. There might have been love there, but she'd seen only betrayal, the same kind of betrayal she'd lived with since her mother had walked away from Heather and her father when Heather was just a child. Walked away. The only written contact she'd ever made was that one brief note.
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August 21, 2011
Excerpt - On Deadly Ground by Lauren Nichols
On Deadly Groundby
Lauren Nichols
Danger in the darkness
The prowler on the construction site of her new camp didn't frighten Rachel Patterson…at first. Fear comes when her home is torched—and worsens when a body is unearthed on the campgrounds. Someone's trying to cover up a murder, and if Rachel can identify the intruder, she might be the only witness. Her neighbor, Wildlife Conservation Officer Jake Campbell, is determined to keep the lovely widow safe. But when a misunderstanding separates the pair, their distance risks more than the growing feelings between them. It leaves Rachel alone and unguarded, which could be just the chance the killer needs…
Excerpt of chapter one:
Sighing, Rachel Patterson squinted at the clock on her nightstand, saw that it was only 2:00 a.m., then groaned, flipped over and burrowed groggily into her pillow again. Outside, the coyotes were up to their old tricks, howling and yipping at the moon, even though there was barely a moon to yip at. She flipped onto her back again and stared in frustration at the ceiling. Wondered if going totally decaf was the solution to her constantly interrupted sleep.
She'd been a light sleeper since David died, and it had been two years now. Two years of listening to the wind in the trees and the coyotes on the hill. Two years of making dinner for one.
Two years of running their campground business on her own.
She felt the emptiness of missing him again. Losing him had been so terrible at first. If it hadn't been for her faith in God and the comfort she found in prayer, she might have packed her bags and joined her family in Virginia. But the business had been David's dream, and he'd awakened every morning, eager to embrace it again. She couldn't walk away from something that had been so important to him.
A strange, metallic sound broke her thoughts, and Rachel stilled. Cocked an ear…listened for a moment.
There it was again. And again.
Throwing back her floral comforter, she strode to the long window facing the strip of land she'd recently acquired. The skimpy moon and woods were swimming in fog making it difficult to see, but—
A jolt of adrenaline hit her as Rachel spotted the moving beam of a flashlight in the misty darkness. Someone was out there! And so was the expensive ground-moving machinery the Decker brothers had parked there late yesterday afternoon.
Grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed and pulling it over her dorm shirt, she hurried across the hardwood to the hall, then through the living room to her kitchen. The light below the over-the-range microwave shone dimly, but it was enough illumination to locate the heavy-duty flashlight under the sink. Snagging it, she unlocked the patio door to her elevated deck and strode, barefooted, to the redwood railing.
The intruder's light went out.
Rachel shone her beam down through the darkness and fog—flicked it over tree limbs that were almost fully leafed—found the mist-shrouded bulldozer, rock crusher and dump truck fifty yards away.
A new rush of adrenaline hit her when the beam revealed a hooded figure crouched near the dump truck. "Hey!" she shouted. "What are you doing out there?"
The figure bolted—clicked his light back on and crashed down through the thick hemlocks and oaks toward the creek below. But not before Rachel caught another glimpse of him.
Rushing inside, she flipped through the phone book, found the number for Charity, Pennsylvania's tiny police force and punched it in. Chirpy night dispatcher and church organist, Emma Lucille Bridger, answered. Rachel and Emma Lu were kindred spirits of sorts. They were both avid readers and borderline insomniacs. Even though it was common knowledge that the sixty-seven-year-old dispatcher napped during her shift, no one on the force minded. Her only job was to answer the phone.
"Emma Lu, it's Rachel Patterson at the campground. I'm trying not to be an alarmist, but someone's prowling around outside my house."
Emma Lucille's sweet soprano rose, and her grandmotherly instincts kicked in. "Are you okay, Rachel?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just worried about— Emma Lu, Decker Construction parked some equipment here yesterday. I'm afraid it might have been vandalized."
Emma Lu spoke quickly. "Okay, honey, I'll radio Fish and tell him to get down to your place right away. He's on patrol, so it might take him a few minutes. You sit tight now. Don't you go outside."
"I won't," Rachel agreed, meaning it. She'd already done that, and going outside to check on someone who obviously didn't want to be seen wasn't the smartest thing she'd ever done. "Thanks, Emma Lu."
"You're welcome. Just stay safe."
She'd just finished pulling on jeans, sneakers and a navy sweatshirt, when she heard the not-too-distant rumble of a vehicle. Her pulse picked up speed. It was after 2:00 a.m., and her campground was five miles from Charity. It was too soon for Patrolman Larry "Fish" Troutman's arrival.
Striding to the window facing her driveway, Rachel cupped her hands against the glass. Headlights poked through the blanket of fog, then followed the winding lane past her camp store and tourist cabins. From Memorial Day weekend through Pennsylvania's deer hunting season, light poles lit the way, but the holiday was still almost three weeks off—and the breaker for the lights was in the camp store.
The motion lights at the corners of her wood-sided ranch house clicked on. And Rachel's anxiety dissolved when a green truck with a Pennsylvania Game Commission emblem on the door swung in beside her red Explorer and parked.
Startled to see him at this hour, but unable to stop the happy quickening of her pulse, Rachel tossed her fingertips through her straight sable bangs and shaggy cap cut—then went stone-still with guilt. Guilt and another emotion it shamed her to acknowledge.
Gathering her composure, she stepped outside to greet her unexpected visitor.
The early-May temperatures had been cool until yesterday when they reached the low seventies. Now, according to the round outdoor thermometer wired to the deck railing, it had dipped twenty degrees. A faint breeze ruffled the trees, carrying with it the fog-damp fragrances of earth, pine and fallen leaves.
"Jake?" she said when he'd exited his vehicle. "What are you doing here?"
He kept his voice low, but she could hear the concern in it. "I was driving back from a callout when your call came over the radio. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she returned, warmed by his concern despite her feelings of disloyalty. "Just a little on edge."
Wildlife conservation officer Jake Campbell started up the flight of six steps, his dark brown hair attractively mussed. For a big man, he had a loose, confident way of moving and chiseled good looks that were a little grim until he smiled. He had good eyes, too, Rachel thought. Perceptive brown eyes that missed nothing. The dark green uniform jacket hanging open over his black T-shirt and jeans nearly concealed the sidearm on his hip.
"So what happened here tonight?" he asked when he'd reached her. "The dispatcher said something about a prowler and vandalism."
She nodded. "The prowler part's correct. Vandalism's only a possibility right now." She backtracked to bring him up to speed. "When we spoke last, I think I mentioned putting in a mini golf course on the strip of land I acquired a few months ago. A little putt-putt for the kids."
"Yeah, you did."
She indicated the foggy clearing beyond the trees. "Yesterday, Tim Decker dropped off his equipment because he'll be leveling the land in the morning. He said it would be fine sitting there. Then a few minutes ago, I heard noises and went outside. Someone with a flashlight was messing around near Tim's truck." She paused. "When I yelled, he took off into the woods."
Jake's features lined and he sighed. "Rachel, you're alone here. You should have stayed inside and called the police immediately."
"I know. I thought of that after the fact." But the past two years had forced her to become independent—and part of her liked it. "If David had been here, he would have handled it. But he isn't, so it's my job."
Jake didn't comment, but the troubled look in his eyes sent a clear message: He didn't like that it was her job. "Did you get a good look at him?"
"Not really, considering the fog. But I know he was white, and he was wearing a dark hooded jacket with a light-colored emblem on the back of it." She stilled as her mind recreated that split-second happening, then spoke hesitantly. "He was carrying something. Something light-colored that flapped when he ran. A bag, maybe."
"If it was a bag, that says he expected to carry something away. Do you know if Decker left tools or anything portable behind? "
"I'm not sure. I hope not."
Another set of headlights pierced the darkness and fog. This time, the vehicle was a black-and-white police cruiser, and the patrolman who got out was a tall, lanky young man in his mid-twenties with fire-red hair and a mouth full of silver braces. Fish was the youngest member of the department, and the one with the least experience. The thud of the cruiser's door closing sounded hollow in the stillness.
"Hey, Rachel," he said solemnly as he ascended the steps. "Emma Lu said you had some uninvited company tonight. You okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she assured him as he reached her. "Fish, have you met Jake Campbell? Jake's—"
"The new W.C.O.," Fish said cordially, clasping the hand Jake extended. "Our paths cross from time to time. Nice to see you again, Jake."
"Same here, Fish."
"You live around here?"
Rachel nearly smiled. It was a casual inquiry, but Fish obviously wondered why Jake was here at two-thirty in the morning. The amusement in Jake's eyes told her he'd caught that unspoken question, too.
"About a mile up the road," he replied. "I was coming home from a callout when I heard your dispatcher on the radio. Thought I'd see if my neighbor needed some help."
Apparently satisfied with the answer, he smiled his approval and pulled out a notebook and pen. "Okay, Rachel, let's take it from the top. First, can you give me a description of the guy? If it was a guy."
Rachel told him everything she could remember, glad that Fish was on duty. With the Charity P.D. being small, there was a chance the new police chief would have responded. She'd only spoken to Lon Perris once since he'd pinned on the badge—the night of his welcoming dinner sponsored by the chamber of commerce. But she hadn't come away from that conversation feeling warm and fuzzy. Chief Perris was… She searched for a word Reverend Landers would approve of. "Condescending" was the best she could do.
When she'd finished detailing what had happened, Fish made a final note, then tucked his pen and pad away. "Okay, I'll take a look at the site and drive around the loops before I leave—make sure this guy isn't coming back for a vehicle. You're pretty far off the beaten path, so I doubt he got here on foot." He chewed his lip. "You didn't hear any engine sounds before Jake got here, right?"
"No."
"Jake? See any vehicles on the road tonight?" Jake wandered closer, his boots quiet on the plank floor. And Rachel felt another stir of attraction as she looked up at him. "No, and I was watching for them. But I came in from the other direction, not from town. Since the guy cut through the woods, he might have parked on one of the logging roads."
"Yeah, he probably did." Fish pulled a flashlight from a loop on his belt, then shone it in a wide arc over the construction site and campground. "Could have been a kid looking to siphon gas or steal tools. It's a little early in the season for that stuff, but it happens."
He tucked the light away and turned back to Rachel. "Like I said, I'll check out the sites and loops, but it's kind of hard to see now. I'll be back in the morning for a better look, okay?"
"That'd be great," she returned. "Thanks for coming. I know I should have told Emma to hold off sending you down here until daybreak, but I wanted to report the incident right away in case there are damages."
"No problem," he said, heading for the steps. He stopped then and glanced back. "One more thing. That logo or whatever it was on the back of the jacket? Can you describe it?"
Rachel hesitated. As descriptions went, it wasn't the best. "It looked like a round head with rabbit ears. That's probably not very helpful, but I only saw it for a second."
"It's a start," Fish replied. He started down the steps, his lanky body still half-turned toward her. "I'll stop back if I find anything out of the ordinary. Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning."
"Thanks, Fish."
"Yep. Night, Jake."
"Night, Fish."
And in short order, the cruiser's red taillights had
disappeared, leaving her alone with Jake again. Rachel looked up at him. She was more attuned to his presence now that they were alone, more attuned to their woodsy isolation.
"I should get moving, too," he said with some hesitance. "Will you be okay? Do you want to call someone to stay with you?"
"I'll be all right," she replied. "I'm a lot tougher than I look."
A faint smile tipped his lips. "So I've noticed. You paint, you plow snow, you run a successful business and you even make a decent cup of coffee. I'm impressed."
"Don't be," she said, smiling. "It's all smoke and mirrors."
"No, it isn't," he returned. "It's all you." Then out of the blue, the night seemed to shrink around them, his gaze softened and he looked at her in a way no man had looked at her since David. "You're an extraordinary woman, Rachel."
For a few seconds, she didn't even breathe—and she wasn't alone. Jake seemed just as stunned by his words as she was. Then he quickly rebounded and spoke again, his tone a little gruff.
"Well, I'm out of here. Maggie's probably wondering why she's still in her pen." He drew a breath. "If there's another problem, and you're not sure it's serious enough to call Fish, I'm only a phone call away."
Rachel found a smile somewhere, but her heart was still racing. "Thanks. And thank you for checking up on me."
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August 19, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - RANSOME'S QUEST by Kaye Dacus
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:
Kaye Dacus
and the book:
Ransome's Quest
(The Ransome Trilogy) Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011) ***Special thanks to Karri | Marketing Assistant | Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kaye Dacus, author of Ransome's Honor has a BA in English, with a minor in history, and an MA in writing popular fiction. Her love of the Regency era started with Jane Austen. Her passion for literature and for history come together to shape her creative, well-researched, and engaging writing.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
This engaging end to the Ransome Trilogy is a fast-paced tale of love, faith, and danger on the Caribbean Sea in the early 1800s. Captain William Ransome frantically searches for his kidnapped wife and sister. But who will rescue them when buried secrets emerge and challenge everything they believe?
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927557
ISBN-13: 978-0736927550
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
It is too dangerous."
William Ransome snapped his cutlass into its scabbard and turned to face his wife. "The longer I delay, the farther away they take Charlotte."
Dread froze his lungs, his stomach, his heart. Charlotte. His sister. Taken. "If anything happens to her…"
Julia wrapped her arms around her abdomen and leaned against one of the heavy posts at the end of the bed. "Why the message to my father? What has he to do with Charlotte?"
William double-checked the load of his pistol and tucked it under his belt. "Your father has publicly vowed—more than once—to rid the Caribbean of pirates and privateers for good. Charlotte was likely a target of opportunity, not purpose."
"But if the man's argument is with my father, it should have been me taken, not Charlotte."
William could not disagree with her. Nor could he agree, as the very idea of Julia's being taken by pirates nearly ripped his heart from his chest. "I should have put her on that ship in Barbados returning to England. If I had followed my conscience"—instead of listening to Julia's and Charlotte's emotional arguments—"she would have been well out of harm's way by now."
They both startled at a knock on the door.
"Come."
The door opened at his command, revealing Jeremiah. "The horses are ready, Commodore."
"Very good." William took up his case and hat and moved toward the door.
Julia stepped in front of him, expression imploring. "Please, William, wait until dawn. The roads are treacherous enough in the full light of day. At night…and you do not know where you are going. What good will it do Charlotte if you become lost or…or something else happens to you or the horse? Or what if the pirates have laid a trap and done this to lure you from the safety of the house?"
A mirthless laugh expanded in his throat, but he stifled it. Safety of the house? Was the house safe when the brigands had snatched Charlotte from the porch almost directly outside this very room?
"I am sending Asher with him, Miss Julia," Jeremiah said. "He knows the roads 'twixt here and Kingston better than anyone I know."
William tore his gaze away from Julia's anxious face. "Jeremiah, I am depending on you to protect Mrs. Ransome and ensure no harm comes to her while I am away."
"I will protect her with my life, sir."
He stepped around Julia and handed his bag and hat to Jeremiah. "Thank you. I shall join you in a moment."
As he hoped, Jeremiah understood the dismissal. He gave a slight bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
William took Julia by the shoulders and directed her to the chaise positioned at the end of their bed. He had to apply more pressure than he liked to make her sit. "You are to stay at Tierra Dulce. You will keep an escort with you at all times. I want armed guards posted near the house."
She nodded, never blinking or breaking eye contact. "Yes, William."
"If you hear any word from Charlotte or receive"—his voice caught in his throat—"a ransom demand from the pirate, you will send a messenger to Fort Charles. They will get word to me."
"Yes, William."
Heart tearing asunder at the necessity of leaving Julia behind, he bent over and pressed his forehead to hers. "Pray for Charlotte."
Julia's hands slid around behind his neck, her fingers twining in his hair. She angled her head and kissed him. "I promise. I will pray for you also, my love."
He kissed her again and then tore himself away from her embrace. "I must go. I promise I will return—and I will bring Charlotte with me."
Determined to not look back, he made for the door. He opened it and then hesitated. Without turning around, he said the words he needed to say, just in case they were the last he ever said to his wife. "I love you."
"I love you, William." Though softly spoken, her words acted as the command that loosed him from his mooring. He stepped through the door and closed it, leaving her on the other side.
Ned Cochrane paced the drive below the porch steps when William exited the house. He barely spared his former first officer a glance. Intellectually, he knew Ned had done his best, having been taken by surprise and set upon by several men. However, in his heart, he wanted to rail at the younger man for failing to protect Charlotte.
Though a horse was his least favorite mode of transportation, William easily swung himself up into the saddle. Once he was settled—and Ned appeared to be also—William nodded at Asher to lead the way.
Darkness enveloped them. Behind, the light from the house acted as a siren's call, beckoning him to turn, to look, to regret his decision to leave in the dead of night and wish he had taken Julia's advice and waited until dawn.
His neck ached from the effort of keeping his face forward instead of giving in to temptation and taking one last look at the house, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Julia.
He focused on the bumpy motion of the animal underneath him. He must leave all thoughts of—all worries about—Julia behind, just as he now left her home behind. Jeremiah had known Julia most of her life. He had been as much of a substitute father for Julia as her father, Admiral Witherington, had been for William.
No, he could not worry about Julia and her safety. Rescuing Charlotte must be his only focus, his only thought.
The monotonous rhythm of the horses' hooves, at a walk over the dark, deeply rutted dirt roads, along with the necessity of keeping his eyes trained on the light shirt stretched across Asher's broad back, lulled William into a stupor.
Ahead lay his ship. The thought of boarding Alexandra and getting under sail chipped away at his anxiety. As soon as he was on the water, as soon as he stood on the quarterdeck and issued the command to weigh anchor, he would be that much closer to finding Charlotte and bringing her home.
The road widened, and Ned pulled up beside him.
"You are certain the man did not identify himself?"
"No, sir. He did not give his name. He only said her safety depended on the mercy of a pirate." Ned's voice came across flat and hoarse.
"What were you doing out on the porch, alone with her in the dark?" Even as William asked this, he reminded himself Ned was not at fault. But if Charlotte had been inside, perhaps…
"I followed them—Miss Ransome and Winchester—when they went for their walk. I did not trust Mrs. Ransome's steward to behave honorably." He paused. "I need not have worried. Char—Miss Ransome handled the situation admirably and dispatched Winchester, and their engagement, with aplomb."
"Winchester was with you when she was taken? Why did you not tell me this before?"
"No, sir. Miss Ransome dismissed him. He had been gone for…several minutes."
Could Winchester be involved? Dread sank like a cannonball in William's gut. Julia already suspected the steward of embezzling money from the plantation. And William had left her there with that man—
"I asked her to marry me."
If Winchester were involved, and this was a ploy to get William away from Tierra—he yanked the reins. The horse voiced its protest and jerked and swerved, nearly unseating William. "I beg your pardon?"
"After Charlotte broke her engagement with Winchester, we talked about our mutual regard. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted." Ned's words barely rose above the sounds of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed earth.
From a sinking ship into shark-infested waters. Could Charlotte not have waited even a full day after breaking one engagement before forming another—again, without her family's knowledge? "And if I refuse my permission?"
"Then we shall wait. We'll wait until you think I am worthy to marry her, sir."
Worthy to marry her. William did not have to think hard to remember standing before Julia's father twelve years ago and saying the same words. Sir Edward had graciously given him—a poor, threadbare lieutenant with no prospects and nothing to recommend him as husband or son-in-law—a father's blessing for William and Julia to marry based on nothing other than their love for each other. William had been the one to deem himself unworthy of her affections, and he had almost lost her forever.
"We shall discuss this after we return Charlotte home."
"I pray that will be soon, sir."
"So do I, Ned. So do I."
Charlotte awoke with a gasp. Wooden planks formed the low ceiling above her. A canvas hammock conformed to her body and swung with the heave and haw of the ocean beneath the ship.
A ship?
Not possible. They had made port, hadn't they?
She stared at the underside of the deck above, trying to clear the haziness from her brain. Yes. They had made port. Left Alexandra and ridden in carriage across those horrible, rutted roads to Tierra Dulce, Julia's sugar plantation. The low, sprawling white house with the deep porch that wrapped all the way around and the white draperies billowing through the open windows.
The porch. She blinked rapidly. The porch. At night. In the dark. Henry Winchester and…and Ned.
She bolted upright and then flung her torso over the side of the hammock as her stomach heaved.
Why should she be sick? She hadn't experienced a moment of seasickness on the crossing from England to Jamaica. She climbed out of the hammock, skirt and petticoats hindering her progress until she hoisted them above her knees, and made for the small table with a glass and pitcher.
Wan light from the stern windows sparkled through the glass, revealing a residue of white powder in the bottom of it. She set the glass back on the stand. Last night the pirate had made her drink from the glass, and then everything had gone hazy. But before that…
She buried her face in her hands. Being torn away from Ned. She prayed they had not killed him. She'd heard no gunshot, but as their raid had been one of stealth, they would more likely have used a blade to end Ned's life.
A sob ripped at her throat, but she forced it to stay contained. She would not give the pirates the satisfaction of seeing her upset. And she must, and would, find a means of escape.
Thirst got the better of her, and she lifted the china pitcher of water and rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply the brackish liquid. She then turned and surveyed the cabin. Obviously the pirate captain's quarters. Though smaller than Ned's aboard Audacious, which was in turn smaller than William's aboard Alexandra, the room was neatly kept, with serviceable furnishings, whitewashed walls and ceiling, and plain floors. Nothing to exhibit the extravagance or wealth she'd expected to see in a pirate's private lair.
The desk. Perhaps something there would tell her more about her captor. She crossed to it, rather surprised by the empty work surface. No stacks of the papers or books like the ones resting on William's or Ned's worktables. Her fingers itched to open the drawer under the desktop and the small doors and drawers along the high back of it, but Mama had taught her better than that.
Two miniatures hanging above the desk caught her eye. One showed a woman, probably a few years older than Charlotte, with dark hair and angular features. Too plain to be called pretty, but not ugly either. The green backdrop of the second painting contrasted vividly with the reddish-brown hair of a pretty girl and matched her vibrant green eyes.
Mahogany hair and green eyes—just like Julia. Why would a pirate have a portrait of Julia hanging in his cabin? But, she corrected herself, the painting was of a girl no older than thirteen or fourteen. Surely the resemblance to Julia was merely coincidental.
"She was lovely, was she not?"
Charlotte gasped and whirled. A dark-haired man dressed in a blue coat that resembled a commodore's or admiral's—complete with prodigious amounts of gold braid about the cuffs, collar, and lapels—stood in the doorway of the cabin.
He tossed a bicorne hat—also similar to a navy officer's—onto the oblong table in the middle of the cabin, clasped his hands behind his back, and sauntered toward her, his eyes on the portrait.
"What do you want with me?"
"I am sorry for the manner of your coming here, Miss…?" He cocked one eyebrow at her.
"Ransome. Charlotte Ransome. My brother is Commodore William Ransome. He will hunt you down. And when he finds you—"
"When he finds me," the pirate said, sighing, "I am certain the encounter shall be quite violent and bloody. Is that what you were going to say?"
Charlotte ground her teeth together. The man stood there, serene as a vicar on the Sabbath, acting as if they stood in a drawing room in Liverpool discussing the weather. "What do you want with me?"
"With you? Nothing." He flicked an invisible speck of dust from the oval frame. "My business is with her."
"With her?" Charlotte nodded toward the painting. "Is that…?"
"Julia Witherington—or Julia Ransome, as I have lately learned. Empress of the Tierra Dulce sugar empire."
The strange lilt in his voice when he said Julia's name sent a chill down Charlotte's spine. "Yes, she is married. To my brother."
"The famous Commodore Ransome." The pirate turned and ambled toward the dining table. "His reputation precedes him."
Worry riddled Charlotte at the pirate's lack of worry over the thought of William's hunting him down and blowing him and his crew out of the water. After Charlotte escaped, naturally.
"You were not part of my plan, little Charlotte Ransome." He turned, leaned against the edge of the table, and crossed his arms. The coat pulled across his broad chest and muscular shoulders. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, softening the way his heavy black brows hooded his eyes. His nose had been aquiline once, but now it sported a bump about halfway down from whence the rest of the appendage angled slightly to his left. A scar stretched across his forehead and down into his left eyebrow. On first sight he could have passed for Spanish, but his accent marked him as an Englishman.
If he weren't a no-good, dastardly, cowardly, kidnapping pirate, she might consider him handsome.
"Did you kill him?" The question squeezed past her throat unbidden.
"Him?"
"Ned—Captain Cochrane. The man with me on the porch." She schooled her emotions as best she could, pretending the man standing before her was none other than Kent, her nemesis during her days aboard Audacious as a midshipman.
"If he is dead, it is through no work of me or my men. We do not kill for sport, only for defense."
"Ha!" The mirthless laugh popped out before she could stop it. "Morality from a pirate? Someone who spends his life pillaging and thieving and destroying and killing and…and…" Heat flooded her face.
"And?" The pirate stood and stalked toward her, an odd gleam in his dark eyes. "And ravishing young women? Is that what you were going to say?"
Charlotte backed away, right into the edge of the desk. She gripped it hard. "N-no."
The pirate leaned over her, hands on either side of her atop the desk, trapping her. "Do not try to lie to me, little Charlotte Ransome. You have no talent for it."
Stays digging into her waist, she bent as far back as she could. "Yes, then. Ravishing." Not that he would get a chance to ravish her. A fork. A penknife. Anything with a sharp edge or point. Once she had something like that in her possession, she would be able to defend herself against him.
Up close, the pirate's brown eyes held chips of gold and green. A hint of dark whiskers lay just beneath the skin of his jaw and above his upper lip.
He blinked when someone knocked on the door but didn't move. "Come!"
"Captain, Lau and Declan are back."
"Very good. I shall meet with them in the wheelhouse momentarily to hear their report. Dismissed."
Charlotte wanted to cry out to stop the other man from leaving, but she knew she deluded herself. She was no safer with any man on this ship than with their captain.
Would Ned still want her—even be able to look at her—after the pirates were finished with her?
"What's this?" The pirate reached up and touched Charlotte's cheek. "Tears?"
She shook her head, more to dislodge his hand than in denial.
With another sigh he straightened and then handed her a handkerchief. "Calm yourself, Miss Ransome. I have no intention of ravishing you. Nor of allowing anyone else to ravish you. While you are aboard my ship, you are under my protection."
He crossed to the table and retrieved his hat. "You, however, must stay to this cabin at all times. Though my men know my rules of conduct, a few of them might give in to the temptation of their baser desires should they see you about on deck."
Charlotte leaned heavily against the desk. The handkerchief in her hand was of the finest lawn, embroidered white-on-white with a Greek-key design around the edge. She frowned at the bit of cloth. Why would a pirate carry something so delicate?
He settled the bicorne on his dark head, points fore-and-aft, the same way the officers of the Royal Navy wore theirs.
"Who are you?"
He touched the fore tip of the hat and then flourished a bow. "I am called El Salvador, and you are aboard my ship, Vengeance. Welcome to my home, Miss Ransome."
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:
Kaye Dacus
and the book:
Ransome's Quest
(The Ransome Trilogy) Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011) ***Special thanks to Karri | Marketing Assistant | Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kaye Dacus, author of Ransome's Honor has a BA in English, with a minor in history, and an MA in writing popular fiction. Her love of the Regency era started with Jane Austen. Her passion for literature and for history come together to shape her creative, well-researched, and engaging writing. Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
This engaging end to the Ransome Trilogy is a fast-paced tale of love, faith, and danger on the Caribbean Sea in the early 1800s. Captain William Ransome frantically searches for his kidnapped wife and sister. But who will rescue them when buried secrets emerge and challenge everything they believe?
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927557
ISBN-13: 978-0736927550
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
It is too dangerous."
William Ransome snapped his cutlass into its scabbard and turned to face his wife. "The longer I delay, the farther away they take Charlotte."
Dread froze his lungs, his stomach, his heart. Charlotte. His sister. Taken. "If anything happens to her…"
Julia wrapped her arms around her abdomen and leaned against one of the heavy posts at the end of the bed. "Why the message to my father? What has he to do with Charlotte?"
William double-checked the load of his pistol and tucked it under his belt. "Your father has publicly vowed—more than once—to rid the Caribbean of pirates and privateers for good. Charlotte was likely a target of opportunity, not purpose."
"But if the man's argument is with my father, it should have been me taken, not Charlotte."
William could not disagree with her. Nor could he agree, as the very idea of Julia's being taken by pirates nearly ripped his heart from his chest. "I should have put her on that ship in Barbados returning to England. If I had followed my conscience"—instead of listening to Julia's and Charlotte's emotional arguments—"she would have been well out of harm's way by now."
They both startled at a knock on the door.
"Come."
The door opened at his command, revealing Jeremiah. "The horses are ready, Commodore."
"Very good." William took up his case and hat and moved toward the door.
Julia stepped in front of him, expression imploring. "Please, William, wait until dawn. The roads are treacherous enough in the full light of day. At night…and you do not know where you are going. What good will it do Charlotte if you become lost or…or something else happens to you or the horse? Or what if the pirates have laid a trap and done this to lure you from the safety of the house?"
A mirthless laugh expanded in his throat, but he stifled it. Safety of the house? Was the house safe when the brigands had snatched Charlotte from the porch almost directly outside this very room?
"I am sending Asher with him, Miss Julia," Jeremiah said. "He knows the roads 'twixt here and Kingston better than anyone I know."
William tore his gaze away from Julia's anxious face. "Jeremiah, I am depending on you to protect Mrs. Ransome and ensure no harm comes to her while I am away."
"I will protect her with my life, sir."
He stepped around Julia and handed his bag and hat to Jeremiah. "Thank you. I shall join you in a moment."
As he hoped, Jeremiah understood the dismissal. He gave a slight bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
William took Julia by the shoulders and directed her to the chaise positioned at the end of their bed. He had to apply more pressure than he liked to make her sit. "You are to stay at Tierra Dulce. You will keep an escort with you at all times. I want armed guards posted near the house."
She nodded, never blinking or breaking eye contact. "Yes, William."
"If you hear any word from Charlotte or receive"—his voice caught in his throat—"a ransom demand from the pirate, you will send a messenger to Fort Charles. They will get word to me."
"Yes, William."
Heart tearing asunder at the necessity of leaving Julia behind, he bent over and pressed his forehead to hers. "Pray for Charlotte."
Julia's hands slid around behind his neck, her fingers twining in his hair. She angled her head and kissed him. "I promise. I will pray for you also, my love."
He kissed her again and then tore himself away from her embrace. "I must go. I promise I will return—and I will bring Charlotte with me."
Determined to not look back, he made for the door. He opened it and then hesitated. Without turning around, he said the words he needed to say, just in case they were the last he ever said to his wife. "I love you."
"I love you, William." Though softly spoken, her words acted as the command that loosed him from his mooring. He stepped through the door and closed it, leaving her on the other side.
Ned Cochrane paced the drive below the porch steps when William exited the house. He barely spared his former first officer a glance. Intellectually, he knew Ned had done his best, having been taken by surprise and set upon by several men. However, in his heart, he wanted to rail at the younger man for failing to protect Charlotte.
Though a horse was his least favorite mode of transportation, William easily swung himself up into the saddle. Once he was settled—and Ned appeared to be also—William nodded at Asher to lead the way.
Darkness enveloped them. Behind, the light from the house acted as a siren's call, beckoning him to turn, to look, to regret his decision to leave in the dead of night and wish he had taken Julia's advice and waited until dawn.
His neck ached from the effort of keeping his face forward instead of giving in to temptation and taking one last look at the house, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Julia.
He focused on the bumpy motion of the animal underneath him. He must leave all thoughts of—all worries about—Julia behind, just as he now left her home behind. Jeremiah had known Julia most of her life. He had been as much of a substitute father for Julia as her father, Admiral Witherington, had been for William.
No, he could not worry about Julia and her safety. Rescuing Charlotte must be his only focus, his only thought.
The monotonous rhythm of the horses' hooves, at a walk over the dark, deeply rutted dirt roads, along with the necessity of keeping his eyes trained on the light shirt stretched across Asher's broad back, lulled William into a stupor.
Ahead lay his ship. The thought of boarding Alexandra and getting under sail chipped away at his anxiety. As soon as he was on the water, as soon as he stood on the quarterdeck and issued the command to weigh anchor, he would be that much closer to finding Charlotte and bringing her home.
The road widened, and Ned pulled up beside him.
"You are certain the man did not identify himself?"
"No, sir. He did not give his name. He only said her safety depended on the mercy of a pirate." Ned's voice came across flat and hoarse.
"What were you doing out on the porch, alone with her in the dark?" Even as William asked this, he reminded himself Ned was not at fault. But if Charlotte had been inside, perhaps…
"I followed them—Miss Ransome and Winchester—when they went for their walk. I did not trust Mrs. Ransome's steward to behave honorably." He paused. "I need not have worried. Char—Miss Ransome handled the situation admirably and dispatched Winchester, and their engagement, with aplomb."
"Winchester was with you when she was taken? Why did you not tell me this before?"
"No, sir. Miss Ransome dismissed him. He had been gone for…several minutes."
Could Winchester be involved? Dread sank like a cannonball in William's gut. Julia already suspected the steward of embezzling money from the plantation. And William had left her there with that man—
"I asked her to marry me."
If Winchester were involved, and this was a ploy to get William away from Tierra—he yanked the reins. The horse voiced its protest and jerked and swerved, nearly unseating William. "I beg your pardon?"
"After Charlotte broke her engagement with Winchester, we talked about our mutual regard. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted." Ned's words barely rose above the sounds of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed earth.
From a sinking ship into shark-infested waters. Could Charlotte not have waited even a full day after breaking one engagement before forming another—again, without her family's knowledge? "And if I refuse my permission?"
"Then we shall wait. We'll wait until you think I am worthy to marry her, sir."
Worthy to marry her. William did not have to think hard to remember standing before Julia's father twelve years ago and saying the same words. Sir Edward had graciously given him—a poor, threadbare lieutenant with no prospects and nothing to recommend him as husband or son-in-law—a father's blessing for William and Julia to marry based on nothing other than their love for each other. William had been the one to deem himself unworthy of her affections, and he had almost lost her forever.
"We shall discuss this after we return Charlotte home."
"I pray that will be soon, sir."
"So do I, Ned. So do I."
Charlotte awoke with a gasp. Wooden planks formed the low ceiling above her. A canvas hammock conformed to her body and swung with the heave and haw of the ocean beneath the ship.
A ship?
Not possible. They had made port, hadn't they?
She stared at the underside of the deck above, trying to clear the haziness from her brain. Yes. They had made port. Left Alexandra and ridden in carriage across those horrible, rutted roads to Tierra Dulce, Julia's sugar plantation. The low, sprawling white house with the deep porch that wrapped all the way around and the white draperies billowing through the open windows.
The porch. She blinked rapidly. The porch. At night. In the dark. Henry Winchester and…and Ned.
She bolted upright and then flung her torso over the side of the hammock as her stomach heaved.
Why should she be sick? She hadn't experienced a moment of seasickness on the crossing from England to Jamaica. She climbed out of the hammock, skirt and petticoats hindering her progress until she hoisted them above her knees, and made for the small table with a glass and pitcher.
Wan light from the stern windows sparkled through the glass, revealing a residue of white powder in the bottom of it. She set the glass back on the stand. Last night the pirate had made her drink from the glass, and then everything had gone hazy. But before that…
She buried her face in her hands. Being torn away from Ned. She prayed they had not killed him. She'd heard no gunshot, but as their raid had been one of stealth, they would more likely have used a blade to end Ned's life.
A sob ripped at her throat, but she forced it to stay contained. She would not give the pirates the satisfaction of seeing her upset. And she must, and would, find a means of escape.
Thirst got the better of her, and she lifted the china pitcher of water and rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply the brackish liquid. She then turned and surveyed the cabin. Obviously the pirate captain's quarters. Though smaller than Ned's aboard Audacious, which was in turn smaller than William's aboard Alexandra, the room was neatly kept, with serviceable furnishings, whitewashed walls and ceiling, and plain floors. Nothing to exhibit the extravagance or wealth she'd expected to see in a pirate's private lair.
The desk. Perhaps something there would tell her more about her captor. She crossed to it, rather surprised by the empty work surface. No stacks of the papers or books like the ones resting on William's or Ned's worktables. Her fingers itched to open the drawer under the desktop and the small doors and drawers along the high back of it, but Mama had taught her better than that.
Two miniatures hanging above the desk caught her eye. One showed a woman, probably a few years older than Charlotte, with dark hair and angular features. Too plain to be called pretty, but not ugly either. The green backdrop of the second painting contrasted vividly with the reddish-brown hair of a pretty girl and matched her vibrant green eyes.
Mahogany hair and green eyes—just like Julia. Why would a pirate have a portrait of Julia hanging in his cabin? But, she corrected herself, the painting was of a girl no older than thirteen or fourteen. Surely the resemblance to Julia was merely coincidental.
"She was lovely, was she not?"
Charlotte gasped and whirled. A dark-haired man dressed in a blue coat that resembled a commodore's or admiral's—complete with prodigious amounts of gold braid about the cuffs, collar, and lapels—stood in the doorway of the cabin.
He tossed a bicorne hat—also similar to a navy officer's—onto the oblong table in the middle of the cabin, clasped his hands behind his back, and sauntered toward her, his eyes on the portrait.
"What do you want with me?"
"I am sorry for the manner of your coming here, Miss…?" He cocked one eyebrow at her.
"Ransome. Charlotte Ransome. My brother is Commodore William Ransome. He will hunt you down. And when he finds you—"
"When he finds me," the pirate said, sighing, "I am certain the encounter shall be quite violent and bloody. Is that what you were going to say?"
Charlotte ground her teeth together. The man stood there, serene as a vicar on the Sabbath, acting as if they stood in a drawing room in Liverpool discussing the weather. "What do you want with me?"
"With you? Nothing." He flicked an invisible speck of dust from the oval frame. "My business is with her."
"With her?" Charlotte nodded toward the painting. "Is that…?"
"Julia Witherington—or Julia Ransome, as I have lately learned. Empress of the Tierra Dulce sugar empire."
The strange lilt in his voice when he said Julia's name sent a chill down Charlotte's spine. "Yes, she is married. To my brother."
"The famous Commodore Ransome." The pirate turned and ambled toward the dining table. "His reputation precedes him."
Worry riddled Charlotte at the pirate's lack of worry over the thought of William's hunting him down and blowing him and his crew out of the water. After Charlotte escaped, naturally.
"You were not part of my plan, little Charlotte Ransome." He turned, leaned against the edge of the table, and crossed his arms. The coat pulled across his broad chest and muscular shoulders. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, softening the way his heavy black brows hooded his eyes. His nose had been aquiline once, but now it sported a bump about halfway down from whence the rest of the appendage angled slightly to his left. A scar stretched across his forehead and down into his left eyebrow. On first sight he could have passed for Spanish, but his accent marked him as an Englishman.
If he weren't a no-good, dastardly, cowardly, kidnapping pirate, she might consider him handsome.
"Did you kill him?" The question squeezed past her throat unbidden.
"Him?"
"Ned—Captain Cochrane. The man with me on the porch." She schooled her emotions as best she could, pretending the man standing before her was none other than Kent, her nemesis during her days aboard Audacious as a midshipman.
"If he is dead, it is through no work of me or my men. We do not kill for sport, only for defense."
"Ha!" The mirthless laugh popped out before she could stop it. "Morality from a pirate? Someone who spends his life pillaging and thieving and destroying and killing and…and…" Heat flooded her face.
"And?" The pirate stood and stalked toward her, an odd gleam in his dark eyes. "And ravishing young women? Is that what you were going to say?"
Charlotte backed away, right into the edge of the desk. She gripped it hard. "N-no."
The pirate leaned over her, hands on either side of her atop the desk, trapping her. "Do not try to lie to me, little Charlotte Ransome. You have no talent for it."
Stays digging into her waist, she bent as far back as she could. "Yes, then. Ravishing." Not that he would get a chance to ravish her. A fork. A penknife. Anything with a sharp edge or point. Once she had something like that in her possession, she would be able to defend herself against him.
Up close, the pirate's brown eyes held chips of gold and green. A hint of dark whiskers lay just beneath the skin of his jaw and above his upper lip.
He blinked when someone knocked on the door but didn't move. "Come!"
"Captain, Lau and Declan are back."
"Very good. I shall meet with them in the wheelhouse momentarily to hear their report. Dismissed."
Charlotte wanted to cry out to stop the other man from leaving, but she knew she deluded herself. She was no safer with any man on this ship than with their captain.
Would Ned still want her—even be able to look at her—after the pirates were finished with her?
"What's this?" The pirate reached up and touched Charlotte's cheek. "Tears?"
She shook her head, more to dislodge his hand than in denial.
With another sigh he straightened and then handed her a handkerchief. "Calm yourself, Miss Ransome. I have no intention of ravishing you. Nor of allowing anyone else to ravish you. While you are aboard my ship, you are under my protection."
He crossed to the table and retrieved his hat. "You, however, must stay to this cabin at all times. Though my men know my rules of conduct, a few of them might give in to the temptation of their baser desires should they see you about on deck."
Charlotte leaned heavily against the desk. The handkerchief in her hand was of the finest lawn, embroidered white-on-white with a Greek-key design around the edge. She frowned at the bit of cloth. Why would a pirate carry something so delicate?
He settled the bicorne on his dark head, points fore-and-aft, the same way the officers of the Royal Navy wore theirs.
"Who are you?"
He touched the fore tip of the hat and then flourished a bow. "I am called El Salvador, and you are aboard my ship, Vengeance. Welcome to my home, Miss Ransome."
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!
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:
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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
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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!
