Camy Tang's Blog, page 148
August 7, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Embers of Love by Tracie Peterson
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Embers of Love
by
Tracie Peterson
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in.
Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
Embers of Love by
Tracie Peterson
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in.
Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
Street Team Book List excerpt - Out of Control by Mary Connealy
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!
Out of Control by Mary Connealy
Julia Gilliland has always been interested in the natural world around her. She particularly enjoys her outings to the cavern near her father's homestead, where she explores for fossils and formations, and plans to write a book about her discoveries. The cave seems plenty safe--until the day a mysterious intruder steals the rope she uses to find her way out.
Rafe Kincaid has spent years keeping his family's cattle ranch going, all without help from his two younger brothers, who fled the ranch--and Rafe's controlling ways--as soon as they were able. He's haunted by one terrible day at the cave on a far-flung corner of the Kincaid property, a day that changed his life forever. Ready to put the past behind him, he plans to visit the cave one final time. He sure doesn't expect to find a young woman trapped in one of the tunnels--or to be forced to kiss her!
Rafe is more intrigued by Julia than any woman he's ever known, but how can he overlook her fascination with the cave he despises? And when his developing relationship with Julia threatens his chance at reconciliation with his brothers, will he be forced to choose between the family bonds that could restore his trust and the love that could heal his heart?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Out of Control
Out of Control by Mary ConnealyJulia Gilliland has always been interested in the natural world around her. She particularly enjoys her outings to the cavern near her father's homestead, where she explores for fossils and formations, and plans to write a book about her discoveries. The cave seems plenty safe--until the day a mysterious intruder steals the rope she uses to find her way out.
Rafe Kincaid has spent years keeping his family's cattle ranch going, all without help from his two younger brothers, who fled the ranch--and Rafe's controlling ways--as soon as they were able. He's haunted by one terrible day at the cave on a far-flung corner of the Kincaid property, a day that changed his life forever. Ready to put the past behind him, he plans to visit the cave one final time. He sure doesn't expect to find a young woman trapped in one of the tunnels--or to be forced to kiss her!
Rafe is more intrigued by Julia than any woman he's ever known, but how can he overlook her fascination with the cave he despises? And when his developing relationship with Julia threatens his chance at reconciliation with his brothers, will he be forced to choose between the family bonds that could restore his trust and the love that could heal his heart?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Out of Control
Street Team Book List excerpt - THE HOMECOMING by Dan Walsh
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
The Homecoming by Dan Walsh
A reluctant war hero returns home and encounters a new chance at love.
No sooner has Shawn Collins returned home from the fighting in Europe than he is called upon to serve his country in another way—as a speaker on the war bond tour. While other men might jump at the chance to travel around the country with attractive Hollywood starlets, Shawn just wants to stay home with his son Patrick and his aging father, and grieve the loss of his wife in private. When Shawn asks Katherine Townsend to be Patrick's nanny while he's on the road, he has no idea how this decision will impact his life. Could it be the key to his future happiness and the mending of his heart? Or will the war once again threaten his chances for a new start?
Dan Walsh does not disappoint in this tender story of family ties and the healing of a broken heart.
"Dan Walsh is a born storyteller . . . definitely a writer to watch."—Deborah Raney, author, Almost Forever and Beneath a Southern Sky
Dan Walsh is the author of The Unfinished Gift and a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. He is a pastor and lives with his family in the Daytona Beach area, where he's busy researching and writing his next novel.
Click here to download an excerpt of Chapter One (.pdf)
Print book:
The Homecoming by Dan Walsh
ebook:
The Homecoming by Dan Walsh ebook
The Homecoming by Dan WalshA reluctant war hero returns home and encounters a new chance at love.
No sooner has Shawn Collins returned home from the fighting in Europe than he is called upon to serve his country in another way—as a speaker on the war bond tour. While other men might jump at the chance to travel around the country with attractive Hollywood starlets, Shawn just wants to stay home with his son Patrick and his aging father, and grieve the loss of his wife in private. When Shawn asks Katherine Townsend to be Patrick's nanny while he's on the road, he has no idea how this decision will impact his life. Could it be the key to his future happiness and the mending of his heart? Or will the war once again threaten his chances for a new start?
Dan Walsh does not disappoint in this tender story of family ties and the healing of a broken heart.
"Dan Walsh is a born storyteller . . . definitely a writer to watch."—Deborah Raney, author, Almost Forever and Beneath a Southern Sky
Dan Walsh is the author of The Unfinished Gift and a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. He is a pastor and lives with his family in the Daytona Beach area, where he's busy researching and writing his next novel.
Click here to download an excerpt of Chapter One (.pdf)
Print book:
The Homecoming by Dan Walsh
ebook:
The Homecoming by Dan Walsh ebook
Street Team Book List excerpt - The Nanny's Homecoming by Linda Goodnight
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
The Nanny's Homecoming
by
Linda Goodnight
After her fiancé calls off their wedding, Brooke Clayton has nowhere to go but home.
If she can survive in the tiny Colorado town for a year, she'll fulfill the odd terms of her estranged grandfather's will. Turns out the wealthy businessman next door, handsome single father Gabe Wesson, needs a nanny for his sweet toddler—and Brooke needs a job. But Gabe sees Brooke as a reminder of the young wife he lost. Given their pasts, do they dare hope to fit together as a family…forever?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Gabe Wesson was a desperate man.
Inside the aptly named Cowboy Cafe, a hodgepodge of western types and various other townsfolk gathered at the long, Formica-topped counter for homemade pie and socializing. Gabe joined the counter crowd, his toddler son perched on his knee.
In a few short weeks, he'd discovered that if a man wanted to know anything or spread any news in the town of Clayton, Colorado, the Cowboy Cafe was the place to do it. Today, what he needed more than anything was a nanny for his son, A.J. Funny that he could run a corporation with dozens of employees but he'd hit a brick wall when it came to finding suitable child care in this tiny Rocky Mountain town.
He was a gambler of sorts, a speculator. Some would even call him a troublemaker, though he always left a place better than he'd found it.
He'd found Clayton to be a sleepy community time had forgotten. With an abandoned railroad track slicing through town and an equally abandoned silver mine perched in the nearby hills, the town was just about dead.
It was the "just about" that had brought Gabe here. He had a knack for sniffing out near-dead businesses and bringing them back to life. This gift—and he was convinced it was a gift from God—had taken him from a scrappy kid stocking groceries to the head of his own Denver corporation by the age of thirty-three.
But unless he found a nanny soon, he would be forced to move back to Denver, something he did not want to do. At least not now, not when the weight of the past two years was starting to lift.
The friendly young waitress, Kylie Jones, sailed past with a slice of hot pie oozing cherries and drowning in vanilla ice cream. Gabe's mouth watered. He ordered the pie and a coffee for himself and a grilled cheese with milk for his son.
Filled with the smell of home-baked cakes and cinnamon, the long, narrow cafe was warm, welcoming and always busy. Square wooden tables with chunky, straight-backed chairs crowded every space. The Denver Post, well-read and refolded, lay next to the old-fashioned cash register and a credit card machine. From a jukebox beside the door, George Strait sang about the best day of his life.
On the stool next to Gabe a cowboy type in boots and Wranglers angled a fork toward the street. A white hearse crept past. "They're planting old George today."
"Cody Jameson, show some respect." Red-haired Erin Fields, the surprisingly young cafe owner, took a swipe at the worn counter with her bleach rag. "This town wouldn't exist without George Clayton and his family."
Kylie, carefully filling a salt shaker, looked up. "Nobody liked him that much, Erin, even if he was the only lawyer in town. Or maybe because of it."
"Still. Speaking ill of the dead doesn't seem right. His grandkids are here for the funeral and they're good people." She propped a hand on one hip and gazed at the street. "Brooke came in yesterday and bought burgers to take over to Arabella's. That girl is still sweet as that cherry pie."
"I'd love to see Brooke again," Kylie said wistfully. She'd moved on to stuffing paper napkins into tall, metal holders. "We played basketball together in high school. She was a terrific point guard."
Erin tossed the bleach rag into the sink behind the counter and ran her hands under the faucet. "Then see her, Kylie. None of the Clayton kids have been in town for ages, but she'll probably stick around for a couple of days."
Kylie's pretty face tightened. "You know how Vincent feels about that side of his family."
Erin's lips thinned but she didn't say anymore. She took a pair of roast-beef-laden platters from the order window, grabbed an iced tea pitcher and moved toward a couple seated at one of the square tables.
Gabe listened with interest, gleaning the facts and the undercurrents. He'd returned to Clayton this morning after a three-day trip to corporate headquarters in Denver. Between then and now, the former owner of the Lucky Lady Silver Mine, George Clayton, had passed away. He wondered if George's heirs knew he'd sold the mine to an outsider.
While he contemplated what the unexpected death could mean to his company, Kylie stopped in front of A.J. A trim brunette, she was the fiancée of one of his new employees, Vincent Clayton. She always made a fuss over A.J.
"What a big boy you are. You ate up every bite of that sandwich." She felt A.J.'s muscles and received a giggle in return.
Fork paused at half-mast, Gabe said, "My job offer is still open."
"Sorry, no. I'd love to nanny A.J., but I'm getting married soon."
Gabe didn't know what getting married had to do with his offer, but he let the comment pass. "Got any other ideas for me? I need to find someone soon." Like yesterday.
Her brown ponytail swung side to side. "I've been asking everyone who comes in. So has Erin, and your sign is still up." She pointed to the fancy graphic-enhanced poster stuck to the front door. "So far, no luck. Who's looking after him now?"
"Me, mostly." That's what made the situation desperate. A job site, especially a construction zone, was no place for a curious toddler. Gabe sweated bullets every time he had to go to the mine. As work progressed, he'd need to be there more and more.
"Let me know if you hear anything, okay?" He took out his wallet and tossed a bill on the counter. "Keep the change."
Kylie's eyes widened at the size of the bill. "Wow, thank you, Mr. Wesson. I'll keep asking."
With a nod toward the cowboy and a wave toward the redhead, Gabe and A.J. pushed out into the summer sun as the last of the funeral cars crawled by. A pretty woman with wavy blond hair gazed bleakly through the passenger window. Something in her expression touched a chord in him. He knew he was staring but couldn't seem to help himself. A.J., tired of standing still, yanked at his father's hand. The woman, stirred by the motion, looked up. Their eyes met and held. Sensation prickled Gabe's skin.
The car rolled on past and she was gone. But the vision of those sad blue eyes stayed behind.
Brooke Clayton gazed around at the collection of Clayton grandchildren gathered in the conference room of the Clayton Christian Church like a bunch of errant schoolchildren sent to the principal's office. Not one of them wanted to be here at the reading of their grandfather's will. Yet, five of the six had come out of blood loyalty, not for Grandpa George Clayton, but for their cousin Arabella. It was her phone call, her need, that had brought them together again after more than four years.
Brooke's gaze rested on each beloved face. Her intense cop brother, Zach. Her sophisticated sister, Vivienne. Mei, the adopted sister of the only absent grandchild, rebel Lucas, and of course, darkly pretty Arabella. With a clutch of emotion, Brooke acknowledged she'd missed them, though she hadn't missed the painful memories of living in the tiny town that bore her family name.
Only family and a few close friends had attended Grandpa George's funeral services, although plenty of townspeople had stared at the procession on its journey to the cemetery. She wondered what they were thinking. Good riddance? Was there anyone who'd miss George Clayton, Sr.? None of the grandchildren had it in them to pretend what they didn't feel, and silly as it sounded, the lack of grief had made Brooke sad.
As they'd driven down Railroad Street, a man had stepped out of the Cowboy Cafe. A tall, handsome stranger with a very small boy.
That's when she'd begun to weep. Small children had that effect on her.
She'd once known everyone in this town of less than a thousand, but she hadn't recognized the man. They'd made eye contact, and something— some indefinable something—had passed between them. She'd thought about him and his beautiful brown-haired son off and on during the graveside service. Who was he? Why had that particular stranger's image been stamped on her memory?
"We need to begin." Pencil thin in an appropriately black suit, attorney Mark Arrington had already waited more than an hour for the sixth and final grandchild to arrive.
Calls had been made and letters sent, but no one was certain their rebellious cousin had received the summons. Even if he had, only one person in the room was confident of Lucas's attendance. His sister.
Brooke wiggled her feet inside the confining heels. With a broken pinky, pinching heels and her wounded pride, she hurt everywhere. A few days ago, she was planning a wedding. Now, she had no plans at all beyond getting through today.
"I don't think Lucas is going to make it," she said.
"If Lucas was coming, he'd be here," Zach added with coplike frankness.
"A few minutes longer." The quiet steel of Mei Clayton's voice drew every eye to her round, delicate face. Of all her kin, Brooke understood Mei the least. As she'd grown older Mei had pulled away from all of the Claytons except her adopted brother, Lucas.
"What makes you think he'll show?" Zach asked.
Mei sat up straighter in the cushioned chair, quietly insistent. Her gleaming black hair swung softly around her Asian features. "If he's needed, my brother will come."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, everyone. I have another appointment in thirty minutes." With a gesture Brooke found overdramatic, the attorney pointed toward a flat screen. "If I may direct your attention to the TV. Mr. Clayton himself would like to address you first, and then I have the task of setting out the rules of the will."
Brooke exchanged frowning glances with her brother. What in the world? Zach lifted an eyebrow but offered no response. Whatever his thoughts,
he'd keep them to himself until all the evidence was on the table.
The screen flickered to life and the face of Grandpa George appeared, looking a little too hearty to have been buried a few hours ago. Dressed in his usual dark business suit, he was seated behind the desk at his law offices. An uncomfortable hush fell over the five assembled Claytons.
"If you're watching this, I'm dead." George chuckled at his own morbid joke. "You're all wondering why I've dragged you back here. I haven't been the best grandfather. I haven't always done right by you, or by anyone, for that matter. But before the deaths of my two sons changed everything, we were a family. Not as close as we should have been, but we spent Christmas and Thanksgiving together."
"Then because of issues I hope you never know about, I lost my daughter, too. Kat won't even speak to me, and five of you grandkids have scattered across the country. Clayton, Colorado, might not be much, but it's your home, your history. My daddy started this town. My wife started the church. Claytons belong here." He pointed a bony finger toward the camera. " You belong here."
The cousins exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Brooke knew they were all thinking the same thing. Having a dead man point at you was weird.
"I want you to come home," Grandpa said. "All six of you—for at least a year. Be a family again. Revive this dying town. Find your hearts and souls right here where you left them."
Zach pushed up from his chair and paced to the window.
"Sit down, Zach. You always did pace like a tiger when upset." Grandpa George chuckled. "If you didn't get up, you wanted to."
Zach returned his attention the video, arms folded, mouth quirked in wry amusement. Goose bumps shimmied up Brooke's back. Zach's philosophy might be "Never let 'em see you sweat," but Brooke was all for sweating. Grandpa George's video bordered on creepy.
"You may think Clayton is your past, son," Grandpa George went on. "But I know a thing or two about your present. Miami holds nothing but bad memories for you. Clayton and this county need you. Even dead, your old grandpa can pull a few strings, and you'd do mighty fine as Clayton County sheriff. Think about it, Zach."
Zach as county sheriff? Now there was an outrageously interesting and laughable idea. After what Zach had been through in Clayton? No way.
"As incentive, because I know none of you will willingly come home, I've left something for each of you." Grandpa George paused. Brooke refused to even ponder an inheritance. The old miser had probably left them all a pile of debts just for or-neriness. "Two hundred fifty thousand dollars each, plus five hundred acres of Colorado real estate right here in Clayton County."
A clamor broke out in the room.
"How could he have had that much money?"
"I thought he was broke."
"I can't believe this."
Mark Arrington lifted a long hand. "Ladies. Zach. There are stipulations to the inheritance. You need to hear the rest."
Vivienne rolled her thickly lashed blue eyes. "Stipulations. That figures."
The clamor subsided, but Brooke's heart clattered wildly in her chest until she could barely hear her grandfather's voice. A quarter of a million dollars? She could…she could do anything she wanted to. If she knew what that was.
"Arabella."
Her cousin jumped. How many times in the past months had kind-hearted Arabella jumped up to do their sick grandfather's bidding?
"You're the only one who's stuck with your old Grandpa. That's why I'm leaving you the house, too, as long as your cousins cooperate and stick out their year. Without you, I wouldn't have made my peace with God. Leastways, Reverend West says the Lord forgives my sins, and though that doesn't make up for the wrongs I've done, perhaps this legacy of good I'm leaving behind will make a difference."
Arabella dabbed at her eyes. She'd worried a tissue into a ragged mess. Mei reached into her handbag and pulled out a handful of tissues, offering them to her cousin without a word.
"So there you are, children," Grandpa George said. "An inheritance that can change your lives if you choose to accept it. But the will is ironclad. No exceptions. All of you have to spend a year in Clayton. And you have to come home by this Christmas. Hear that, Lucas?" He rapped twice on the desk. "No later than Christmas.
"This is my chance to leave a legacy—a good one—for the town that bears my name. I know what you're thinking—too little, too late—but I ask that each of you look in your hearts and find one happy memory of me. It might take a while, and you might be reluctant, but you'll find at least one. And maybe it'll help."
The television screen flickered and went dark. The conference room was so quiet Brooke could hear her finger throb.
Mark Arrington cleared his throat. "So there you have it. Spend one year in Clayton and inherit a fortune."
Vivienne, elegant and classy in black and white, was already shaking her dark blond head. As a renowned New York chef, she had worked hard to shed her rural ways. She loved the city. She loved her life. "I can't just walk away from my career. What am I supposed to do in Clayton? Flip burgers at The Cowboy Cafe?"
Print book:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Large Print book:
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ebook:
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The Nanny's Homecomingby
Linda Goodnight
After her fiancé calls off their wedding, Brooke Clayton has nowhere to go but home.
If she can survive in the tiny Colorado town for a year, she'll fulfill the odd terms of her estranged grandfather's will. Turns out the wealthy businessman next door, handsome single father Gabe Wesson, needs a nanny for his sweet toddler—and Brooke needs a job. But Gabe sees Brooke as a reminder of the young wife he lost. Given their pasts, do they dare hope to fit together as a family…forever?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Gabe Wesson was a desperate man.
Inside the aptly named Cowboy Cafe, a hodgepodge of western types and various other townsfolk gathered at the long, Formica-topped counter for homemade pie and socializing. Gabe joined the counter crowd, his toddler son perched on his knee.
In a few short weeks, he'd discovered that if a man wanted to know anything or spread any news in the town of Clayton, Colorado, the Cowboy Cafe was the place to do it. Today, what he needed more than anything was a nanny for his son, A.J. Funny that he could run a corporation with dozens of employees but he'd hit a brick wall when it came to finding suitable child care in this tiny Rocky Mountain town.
He was a gambler of sorts, a speculator. Some would even call him a troublemaker, though he always left a place better than he'd found it.
He'd found Clayton to be a sleepy community time had forgotten. With an abandoned railroad track slicing through town and an equally abandoned silver mine perched in the nearby hills, the town was just about dead.
It was the "just about" that had brought Gabe here. He had a knack for sniffing out near-dead businesses and bringing them back to life. This gift—and he was convinced it was a gift from God—had taken him from a scrappy kid stocking groceries to the head of his own Denver corporation by the age of thirty-three.
But unless he found a nanny soon, he would be forced to move back to Denver, something he did not want to do. At least not now, not when the weight of the past two years was starting to lift.
The friendly young waitress, Kylie Jones, sailed past with a slice of hot pie oozing cherries and drowning in vanilla ice cream. Gabe's mouth watered. He ordered the pie and a coffee for himself and a grilled cheese with milk for his son.
Filled with the smell of home-baked cakes and cinnamon, the long, narrow cafe was warm, welcoming and always busy. Square wooden tables with chunky, straight-backed chairs crowded every space. The Denver Post, well-read and refolded, lay next to the old-fashioned cash register and a credit card machine. From a jukebox beside the door, George Strait sang about the best day of his life.
On the stool next to Gabe a cowboy type in boots and Wranglers angled a fork toward the street. A white hearse crept past. "They're planting old George today."
"Cody Jameson, show some respect." Red-haired Erin Fields, the surprisingly young cafe owner, took a swipe at the worn counter with her bleach rag. "This town wouldn't exist without George Clayton and his family."
Kylie, carefully filling a salt shaker, looked up. "Nobody liked him that much, Erin, even if he was the only lawyer in town. Or maybe because of it."
"Still. Speaking ill of the dead doesn't seem right. His grandkids are here for the funeral and they're good people." She propped a hand on one hip and gazed at the street. "Brooke came in yesterday and bought burgers to take over to Arabella's. That girl is still sweet as that cherry pie."
"I'd love to see Brooke again," Kylie said wistfully. She'd moved on to stuffing paper napkins into tall, metal holders. "We played basketball together in high school. She was a terrific point guard."
Erin tossed the bleach rag into the sink behind the counter and ran her hands under the faucet. "Then see her, Kylie. None of the Clayton kids have been in town for ages, but she'll probably stick around for a couple of days."
Kylie's pretty face tightened. "You know how Vincent feels about that side of his family."
Erin's lips thinned but she didn't say anymore. She took a pair of roast-beef-laden platters from the order window, grabbed an iced tea pitcher and moved toward a couple seated at one of the square tables.
Gabe listened with interest, gleaning the facts and the undercurrents. He'd returned to Clayton this morning after a three-day trip to corporate headquarters in Denver. Between then and now, the former owner of the Lucky Lady Silver Mine, George Clayton, had passed away. He wondered if George's heirs knew he'd sold the mine to an outsider.
While he contemplated what the unexpected death could mean to his company, Kylie stopped in front of A.J. A trim brunette, she was the fiancée of one of his new employees, Vincent Clayton. She always made a fuss over A.J.
"What a big boy you are. You ate up every bite of that sandwich." She felt A.J.'s muscles and received a giggle in return.
Fork paused at half-mast, Gabe said, "My job offer is still open."
"Sorry, no. I'd love to nanny A.J., but I'm getting married soon."
Gabe didn't know what getting married had to do with his offer, but he let the comment pass. "Got any other ideas for me? I need to find someone soon." Like yesterday.
Her brown ponytail swung side to side. "I've been asking everyone who comes in. So has Erin, and your sign is still up." She pointed to the fancy graphic-enhanced poster stuck to the front door. "So far, no luck. Who's looking after him now?"
"Me, mostly." That's what made the situation desperate. A job site, especially a construction zone, was no place for a curious toddler. Gabe sweated bullets every time he had to go to the mine. As work progressed, he'd need to be there more and more.
"Let me know if you hear anything, okay?" He took out his wallet and tossed a bill on the counter. "Keep the change."
Kylie's eyes widened at the size of the bill. "Wow, thank you, Mr. Wesson. I'll keep asking."
With a nod toward the cowboy and a wave toward the redhead, Gabe and A.J. pushed out into the summer sun as the last of the funeral cars crawled by. A pretty woman with wavy blond hair gazed bleakly through the passenger window. Something in her expression touched a chord in him. He knew he was staring but couldn't seem to help himself. A.J., tired of standing still, yanked at his father's hand. The woman, stirred by the motion, looked up. Their eyes met and held. Sensation prickled Gabe's skin.
The car rolled on past and she was gone. But the vision of those sad blue eyes stayed behind.
Brooke Clayton gazed around at the collection of Clayton grandchildren gathered in the conference room of the Clayton Christian Church like a bunch of errant schoolchildren sent to the principal's office. Not one of them wanted to be here at the reading of their grandfather's will. Yet, five of the six had come out of blood loyalty, not for Grandpa George Clayton, but for their cousin Arabella. It was her phone call, her need, that had brought them together again after more than four years.
Brooke's gaze rested on each beloved face. Her intense cop brother, Zach. Her sophisticated sister, Vivienne. Mei, the adopted sister of the only absent grandchild, rebel Lucas, and of course, darkly pretty Arabella. With a clutch of emotion, Brooke acknowledged she'd missed them, though she hadn't missed the painful memories of living in the tiny town that bore her family name.
Only family and a few close friends had attended Grandpa George's funeral services, although plenty of townspeople had stared at the procession on its journey to the cemetery. She wondered what they were thinking. Good riddance? Was there anyone who'd miss George Clayton, Sr.? None of the grandchildren had it in them to pretend what they didn't feel, and silly as it sounded, the lack of grief had made Brooke sad.
As they'd driven down Railroad Street, a man had stepped out of the Cowboy Cafe. A tall, handsome stranger with a very small boy.
That's when she'd begun to weep. Small children had that effect on her.
She'd once known everyone in this town of less than a thousand, but she hadn't recognized the man. They'd made eye contact, and something— some indefinable something—had passed between them. She'd thought about him and his beautiful brown-haired son off and on during the graveside service. Who was he? Why had that particular stranger's image been stamped on her memory?
"We need to begin." Pencil thin in an appropriately black suit, attorney Mark Arrington had already waited more than an hour for the sixth and final grandchild to arrive.
Calls had been made and letters sent, but no one was certain their rebellious cousin had received the summons. Even if he had, only one person in the room was confident of Lucas's attendance. His sister.
Brooke wiggled her feet inside the confining heels. With a broken pinky, pinching heels and her wounded pride, she hurt everywhere. A few days ago, she was planning a wedding. Now, she had no plans at all beyond getting through today.
"I don't think Lucas is going to make it," she said.
"If Lucas was coming, he'd be here," Zach added with coplike frankness.
"A few minutes longer." The quiet steel of Mei Clayton's voice drew every eye to her round, delicate face. Of all her kin, Brooke understood Mei the least. As she'd grown older Mei had pulled away from all of the Claytons except her adopted brother, Lucas.
"What makes you think he'll show?" Zach asked.
Mei sat up straighter in the cushioned chair, quietly insistent. Her gleaming black hair swung softly around her Asian features. "If he's needed, my brother will come."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, everyone. I have another appointment in thirty minutes." With a gesture Brooke found overdramatic, the attorney pointed toward a flat screen. "If I may direct your attention to the TV. Mr. Clayton himself would like to address you first, and then I have the task of setting out the rules of the will."
Brooke exchanged frowning glances with her brother. What in the world? Zach lifted an eyebrow but offered no response. Whatever his thoughts,
he'd keep them to himself until all the evidence was on the table.
The screen flickered to life and the face of Grandpa George appeared, looking a little too hearty to have been buried a few hours ago. Dressed in his usual dark business suit, he was seated behind the desk at his law offices. An uncomfortable hush fell over the five assembled Claytons.
"If you're watching this, I'm dead." George chuckled at his own morbid joke. "You're all wondering why I've dragged you back here. I haven't been the best grandfather. I haven't always done right by you, or by anyone, for that matter. But before the deaths of my two sons changed everything, we were a family. Not as close as we should have been, but we spent Christmas and Thanksgiving together."
"Then because of issues I hope you never know about, I lost my daughter, too. Kat won't even speak to me, and five of you grandkids have scattered across the country. Clayton, Colorado, might not be much, but it's your home, your history. My daddy started this town. My wife started the church. Claytons belong here." He pointed a bony finger toward the camera. " You belong here."
The cousins exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Brooke knew they were all thinking the same thing. Having a dead man point at you was weird.
"I want you to come home," Grandpa said. "All six of you—for at least a year. Be a family again. Revive this dying town. Find your hearts and souls right here where you left them."
Zach pushed up from his chair and paced to the window.
"Sit down, Zach. You always did pace like a tiger when upset." Grandpa George chuckled. "If you didn't get up, you wanted to."
Zach returned his attention the video, arms folded, mouth quirked in wry amusement. Goose bumps shimmied up Brooke's back. Zach's philosophy might be "Never let 'em see you sweat," but Brooke was all for sweating. Grandpa George's video bordered on creepy.
"You may think Clayton is your past, son," Grandpa George went on. "But I know a thing or two about your present. Miami holds nothing but bad memories for you. Clayton and this county need you. Even dead, your old grandpa can pull a few strings, and you'd do mighty fine as Clayton County sheriff. Think about it, Zach."
Zach as county sheriff? Now there was an outrageously interesting and laughable idea. After what Zach had been through in Clayton? No way.
"As incentive, because I know none of you will willingly come home, I've left something for each of you." Grandpa George paused. Brooke refused to even ponder an inheritance. The old miser had probably left them all a pile of debts just for or-neriness. "Two hundred fifty thousand dollars each, plus five hundred acres of Colorado real estate right here in Clayton County."
A clamor broke out in the room.
"How could he have had that much money?"
"I thought he was broke."
"I can't believe this."
Mark Arrington lifted a long hand. "Ladies. Zach. There are stipulations to the inheritance. You need to hear the rest."
Vivienne rolled her thickly lashed blue eyes. "Stipulations. That figures."
The clamor subsided, but Brooke's heart clattered wildly in her chest until she could barely hear her grandfather's voice. A quarter of a million dollars? She could…she could do anything she wanted to. If she knew what that was.
"Arabella."
Her cousin jumped. How many times in the past months had kind-hearted Arabella jumped up to do their sick grandfather's bidding?
"You're the only one who's stuck with your old Grandpa. That's why I'm leaving you the house, too, as long as your cousins cooperate and stick out their year. Without you, I wouldn't have made my peace with God. Leastways, Reverend West says the Lord forgives my sins, and though that doesn't make up for the wrongs I've done, perhaps this legacy of good I'm leaving behind will make a difference."
Arabella dabbed at her eyes. She'd worried a tissue into a ragged mess. Mei reached into her handbag and pulled out a handful of tissues, offering them to her cousin without a word.
"So there you are, children," Grandpa George said. "An inheritance that can change your lives if you choose to accept it. But the will is ironclad. No exceptions. All of you have to spend a year in Clayton. And you have to come home by this Christmas. Hear that, Lucas?" He rapped twice on the desk. "No later than Christmas.
"This is my chance to leave a legacy—a good one—for the town that bears my name. I know what you're thinking—too little, too late—but I ask that each of you look in your hearts and find one happy memory of me. It might take a while, and you might be reluctant, but you'll find at least one. And maybe it'll help."
The television screen flickered and went dark. The conference room was so quiet Brooke could hear her finger throb.
Mark Arrington cleared his throat. "So there you have it. Spend one year in Clayton and inherit a fortune."
Vivienne, elegant and classy in black and white, was already shaking her dark blond head. As a renowned New York chef, she had worked hard to shed her rural ways. She loved the city. She loved her life. "I can't just walk away from my career. What am I supposed to do in Clayton? Flip burgers at The Cowboy Cafe?"
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Street Team Book List excerpt - The Heiress by Susan May Warren
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
The Heiress by Susan May Warren
They can buy anything they want—fame, power, beauty, even loyalty. But they can't buy love.
The beautiful and wealthy heiress daughters of August Price can buy everything their hearts desire. But what if their desire is to be loved, without an enormous price tag attached? When one sister betrays another for the sake of love, will she find happiness? And what happens when the other sets out across the still untamed frontier to find it—will she discover she's left it behind in the glamorous world of the New York gilded society? What price will each woman pay for being an heiress?
Set in the opulent world of the Gilded Age, two women discover that being an heiress just might cost them everything they love.
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Heiress Part 1: Sisters
New York City, 1896
Chapter 1
With the wrong smile, her sister could destroy Jinx's world.
"Loosen your breath, Esme, and the lacing will go easier." Jinx sat on the ottoman,
watching Bette pull the stays of Esme's new corset as her sister hung onto the lacing bar.
The corset, silk damask with embroidered tea roses, pale pink ribbons along the heart-shaped
bust line and a polished brass busk, had arrived only yesterday in a shipment from Worth's of
Paris.
Esme didn't deserve something so beautiful, not with her gigantic twenty-one-inch waist,
the way she fought the corsetiere during the fitting, and now held her breath instead of exhaling
to lose yet another half-inch.
Jinx, still in her training corset, had long ago shaved her torso down to eighteen inches.
She deserved a damask corset, in the new S-shaped style, the way it erected the posture,
protruded her hips, and forced her body into the elegant shape of a society woman. But her
corset wouldn't arrive until her mother ordered her debut trousseau, hopefully after the end of
this year's society season. After all, she'd already turned seventeen, would be eighteen when the
season started next November.
She should have been born first.
Esme closed her eyes, as if in pain. "Mother, I can't breathe. I will faint during the
quadrille."
"Perhaps you will be recovered by someone of significance." Phoebe sat on a gold-foiled
Marie Antoinette chair, the red plush velvet like a throne as she perched upon it, surveying her
eldest daughter's preparations. "It wouldn't hurt your attention to be found swooning during a
waltz into the arms of the Astor heir."
Esme made a face. "More likely, I'll find myself discarded in the sitting room, one of
the Astor's maids fanning me to consciousness. Please, Bette, that is enough." She released the
lacing bar, letting her arms fall, and cast a look at their mother, who assented with a flick of her
hand.
Jinx bit back a huff of disgust. It simply wasn't fair that, despite Esme's almost militant
repulsion to securing a husband, men lined up to call on her during her at-home days, appeared
after church to walk her home, vied to be seated beside her at dinner parties, and begged her to
partner with them in golf and tennis. Most of all, they bedecked her with bouquets of dark red
Jacqueminot roses or deep pink Boneselline rosebuds before every ball.
Jinx blamed Esme's exquisite beauty—her straw-blonde hair, too-blue eyes, a form that
frankly, needed no corset to enhance—because Esme had interest in none of her suitors, despite
their pedigrees. Worse, her sister almost purposely confused the etiquette of dinner, refused the
language of the fan, and occasionally wandered out onto some dark balcony to view the stars
while the after-dinner German was called, leaving her suitors with no one to present their flowers
or party gifts to. Jinx had no doubt her sister wouldn't hesitate to attend Caroline Astor's January
ball with her uncorseted body loose in a tea dress, while she pressed her nose into some dime
novel.
God had been so unfair.
As if Esme could read Jinx's thoughts, she turned to her mother, even as Bette followed
her to fasten her stays. "Really, Mother, are you sure I must attend tonight's ball? I'm exhausted.
Tea today at the Wilson's, and last night dinner at the Fish's and the Opera the night before? I
am simply wasted to the bone—"
The Heiress by Susan May WarrenThey can buy anything they want—fame, power, beauty, even loyalty. But they can't buy love.
The beautiful and wealthy heiress daughters of August Price can buy everything their hearts desire. But what if their desire is to be loved, without an enormous price tag attached? When one sister betrays another for the sake of love, will she find happiness? And what happens when the other sets out across the still untamed frontier to find it—will she discover she's left it behind in the glamorous world of the New York gilded society? What price will each woman pay for being an heiress?
Set in the opulent world of the Gilded Age, two women discover that being an heiress just might cost them everything they love.
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Heiress Part 1: Sisters
New York City, 1896
Chapter 1
With the wrong smile, her sister could destroy Jinx's world.
"Loosen your breath, Esme, and the lacing will go easier." Jinx sat on the ottoman,
watching Bette pull the stays of Esme's new corset as her sister hung onto the lacing bar.
The corset, silk damask with embroidered tea roses, pale pink ribbons along the heart-shaped
bust line and a polished brass busk, had arrived only yesterday in a shipment from Worth's of
Paris.
Esme didn't deserve something so beautiful, not with her gigantic twenty-one-inch waist,
the way she fought the corsetiere during the fitting, and now held her breath instead of exhaling
to lose yet another half-inch.
Jinx, still in her training corset, had long ago shaved her torso down to eighteen inches.
She deserved a damask corset, in the new S-shaped style, the way it erected the posture,
protruded her hips, and forced her body into the elegant shape of a society woman. But her
corset wouldn't arrive until her mother ordered her debut trousseau, hopefully after the end of
this year's society season. After all, she'd already turned seventeen, would be eighteen when the
season started next November.
She should have been born first.
Esme closed her eyes, as if in pain. "Mother, I can't breathe. I will faint during the
quadrille."
"Perhaps you will be recovered by someone of significance." Phoebe sat on a gold-foiled
Marie Antoinette chair, the red plush velvet like a throne as she perched upon it, surveying her
eldest daughter's preparations. "It wouldn't hurt your attention to be found swooning during a
waltz into the arms of the Astor heir."
Esme made a face. "More likely, I'll find myself discarded in the sitting room, one of
the Astor's maids fanning me to consciousness. Please, Bette, that is enough." She released the
lacing bar, letting her arms fall, and cast a look at their mother, who assented with a flick of her
hand.
Jinx bit back a huff of disgust. It simply wasn't fair that, despite Esme's almost militant
repulsion to securing a husband, men lined up to call on her during her at-home days, appeared
after church to walk her home, vied to be seated beside her at dinner parties, and begged her to
partner with them in golf and tennis. Most of all, they bedecked her with bouquets of dark red
Jacqueminot roses or deep pink Boneselline rosebuds before every ball.
Jinx blamed Esme's exquisite beauty—her straw-blonde hair, too-blue eyes, a form that
frankly, needed no corset to enhance—because Esme had interest in none of her suitors, despite
their pedigrees. Worse, her sister almost purposely confused the etiquette of dinner, refused the
language of the fan, and occasionally wandered out onto some dark balcony to view the stars
while the after-dinner German was called, leaving her suitors with no one to present their flowers
or party gifts to. Jinx had no doubt her sister wouldn't hesitate to attend Caroline Astor's January
ball with her uncorseted body loose in a tea dress, while she pressed her nose into some dime
novel.
God had been so unfair.
As if Esme could read Jinx's thoughts, she turned to her mother, even as Bette followed
her to fasten her stays. "Really, Mother, are you sure I must attend tonight's ball? I'm exhausted.
Tea today at the Wilson's, and last night dinner at the Fish's and the Opera the night before? I
am simply wasted to the bone—"
Street Team Book List excerpt - Love Finds You in Amana, Iowa by Melanie Dobson
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Love Finds You in Amana, Iowa
by
Melanie Dobson
With a backdrop of the community of The Amana Colonies, the Civil War, and a great love story, Melanie Dobson's new historical fiction title LOVE FINDS YOU IN AMANA, IOWA both enlightening and entertaining.
The novel is set in the United States during the turmoil of the 1860s. As the rest of the nation is embroiled in the Civil War, the Amana Colonies have remained at peace with a strong faith in God and pursuit of community, intertwined with hard work, family life and the building of their colony.
Amalie Wiese is travelling to the newly built village of Amana in 1863. When she arrives in the colonies she finds that her fiancée, Friedrich has left to fight with the Union Army. Amalie fears for his safety as she also struggles with his decision to abandon the colony's beliefs. Matthias, Frederick's friend, stays back in Amana to work in the colonies. But there is something wrong with Matthias; he always seems angry at Amalie when there is no simple explanation for him to act that way.
The goods that colonies manufacture are much needed supplies for the war effort and Matthias decides to deliver the goods to the soldiers. When he leaves, Amalie realizes that her fear for Matthias's safety is equally as strong. What will become of Friedrich, will Matthias return safely, and will Amalie marry Friedrich? LOVE FINDS YOU IN AMANA, IOWA is a richly told story of life in the Amana Society and the people who live and love there.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
July 1863
Wagon wheels rumbled over the hard earth and stones along the Ohio trail before dipping down to splash through a creek. Rain clouds swathed the hot sky, pacifying the intense sunrays for seconds and sometimes minutes at a time. Nature's game of hide-and-seek was welcome relief from the heat that had trailed the Inspirationists since they left New York. Two long weeks ago.
Water seeped through Amalie Wiese's boots as she stepped into the creek. The coldness bathed her stockings and chilled her toes. If only she could take a bath tonight. Clean the dust and sweat off her skin and soothe the aches that rippled up her legs and back and settled into her shoulders.
Beside her Karoline Baumer picked up her skirt and stepped into the creek. She squealed with delight as the cold water soaked her bare toes and splashed on her legs. Her friend's pale yellow hair was hidden under a lilac-colored sunbonnet, the same sunbonnet all of the women in their community wore. Even with the head covering draped over her ears and shoulders, hiding her cheeks, Amalie could see the freckles that dotted the nose of the lively girl who'd been working beside her for the past two years.
Karoline was barely twenty, but she was one of the hardest workers Amalie knew. And there was nothing Amalie respected more than a man or a woman who worked hard.
For the past ten of her twenty-four years, Amalie had cooked and cleaned six and a half days a week as a helper and then as the assistant baas in one of the colony's communal kitchens. She didn't mind the cooking or cleaning. It was the wilderness she hated. The dirt and the bramble and the vicious mosquitoes that liked to feed on her skin. Her kitchen was clean. Controlled. With a bit of scrubbing, she could eradi¬cate any sign of disorder in the kitchen, but out here on the trail, there was no way to keep the dirt off her clothes, her skin, or her dishes.
She wouldn't grumble about the long journey through the trees and hills, at least not with her lips, but it comforted her to know that the elders would never ask any of them to travel the states between New York and Iowa again. Once they reached the new Kolonie, they would be home.
"How are your feet?" Karoline asked.
"Blistered."
Karoline actually giggled. "Mine too."
"I wish I could laugh about it."
"You should take off your shoes," Karoline said, but Amalie shook her head. Even if she could hide her bare feet under her long dress, she didn't want her toes to touch the dirt.
"It's all part of the adventure," Karoline insisted.
"I'm having enough of an adventure with my shoes on."
Copper boilers, kettles, and skillets clanged in the wagon beside the women, and behind them was another wagon filled with barrels of flour and sugar, flatware, tablecloths, and ceramic jars to start the new Kolonie kitchen. The barrels and crates rattled together as they forged the creek.
They were going to replenish their food supply in the town of Lisbon tonight with meat from the butchery and fresh fruit and vegetables. And if they made it to Lisbon before dark, she was secretly hoping for a hot meal as well, along with a bath at a hotel instead of another night in a tent.
The hooves of two oxen beside them plodded back onto dry ground, and she and Karoline both hopped up onto the bank as another wagon rode into the water. In front of them were two wagons with nine other wagons following behind, all of them filled with supplies and clothing and family heirlooms. On their way to paradise.
The elders had written in great detail about the twenty-six thou¬sand acres they had purchased in the Iowa River Valley. They wrote about the timberland and pastures for their animals and plenty of sandstone and clay to build their villages. They described the lush hills and pristine river and rich soil in the land.
Amana is what they named the land, from the Song of Solomon. To remain true. It would be the perfect place for their community, the Community of the True Inspiration.
And it would be the perfect place for her and Friedrich to begin their marriage.
In her dreams, she imagined a private reunion with Friedrich away from the crowds in the new Kolonie. Friedrich had never kissed her before, but in the darkness of her tent, on the long nights when she couldn't sleep, she imagined what it would feel like to finally be in his arms.
She wouldn't care then about the sweat and dirt and the endless walking on this journey. The three years of waiting would melt away in his embrace, and if God blessed them with a long life, their bond would be strong sixty or even seventy years from now as they told the story of their move to grandchildren and perhaps even to great-grandchildren. The Inspirationists had been migrating slowly to the new Kolonie for eight years now. Friedrich and several hundred other men had built six villages on the land, and the elders purchased a seventh village two years ago—a railroad town named Homestead. Their Kolonie was a harbor from the rough world around them, a protected place far removed from the cities in this big country and the strains of materialism that tempted their people. The community would keep all of them from falling away from their devotion to the spiritual life. They would be bound together as a people who promised to remain true to God and to each other.
Amalie and Karoline were the only two women on this journey west—the rest of the women and children remained at the Inspiration¬ist colony in New York called Ebenezer. If she and Karoline had waited, they would have been able to travel by steamship across Lake Erie and then by iron train with Friedrich's family and the rest of the group coming to Iowa in the autumn months. Instead, Amalie had convinced the elders that the men escorting the dozen wagons with supplies to Iowa needed a couple of women to cook for them.
At the time, traveling by wagon seemed like a good idea. She and Karoline had both been excited to see a bit of America, and she was ready to take a respite from her parents' influence. Her mother was a midwife in Ebenezer and assisted the doctor whenever he needed her. Amalie's father was one of the elders helping secure the sale of the property in New York. They would leave Ebenezer with the final group moving west, probably in a year or two.
More than anything else, though, Amalie had chosen to go with the wagon train because she would see Friedrich two months earlier than if she had waited.
The Wiese name was one of strength, of men and women who escaped persecution in Germany and traveled the rough seas from Europe so they and their families could worship God in freedom. Herancestors and even her parents faced many more trials than she ever had. Surely she could finish this journey to Iowa.
Karoline looked up at the trees above them. "Isn't God's creation beautiful?"
Amalie glanced up. Light filtered through the web of branches and leaves and spilled over them, but her toes were too cold to appreciate the beauty.
"I'm hot one minute and then freezing the next."
Karoline laughed. "You don't like nature much, do you?"
"It's not that," she started but then caught herself. There was no reason for her to be untruthful with Karoline. "I just miss my kitchen."
"That's why you will make such a good kitchen baas," Karoline replied. "You actually enjoy the work."
"You'd make a good kitchen baas if you wanted to do it."
Karoline shook her head. "I'd much rather plant the food than cook it."
"Maybe one day you will work in the gardens," Amalie said. "But you're not allowed to start gardening until next year."
She needed Karoline's capable hands to help her start the new kitchen in Amana.
"Not until next year," Karoline assured her.
The ox snorted beside her, and Amalie reached out her hand and patted its back. She could feel his ribs through his warm skin. He was probably hungry too.
"Don't distract him," Christoph Faust commanded in German. The man rode up on the other side of the oxen, towering over them from his saddle. Karoline slowed her pace to walk behind Amalie.
Mr. Faust was an immigrant from Prussia, and because of his knowledge of the German language and his experience leading pio¬neers west, the elders had hired him as a wagon master to lead their rain to Iowa. The wide brim on his hat circled his head like a rugged halo. He reminded Amalie of the mighty angels of the Bible, the ones who could strike down the disobedient with a wave of their hand.
"I wasn't distracting him. I was encouraging him." Amalie glanced away from the wagon master, down to the wet hem of her skirt. One of the rules of their conduct was to be polite and friendly towards every¬one, but she didn't feel comfortable being too friendly with Mr. Faust. "We all want to get to Lisbon tonight for a decent meal."
"I don't know why, Miss Wiese," he said. "Your cooking is the best I've ever tasted on the trail."
She kept her eyes focused on the jagged rocks and patches of clover that garnished the trail. Some women might blush at a compliment like that, but Amalie knew that flattery only led to an inflated view of one's self. A false view. Each person was created equal in God's sight. Their skills and talents contributed to God's kingdom, not to building up a kingdom that would crumble the day they left this world.
She could feel Mr. Faust's gaze still on her, awaiting her response from atop his horse.
"What do you usually eat on the trail?"
"Anything we can catch," he said with a grin. "Sometimes a squir¬rel or a snake."
Her stomach rolled at the thought of eating a snake. No wonder he liked her food. "I'm glad to know my stew tastes better than squirrel meat."
Mr. Faust leaned down over the oxen, and his gaze locked onto her. "I'd ask you to marry me, Miss Wiese, if I was the kinda man to settle down."
Heat climbed up her neck at the thought of marrying an unruly man like Mr. Faust. She couldn't imagine it nor would she honor the absurdity of his statement with a reply.
Marriage should be discussed behind closed doors, not out in the open with Karoline beside her and so many of her fellow community members listening to their conversation. Mr. Faust's foolish words were sure to travel to Iowa. To Friedrich. Then she would have to answer questions about why she was even talking to this man.
He continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. Or perhaps he was enjoying it.
"I might even think about joining your community," he said. "If you'd marry me."
She lifted her chin a bit higher. "There are plenty of women who could cook a decent meal for you, Mr. Faust."
"But few of them are as pretty as you."
Her chest quivered. Not because she held any interest in Christoph Faust or any man like him, but because of his close attention to her. His scrutiny. None of the women in their community were ever singled out for their beauty or their talents except on the occasion when a man was serious about a marriage. Then he would ask her permission, along with the permission of the elders, to marry her.
She tugged at her sunbonnet until it hid her face.
Was she pretty Or was Mr. Faust flattering her with idle words in hopes that she would continue cooking for him?
It didn't matter what his reason. She scolded herself for entertain¬ing even a moment of his flattery.
Do not love the world and do not follow the customs of the world. Do not love beauty nor daintiness of dress, much less boast in them.
She must battle against the flattery. Against the wiles of the devil that would tempt her to seek beauty or the pride that would ensue if she believed herself to be pretty. Not that Mr. Faust was the devil, but as she'd learned in Lehrschule, the evil one used the unsuspecting to draw members away from the tight bonds of their society.
"It doesn't matter, Mr. Faust," she said, venturing a glance at him from the side of her bonnet. His gaze was intent on her face. "I've already promised to marry a man in Iowa."
The smile on his face fell. "He's a lucky fella."
"I'm the blessed one."
He tipped his brim toward her. "Blessed, indeed."
In front of them, the wagons disappeared around a bend in the road, and the oxen hauling the kitchen wagon followed them in the endless parade. But when the road straightened again, Amalie coughed as a cloud of smoke hovered in the trees around them. She scanned the forest on both sides to search for a clearing where fellow travelers had built a campfire to cook their supper.
"What is it?" Karoline whispered behind her.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
Instead of a campfire, black coils of smoke rose above the trees to their left, quickly turning the sky into a dark haze. She coughed again and covered her mouth with the calico from her bonnet.
"Whoa!" Mr. Faust shouted to the oxen.
He kicked his heels against his horse's flanks to urge it ahead, yell¬ing for the oxen to stop. The animals were like children obeying their teacher—some of them stopped immediately while others delayed just a bit. But in a minute's time, they'd all complied, and the wagons stopped on the path, waiting for direction from their captain.
Mr. Faust rode back to her, the teasing erased from his eyes and lips.
"Gather everyone together," Mr. Faust told her. "Tell them to wait here until I return."
She stepped forward. "Where are you going?"
"To see what is burning." He wiped his forearm over his mustache. "And to find out who set the fire."
"Are we in danger?"
A glimmer of pity washed through his eyes. "There's danger all around us, Miss Wiese."
Her aching shoulders stiffened at the urgency in his words. And the condescension.
The villages of Ebenezer weren't as isolated as the new Kolonie, but they'd been sheltered from most of the evils in the world. The crimes she'd heard rumored about in the cities never touched their commu¬nity. But now, even though they traveled as one, they were no longer separated from evil. The western world, like the Ohio trail, was full of ruts and thorns threatening to ensnare them. People and problems she didn't understand.
She sniffed the smoky air and stepped back from Mr. Faust.
The world didn't frighten her—at least, not as much as her fear of how she would survive if she were thrown into it. The untamed wilder¬ness was not her friend. She belonged in her neat kitchen, managing her assistants, feeding her people. In her world, she could ward off dan¬ger with her tongue.
"Amalie!" Mr. Faust demanded, and she snapped back to him. She would have reprimanded him for the use of her given name, but his hazel eyes had turned as dark as the night sky, piercing her with their intensity. It wasn't the time to confront him or dwell on her fears about the world. It was time to stop the danger here from infecting all of them.
"I need you to take charge," he said.
Instead of waiting to give commands to Brother John or Niklas or one of the other men, he steered his horse toward the fire and rode off.
Amalie patted the ox beside her one more time, trying to assimi¬late her scattered thoughts. She had no problem being in charge, but she wasn't sure how the men would respond to her. Though if Mr. Faust were able to ride toward the danger instead of away from it, she supposed she could organize the group as well as any of the men on this journey.
Karoline nudged her arm. "What can I do?"
She took a deep breath. "Go get the men at the back of the train and bring them here."
As Karoline scurried off, Amalie turned to the wagon in front of her. "Brother Niklas!" she shouted. "Brother John!"
Twenty-two-year-old Niklas Keller and his father rushed to her side.
Niklas rubbed his hands together. His eyes were on the black smoke funneling into the sky, his voice passionate. "Someone needs our help."
She shook her head. "Mr. Faust said there might be danger."
He skimmed the forest line and glanced at the wagons behind them. "I see no danger."
"He said we should group together and wait for him."
Niklas leaned back against the rear of the wagon. The elders had put Mr. Faust in authority over them for this trip. If he said to wait, they would all wait. But the minutes crept past and Mr. Faust didn't return.
A low rumble echoed through the tangled forest on the left side of their train, like the roar of hooves in a stampede. Amalie squinted into the shadows of the foliage and shuddered.
Maybe it was a stampede.
The men and Karoline thronged around Amalie's wagon. Peace filled each of their eyes, a peace that passed understanding, and she wondered if she was the only one whose heart raced.
"We will pray," Brother John announced, and he began petitioning their Lord for wisdom and for His hand of protection.
The roar drew closer, and her heart beat even faster.
What were they supposed to do? Christian Metz spoke regular tes¬timonies to them in Ebenezer, inspired words from the Spirit to give them direction, but Brother Metz wasn't with them on this journey.
She glanced up at the sky, as if God would write His direction for them in the clouds, but God was silent for the moment. A gunshot blasted through the trees, the sound echoing around them. She looked into the faces surrounding her. Fear flickered in some of their eyes. Questions. Several of the men had shotguns to hunt game, but they would never use a gun on their fellow man. They had only one choice.
Amalie steadied her voice, pointing toward the trees. "We need to run. Hide."
A second shot rang out and the people around her didn't hesitate this time. Karoline vanished into the forest along with most of the men standing around Amalie.
She looked at her wagon one last time, at the pots and kettles she'd spent hours cleaning and polishing and preparing for this trip. Kettles that were supposed to feed her brothers and sisters in the new kitchen.
Niklas pressed his hand on her shoulder. "Run, Amalie."
She looked back at the wagon one last time. And then she ran.
Love Finds You in Amana, Iowaby
Melanie Dobson
With a backdrop of the community of The Amana Colonies, the Civil War, and a great love story, Melanie Dobson's new historical fiction title LOVE FINDS YOU IN AMANA, IOWA both enlightening and entertaining.
The novel is set in the United States during the turmoil of the 1860s. As the rest of the nation is embroiled in the Civil War, the Amana Colonies have remained at peace with a strong faith in God and pursuit of community, intertwined with hard work, family life and the building of their colony.
Amalie Wiese is travelling to the newly built village of Amana in 1863. When she arrives in the colonies she finds that her fiancée, Friedrich has left to fight with the Union Army. Amalie fears for his safety as she also struggles with his decision to abandon the colony's beliefs. Matthias, Frederick's friend, stays back in Amana to work in the colonies. But there is something wrong with Matthias; he always seems angry at Amalie when there is no simple explanation for him to act that way.
The goods that colonies manufacture are much needed supplies for the war effort and Matthias decides to deliver the goods to the soldiers. When he leaves, Amalie realizes that her fear for Matthias's safety is equally as strong. What will become of Friedrich, will Matthias return safely, and will Amalie marry Friedrich? LOVE FINDS YOU IN AMANA, IOWA is a richly told story of life in the Amana Society and the people who live and love there.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
July 1863
Wagon wheels rumbled over the hard earth and stones along the Ohio trail before dipping down to splash through a creek. Rain clouds swathed the hot sky, pacifying the intense sunrays for seconds and sometimes minutes at a time. Nature's game of hide-and-seek was welcome relief from the heat that had trailed the Inspirationists since they left New York. Two long weeks ago.
Water seeped through Amalie Wiese's boots as she stepped into the creek. The coldness bathed her stockings and chilled her toes. If only she could take a bath tonight. Clean the dust and sweat off her skin and soothe the aches that rippled up her legs and back and settled into her shoulders.
Beside her Karoline Baumer picked up her skirt and stepped into the creek. She squealed with delight as the cold water soaked her bare toes and splashed on her legs. Her friend's pale yellow hair was hidden under a lilac-colored sunbonnet, the same sunbonnet all of the women in their community wore. Even with the head covering draped over her ears and shoulders, hiding her cheeks, Amalie could see the freckles that dotted the nose of the lively girl who'd been working beside her for the past two years.
Karoline was barely twenty, but she was one of the hardest workers Amalie knew. And there was nothing Amalie respected more than a man or a woman who worked hard.
For the past ten of her twenty-four years, Amalie had cooked and cleaned six and a half days a week as a helper and then as the assistant baas in one of the colony's communal kitchens. She didn't mind the cooking or cleaning. It was the wilderness she hated. The dirt and the bramble and the vicious mosquitoes that liked to feed on her skin. Her kitchen was clean. Controlled. With a bit of scrubbing, she could eradi¬cate any sign of disorder in the kitchen, but out here on the trail, there was no way to keep the dirt off her clothes, her skin, or her dishes.
She wouldn't grumble about the long journey through the trees and hills, at least not with her lips, but it comforted her to know that the elders would never ask any of them to travel the states between New York and Iowa again. Once they reached the new Kolonie, they would be home.
"How are your feet?" Karoline asked.
"Blistered."
Karoline actually giggled. "Mine too."
"I wish I could laugh about it."
"You should take off your shoes," Karoline said, but Amalie shook her head. Even if she could hide her bare feet under her long dress, she didn't want her toes to touch the dirt.
"It's all part of the adventure," Karoline insisted.
"I'm having enough of an adventure with my shoes on."
Copper boilers, kettles, and skillets clanged in the wagon beside the women, and behind them was another wagon filled with barrels of flour and sugar, flatware, tablecloths, and ceramic jars to start the new Kolonie kitchen. The barrels and crates rattled together as they forged the creek.
They were going to replenish their food supply in the town of Lisbon tonight with meat from the butchery and fresh fruit and vegetables. And if they made it to Lisbon before dark, she was secretly hoping for a hot meal as well, along with a bath at a hotel instead of another night in a tent.
The hooves of two oxen beside them plodded back onto dry ground, and she and Karoline both hopped up onto the bank as another wagon rode into the water. In front of them were two wagons with nine other wagons following behind, all of them filled with supplies and clothing and family heirlooms. On their way to paradise.
The elders had written in great detail about the twenty-six thou¬sand acres they had purchased in the Iowa River Valley. They wrote about the timberland and pastures for their animals and plenty of sandstone and clay to build their villages. They described the lush hills and pristine river and rich soil in the land.
Amana is what they named the land, from the Song of Solomon. To remain true. It would be the perfect place for their community, the Community of the True Inspiration.
And it would be the perfect place for her and Friedrich to begin their marriage.
In her dreams, she imagined a private reunion with Friedrich away from the crowds in the new Kolonie. Friedrich had never kissed her before, but in the darkness of her tent, on the long nights when she couldn't sleep, she imagined what it would feel like to finally be in his arms.
She wouldn't care then about the sweat and dirt and the endless walking on this journey. The three years of waiting would melt away in his embrace, and if God blessed them with a long life, their bond would be strong sixty or even seventy years from now as they told the story of their move to grandchildren and perhaps even to great-grandchildren. The Inspirationists had been migrating slowly to the new Kolonie for eight years now. Friedrich and several hundred other men had built six villages on the land, and the elders purchased a seventh village two years ago—a railroad town named Homestead. Their Kolonie was a harbor from the rough world around them, a protected place far removed from the cities in this big country and the strains of materialism that tempted their people. The community would keep all of them from falling away from their devotion to the spiritual life. They would be bound together as a people who promised to remain true to God and to each other.
Amalie and Karoline were the only two women on this journey west—the rest of the women and children remained at the Inspiration¬ist colony in New York called Ebenezer. If she and Karoline had waited, they would have been able to travel by steamship across Lake Erie and then by iron train with Friedrich's family and the rest of the group coming to Iowa in the autumn months. Instead, Amalie had convinced the elders that the men escorting the dozen wagons with supplies to Iowa needed a couple of women to cook for them.
At the time, traveling by wagon seemed like a good idea. She and Karoline had both been excited to see a bit of America, and she was ready to take a respite from her parents' influence. Her mother was a midwife in Ebenezer and assisted the doctor whenever he needed her. Amalie's father was one of the elders helping secure the sale of the property in New York. They would leave Ebenezer with the final group moving west, probably in a year or two.
More than anything else, though, Amalie had chosen to go with the wagon train because she would see Friedrich two months earlier than if she had waited.
The Wiese name was one of strength, of men and women who escaped persecution in Germany and traveled the rough seas from Europe so they and their families could worship God in freedom. Herancestors and even her parents faced many more trials than she ever had. Surely she could finish this journey to Iowa.
Karoline looked up at the trees above them. "Isn't God's creation beautiful?"
Amalie glanced up. Light filtered through the web of branches and leaves and spilled over them, but her toes were too cold to appreciate the beauty.
"I'm hot one minute and then freezing the next."
Karoline laughed. "You don't like nature much, do you?"
"It's not that," she started but then caught herself. There was no reason for her to be untruthful with Karoline. "I just miss my kitchen."
"That's why you will make such a good kitchen baas," Karoline replied. "You actually enjoy the work."
"You'd make a good kitchen baas if you wanted to do it."
Karoline shook her head. "I'd much rather plant the food than cook it."
"Maybe one day you will work in the gardens," Amalie said. "But you're not allowed to start gardening until next year."
She needed Karoline's capable hands to help her start the new kitchen in Amana.
"Not until next year," Karoline assured her.
The ox snorted beside her, and Amalie reached out her hand and patted its back. She could feel his ribs through his warm skin. He was probably hungry too.
"Don't distract him," Christoph Faust commanded in German. The man rode up on the other side of the oxen, towering over them from his saddle. Karoline slowed her pace to walk behind Amalie.
Mr. Faust was an immigrant from Prussia, and because of his knowledge of the German language and his experience leading pio¬neers west, the elders had hired him as a wagon master to lead their rain to Iowa. The wide brim on his hat circled his head like a rugged halo. He reminded Amalie of the mighty angels of the Bible, the ones who could strike down the disobedient with a wave of their hand.
"I wasn't distracting him. I was encouraging him." Amalie glanced away from the wagon master, down to the wet hem of her skirt. One of the rules of their conduct was to be polite and friendly towards every¬one, but she didn't feel comfortable being too friendly with Mr. Faust. "We all want to get to Lisbon tonight for a decent meal."
"I don't know why, Miss Wiese," he said. "Your cooking is the best I've ever tasted on the trail."
She kept her eyes focused on the jagged rocks and patches of clover that garnished the trail. Some women might blush at a compliment like that, but Amalie knew that flattery only led to an inflated view of one's self. A false view. Each person was created equal in God's sight. Their skills and talents contributed to God's kingdom, not to building up a kingdom that would crumble the day they left this world.
She could feel Mr. Faust's gaze still on her, awaiting her response from atop his horse.
"What do you usually eat on the trail?"
"Anything we can catch," he said with a grin. "Sometimes a squir¬rel or a snake."
Her stomach rolled at the thought of eating a snake. No wonder he liked her food. "I'm glad to know my stew tastes better than squirrel meat."
Mr. Faust leaned down over the oxen, and his gaze locked onto her. "I'd ask you to marry me, Miss Wiese, if I was the kinda man to settle down."
Heat climbed up her neck at the thought of marrying an unruly man like Mr. Faust. She couldn't imagine it nor would she honor the absurdity of his statement with a reply.
Marriage should be discussed behind closed doors, not out in the open with Karoline beside her and so many of her fellow community members listening to their conversation. Mr. Faust's foolish words were sure to travel to Iowa. To Friedrich. Then she would have to answer questions about why she was even talking to this man.
He continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. Or perhaps he was enjoying it.
"I might even think about joining your community," he said. "If you'd marry me."
She lifted her chin a bit higher. "There are plenty of women who could cook a decent meal for you, Mr. Faust."
"But few of them are as pretty as you."
Her chest quivered. Not because she held any interest in Christoph Faust or any man like him, but because of his close attention to her. His scrutiny. None of the women in their community were ever singled out for their beauty or their talents except on the occasion when a man was serious about a marriage. Then he would ask her permission, along with the permission of the elders, to marry her.
She tugged at her sunbonnet until it hid her face.
Was she pretty Or was Mr. Faust flattering her with idle words in hopes that she would continue cooking for him?
It didn't matter what his reason. She scolded herself for entertain¬ing even a moment of his flattery.
Do not love the world and do not follow the customs of the world. Do not love beauty nor daintiness of dress, much less boast in them.
She must battle against the flattery. Against the wiles of the devil that would tempt her to seek beauty or the pride that would ensue if she believed herself to be pretty. Not that Mr. Faust was the devil, but as she'd learned in Lehrschule, the evil one used the unsuspecting to draw members away from the tight bonds of their society.
"It doesn't matter, Mr. Faust," she said, venturing a glance at him from the side of her bonnet. His gaze was intent on her face. "I've already promised to marry a man in Iowa."
The smile on his face fell. "He's a lucky fella."
"I'm the blessed one."
He tipped his brim toward her. "Blessed, indeed."
In front of them, the wagons disappeared around a bend in the road, and the oxen hauling the kitchen wagon followed them in the endless parade. But when the road straightened again, Amalie coughed as a cloud of smoke hovered in the trees around them. She scanned the forest on both sides to search for a clearing where fellow travelers had built a campfire to cook their supper.
"What is it?" Karoline whispered behind her.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
Instead of a campfire, black coils of smoke rose above the trees to their left, quickly turning the sky into a dark haze. She coughed again and covered her mouth with the calico from her bonnet.
"Whoa!" Mr. Faust shouted to the oxen.
He kicked his heels against his horse's flanks to urge it ahead, yell¬ing for the oxen to stop. The animals were like children obeying their teacher—some of them stopped immediately while others delayed just a bit. But in a minute's time, they'd all complied, and the wagons stopped on the path, waiting for direction from their captain.
Mr. Faust rode back to her, the teasing erased from his eyes and lips.
"Gather everyone together," Mr. Faust told her. "Tell them to wait here until I return."
She stepped forward. "Where are you going?"
"To see what is burning." He wiped his forearm over his mustache. "And to find out who set the fire."
"Are we in danger?"
A glimmer of pity washed through his eyes. "There's danger all around us, Miss Wiese."
Her aching shoulders stiffened at the urgency in his words. And the condescension.
The villages of Ebenezer weren't as isolated as the new Kolonie, but they'd been sheltered from most of the evils in the world. The crimes she'd heard rumored about in the cities never touched their commu¬nity. But now, even though they traveled as one, they were no longer separated from evil. The western world, like the Ohio trail, was full of ruts and thorns threatening to ensnare them. People and problems she didn't understand.
She sniffed the smoky air and stepped back from Mr. Faust.
The world didn't frighten her—at least, not as much as her fear of how she would survive if she were thrown into it. The untamed wilder¬ness was not her friend. She belonged in her neat kitchen, managing her assistants, feeding her people. In her world, she could ward off dan¬ger with her tongue.
"Amalie!" Mr. Faust demanded, and she snapped back to him. She would have reprimanded him for the use of her given name, but his hazel eyes had turned as dark as the night sky, piercing her with their intensity. It wasn't the time to confront him or dwell on her fears about the world. It was time to stop the danger here from infecting all of them.
"I need you to take charge," he said.
Instead of waiting to give commands to Brother John or Niklas or one of the other men, he steered his horse toward the fire and rode off.
Amalie patted the ox beside her one more time, trying to assimi¬late her scattered thoughts. She had no problem being in charge, but she wasn't sure how the men would respond to her. Though if Mr. Faust were able to ride toward the danger instead of away from it, she supposed she could organize the group as well as any of the men on this journey.
Karoline nudged her arm. "What can I do?"
She took a deep breath. "Go get the men at the back of the train and bring them here."
As Karoline scurried off, Amalie turned to the wagon in front of her. "Brother Niklas!" she shouted. "Brother John!"
Twenty-two-year-old Niklas Keller and his father rushed to her side.
Niklas rubbed his hands together. His eyes were on the black smoke funneling into the sky, his voice passionate. "Someone needs our help."
She shook her head. "Mr. Faust said there might be danger."
He skimmed the forest line and glanced at the wagons behind them. "I see no danger."
"He said we should group together and wait for him."
Niklas leaned back against the rear of the wagon. The elders had put Mr. Faust in authority over them for this trip. If he said to wait, they would all wait. But the minutes crept past and Mr. Faust didn't return.
A low rumble echoed through the tangled forest on the left side of their train, like the roar of hooves in a stampede. Amalie squinted into the shadows of the foliage and shuddered.
Maybe it was a stampede.
The men and Karoline thronged around Amalie's wagon. Peace filled each of their eyes, a peace that passed understanding, and she wondered if she was the only one whose heart raced.
"We will pray," Brother John announced, and he began petitioning their Lord for wisdom and for His hand of protection.
The roar drew closer, and her heart beat even faster.
What were they supposed to do? Christian Metz spoke regular tes¬timonies to them in Ebenezer, inspired words from the Spirit to give them direction, but Brother Metz wasn't with them on this journey.
She glanced up at the sky, as if God would write His direction for them in the clouds, but God was silent for the moment. A gunshot blasted through the trees, the sound echoing around them. She looked into the faces surrounding her. Fear flickered in some of their eyes. Questions. Several of the men had shotguns to hunt game, but they would never use a gun on their fellow man. They had only one choice.
Amalie steadied her voice, pointing toward the trees. "We need to run. Hide."
A second shot rang out and the people around her didn't hesitate this time. Karoline vanished into the forest along with most of the men standing around Amalie.
She looked at her wagon one last time, at the pots and kettles she'd spent hours cleaning and polishing and preparing for this trip. Kettles that were supposed to feed her brothers and sisters in the new kitchen.
Niklas pressed his hand on her shoulder. "Run, Amalie."
She looked back at the wagon one last time. And then she ran.
August 2, 2011
Excerpt - Dancing on Glass by Pamela Binnings Ewen
Dancing on Glass by
Pamela Binnings Ewen
In the steamy city of New Orleans in 1974, Amalise Catoir sees Phillip Sharp as a charming, magnetic artist, unlike any man she has known. A young lawyer herself, raised in a small town and on the brink of a career with a large firm, she is strong and successful, yet sometimes too trusting and whimsical. Ama's rash decision to marry Phillip proves to be a mistake as he becomes overly possessive, drawing his wife away from family, friends, and her faith. His insidious, dangerous behavior becomes her dark, inescapable secret.
In this lawyer's unraveling world, can grace survive Ama's fatal choice? What would you do when prayers seem to go unanswered, faith has slipped away, evil stalks, and you feel yourself forever dancing on shattered glass?
Excerpt of chapter one:
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August 1, 2011
Excerpt - WOLFSBANE by Ronie Kendig
Today's Wild Card author is:
Ronie Kendig
and the book:
Wolfsbane, Discarded Heroes #3 Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ronie Kendig grew up an Army brat, married a veteran, and they now have four children. She has a BS in Psychology, speaks to various groups, volunteers with the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), and mentors new writers. Nightshade, Discarded Heroes #1, has earned recognition as a finalist in Christian Retailing's 2011 Retailer's Choice Awards as a finalist and with The Christian Manifesto's 2010 Lime Award for Excellence in Fiction. Ronie lives in the Dallas/Ft Worth area with her family and their pets, Daisy, a Golden Retriever and Helo, the Maltese Menace.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Embark upon a danger-laden mission within the pages of Ronie Kendig's riveting Wolfsbane. Demolitions expert Danielle Roark thought escaping from a brutal Venezuelan general was a challenge. Now she's charged with espionage and returned to the jungle where a new nightmare begins. Will Dani survive or become just another political pawn destined to be lost forever? Former Green Beret Canyon Metcalfe is disgusted with the suits on Capitol Hill. Still wrestling with the memories of a mission gone bad, he and Nightshade launch a mission to find Dani. Can Canyon rescue Dani, armed with nothing but raw courage?
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602607842
ISBN-13: 978-1602607842
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The Invitation
Judicial Building, Virginia Beach
Blood dripped into his left eye.
No. Not blood. Sweat. Hands tight against his hips and fists balled, Captain Canyon Metcalfe blinked away the sting. Another salty drop slid down his temple. Eyes ahead, he focused on his reflection in the massive mirror. Between it and him sat an eight-foot table harboring a panel of three Army investigators from Criminal Investigation Command sent for his one-year evaluation. More like interrogation. And he knew they weren't legit. Nobody got a review once they were out. This wasn't about legitimacy. This was about them insuring he'd kept his mouth shut.
Canyon watched his reflection as a bead skidded over his forehead and nose. Felt warm and moderately sticky. So much like. . .
It's not blood. Not blood.
"Captain, do you have anything to add?" Major Hartwicke lifted the inches-thick file in her manicured hands and stared at him.
"You understand, Captain, if you reveal anything about what has happened here, you will face a full court-martial and dishonorable discharge."
The voice from twenty-one months ago forged his response. "No, sir."
Behind the one-way mirror a ghost of a shape shifted. Or was that a shadow? No, he was pretty sure he'd seen the human outline. So, there were more eyes monitoring this so-called review. They're testing me. No surprise. As a matter of fact, he'd expected them to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night, haul him into the woods, and try to beat a confession out of him.
Innocence didn't matter. Justice didn't matter.
Only one thing mattered: silence.
Hartwicke pushed her chair back from the table and stood. "Captain, I don't understand." She motioned to the two investigators with her. "We've told you the CID believes there is enough. . .ambiguity in the charges and proceedings from thirteen March of last year to question the guilty verdict." She tilted her head. "In fact, this panel believes you may be innocent."
"You are not innocent in this brutal crime, Captain Metcalfe. No matter your role, you are guilty. As the officer in charge, you bear that responsibility. Do you understand?"
The eyes of the government held no boundaries. They saw everything. Knew everything. One way or another. Always waiting to throw him away for good. Just as they'd done with the villagers.
Her shoes scritched against the cement floor as she stepped nearer. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered. "Why would you throw away your career?"
Throw away his career? Was she kidding? It'd been ripped from his bloodied hands in a colossal mistake twenty-four months ago. Canyon ground his teeth together. Do not look at her; do not respond. She didn't deserve a response if she thought this was his choice.
A chair squawked, snapping his gaze to the second investigator who moved from behind the table, his gaze locked on Canyon. What did they want from him? He'd kept the dirty little secret. Lived with it. Relived it night after painful night. Living when she died.
Brown eyes cut off his visual escape. "Captain Metcalfe," Major Rubart said in a low, controlled voice. "I don't know what they"—he rolled his eyes to the side to indicate the one-way mirror—"told you or what they used against you as a threat in retaliation for talking, but I think you know something."
Despite his every effort not to, Canyon looked at the mirror.
"You know the truth about that fateful night, don't you?"
The words yanked his eyes to Rubart's. Did this officer really want the truth? Or was this another test? What Canyon wouldn't do to tell, to right the wrong, to relieve the burden. . . But that's just what they wanted him to do—relieve his mind and prove they were right, that he could be coerced into talking. That he was weak.
He flicked his attention back to the glass and the shadow moving behind it.
"You disappoint me, Captain." Air swirled cold and unfeeling as Rubart eased away. "Your sister says you've not been the same since you returned from that mission."
"My sister puts her mouth before her brain." And for that, Canyon would have a long talk with Willow.
"Do you understand what your silence means?" A bitter edge dug into Rubart's words as he glared at Canyon, who stared through the man.
"What I understand is that you've abused a relationship with my impressionable sister to extract information for the military."
Rubart's lips tightened. "Your silence means the people of Tres Kruces receive no justice."
The thick-bladed words sliced through Canyon's heart.
Quiet tension tightened the air.
"Willow says you've wanted to be a Green Beret since you were twelve."
"Ten." Canyon bit his tongue on the automatic correction. He wouldn't do this. Wouldn't cave under the pressure. He'd endured far worse.
"How can you let them rip it from you? Everything you love and worked for with blood, sweat, and tears?" After several slow, calming breaths, Rubart gave a single nod. "Enough evidence exists to open a full investigation that could reinstate you with full honors, full rank. Just give us one word, one inclination that you'll work with us, and it'll be as if you never left."
Everything in Canyon wanted that back. Wanted the career he'd felt called to, the adrenaline rush of battle, the humanitarian work of helping villages after a tragedy or an insurgency. . .
Screams howled through the fires. He glanced back. Where was she? How had they gotten separated? He spun, searching the debris and crackling embers.
A scream behind him.
He pivoted. Two feminine forms raced into a hut. "No," he shouted. "Not in—"
BOOM!
His body lifted, flipped as he sailed through the taunting flames and grieving ashes.
"Captain?"
Canyon blinked back to Major Rubart.
"Just give us some indication you'll help. We'll mete out the details later. Just don't let it go at this. You know this is wrong. Don't let them win."
Irritation clawed its way up Canyon's spine, burrowing into his resolve. He saw through the tactic. "Are we done, sir?"
Rubart's cheek twitched. "You're going to walk away?"
"In a three-to-one decision, you are hereby discharged. Your actions will be mentioned in limited detail in our final report to the congressional oversight committee. Should you speak openly about this again, you will find yourself in a federal prison for the rest of your life. Do you understand the ruling, Captain Metcalfe?"
"Yes, sir."
"I cannot express this enough—this favor we are extending you will be revoked completely if you ever again speak of Tres Kruces."
"Captain?"
He met Rubart's gaze evenly. "Decision's been made."
"You can't mean that." Hartwicke's voice pitched. "Think—"
"Dismissed, Captain," the third investigator barked from his chair at the table.
Canyon saluted, then pivoted and strode out. He punched open the door. As he stomped across the parking lot, he wrangled himself free of the dress jacket. He jerked open the door of his black Camaro and snatched off the beret. Flung it into the car. Slammed the door shut. Shuffled and kicked the wheel.
Voices behind pushed him into the car. Letting the roar of the engine echo the one in his head, he peeled away from the curb. Screaming tires fueled his fury. He accelerated. First gear. Second. He sped down the streets. Third. Raced out of Fort Story as fast as he could. He shifted into fourth.
They'd stolen everything from him. What did he have now? The last twelve months had been a futile attempt to plaster meaning to the disaster of a thing called life. Can't serve. What was the point? They had him on an invisible leash. Shame trailed him like the dust on the roads.
As he rounded a corner, a light glinted—yellow. Speed up or slow down?
Slow down? I don't think so.
Canyon slammed into fifth and pressed the accelerator. The Camaro lunged toward the intersection. A blur of red swept over his sunroof as he sailed through and cleared it.
Ahead, a sign beckoned him to First Landing State Park. The beach. Something inside him leapt.
Sirens wailed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and growled. Banged the steering wheel. One more violation and he'd lose his license. Two seconds of fantasy had him on his bike screaming off into the sunset.
Yeah. Right. A high-speed chase. Wouldn't his mother love that? She'd give him that disappointed look, and in it, he'd read the hidden message—"what would your father have said?"
Dad.
His foot hit the brake. He eased the gears down and brought the car to a stop along the pylons that led to the beach. Less than a mile out, blue waters twinkled at him.
He eyed the mirror as a state trooper pulled in behind him. Lights awhirl, the car sat like a sand spider ready to strike.
Canyon roughed a hand over his face. This was it. Career gone. License gone. He gave his all for his country, and all of it had been systematically disassembled in the last two years.
Hands on the steering wheel, he let the call of the Gulf tease his senses. He should've taken a swim instead of unleashing his anger on the road. He was a medic. He knew better than to endanger lives. How stupid could he get?
What was taking so long?
He glanced back to the mirror, only. . .nothing.
Huh? Canyon looked over his shoulder. Where. . .?
An engine roared to the left. A Black Chrysler 300M slid past him with a white-haired old man inside.
But where was the cop? Again, he double-checked his six.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
With more care and attention this time, he pulled back onto the road and drove to the ocean. He parked and stared at the caress of the waters against the sand that lured him out of the Camaro and to the warm sand. Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way down the beach.
On a stone retaining wall he stood and watched a couple of surfers ride a wave. Canyon squatted. Hands fisted against his forehead he struggled through Rubart's promise—they'd give him his career back if he ratted out the very people who'd made the nightmare go away.
He wanted to. Wanted to set the record straight. Knew they'd done wrong, but blowing this thing open meant they'd pin every drop of blood and blame on his shoulders. He'd go down in a blaze of disgrace. It was bad enough he'd had to tell his mom he was put out of the military for "medical" reasons. She didn't buy it. She was smarter. But she didn't press him.
Maybe. . .maybe he should let the panel dig into the tsunami-sized disaster and find the truth.
But he couldn't. They'd promised to make his life a living hell.
That happened anyway. Everything that felt right and just died. Just like her.
Canyon closed his eyes against the pull of memories and allowed his mind to drift. To everything he felt for her. To all the things he'd done wrong, could've done better.
I'm sorry.
Lot of good that did. She died.
He hopped off the wall and strolled to where the waters stroked the sand. He let out a long breath and ran a hand over the back of his longer-than-normal hair. He'd tried to leave the tragedy behind. Move on. But who could move on after something like that? Even the government was scared of Tres Kruces. Nice PR disaster with the whole world as witnesses.
Canyon drew out the small vial. Shouldn't do this. The back pain was gone. The heart pain permanent. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed.
His hand closed around the Emerson in his pocket. Canyon drew it out and eyed the gleaming metal. He'd used it to cut her tethers the first night his team had come up on the backwater village. Flipping the blade to the ground, he tamped down the fireball in his gut. He saved her that night only to end up killing her thirteen months later.
She was gone. His career was gone. The government had a shackle around his neck. What was there to live for?
He retrieved it and swiped the sand from the blade on his rolled cuffs. The silver glinted against his forearm. He pressed the metal against his flesh. Wouldn't be the first attempt. Maybe he'd succeed this time. Drew it along his arm—
"Never did understand how they stand up on a piece of wood."
Canyon jerked at the deep voice. He returned his Emerson to his pocket and eyed the old man a few feet away. Looked like the same man from the 300 earlier. What was he saying? Something about wood. . .?
Canyon followed the man's gaze to the water, the surfers. Ah. Surfboards. "They're not wood."
"Really?"
"Polyurethane and fiberglass or cloth. Depends on the board." He might be off-kilter, but he wasn't stupid. The man had a military cut and bearing. "What's your game?"
A slow smile quirked the face lined with age. White hair rustled under the tease of a salty breeze. "Recycling soldiers."
Why wouldn't they leave him alone? Believe he'd keep his trap shut when he said he'd keep his trap shut? "Sorry, I don't have anything to say."
"Yes, that was quite apparent."
Hesitation stopped Canyon from trudging back to his car. This man had been at his evaluation? Where. . .? "You were behind the mirror."
"While you said little, your actions said much more, Captain Metcalfe."
A knot formed in his gut. "In case you missed the point, I'm no longer a captain. Go back to your leeches and tell them I'm done."
"Is your career worth cutting your wrists, Captain?"
The knot tightened. "My career was everything," he ground out. "It's who I am." He swallowed. "Was."
"Yes." The man smiled. "You wanted to finish what your father started."
A blaze scorched his chest. "Who are you? What do you know about my father?" Who did this guy think he was?
"Major Owen Metcalfe lost his life trying to free his spec-ops team from a POW camp during Vietnam."
Canyon jerked his attention back to the water. Focused on the undulating waves. The way they rolled in, rolled out. Just like breathing. In. . .out. . . "How. . .how do you know about my father?" The only reason Canyon knew was because the government tried to use it against him in his trial.
Slowly, the man turned toward him, his smile growing.
Only then did Canyon recognize him. "General Lambert." He took a step back. "I didn't. . . You're out of uniform."
"Yes, thank goodness. I've put on a few pounds since they issued the last uniform." Lambert laughed and pointed. "Walk with me, Captain."
What possessed Canyon to indulge him, he didn't know. But he found himself walking the quiet beach, curious that the general would seek him out. Was it yet another trap?
"So that you will understand me, I have read the full file on Tres Kruces."
Of course. He'd fallen right into the general's trap, hadn't he? "This conversation is over." He pivoted and started back to his car.
"If my memory serves me correctly, the vote was three to one."
Canyon hesitated. Cursed himself for hesitating. Just walk away. That's what they'd done to him.
"What would you say the value of that single dissenter is worth?"
"Nothing. I still lost my career, everything."
"What if that dissenter held the power to change everything? What would you say it was worth then?"
Eyeballing the man, Canyon tried to think past his drumming pulse. "My life."
Lambert grinned. Nodded. "Good. . .good."
Good? How could he say that? What use was a dissenter now anyway? But that unflappable grin and knowing eyes—this man knew something.
"You." Canyon stumbled back as if hit by a squall. "It was you. You were the dissenter." He slid a hand over his head and neck. "General, I— It has to stay buried. Or I go down hard and fast. I'm not playing with this fire."
Hands in his pockets, Lambert smiled up at him. "I am not here in any official capacity related to the U.S. government."
Dare he hope that this nightmare was over?
"How do you like working as a physical therapist?"
Canyon shrugged. "Not bad. It's work. I help people." He hated it.
"That's what's important to you, helping people, is it not?" When Canyon shrugged again, Lambert continued. "Thought so. I have a proposition for you, Captain. One that will get you back in your game."
Wariness crowded out hope. "What game is that?"
"The one you do best. The one that allows you to serve your country, use the medic skills crucial to saving lives, and be part of a winning team."
"They benched me, said I was done, no more or they'd—"
"What do you say?"
A wild, irregular cadence pounded in his chest. "I'm ready to get off the bench."
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!
Ronie Kendig
and the book:
Wolfsbane, Discarded Heroes #3 Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ronie Kendig grew up an Army brat, married a veteran, and they now have four children. She has a BS in Psychology, speaks to various groups, volunteers with the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), and mentors new writers. Nightshade, Discarded Heroes #1, has earned recognition as a finalist in Christian Retailing's 2011 Retailer's Choice Awards as a finalist and with The Christian Manifesto's 2010 Lime Award for Excellence in Fiction. Ronie lives in the Dallas/Ft Worth area with her family and their pets, Daisy, a Golden Retriever and Helo, the Maltese Menace. Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Embark upon a danger-laden mission within the pages of Ronie Kendig's riveting Wolfsbane. Demolitions expert Danielle Roark thought escaping from a brutal Venezuelan general was a challenge. Now she's charged with espionage and returned to the jungle where a new nightmare begins. Will Dani survive or become just another political pawn destined to be lost forever? Former Green Beret Canyon Metcalfe is disgusted with the suits on Capitol Hill. Still wrestling with the memories of a mission gone bad, he and Nightshade launch a mission to find Dani. Can Canyon rescue Dani, armed with nothing but raw courage?Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602607842
ISBN-13: 978-1602607842
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The Invitation
Judicial Building, Virginia Beach
Blood dripped into his left eye.
No. Not blood. Sweat. Hands tight against his hips and fists balled, Captain Canyon Metcalfe blinked away the sting. Another salty drop slid down his temple. Eyes ahead, he focused on his reflection in the massive mirror. Between it and him sat an eight-foot table harboring a panel of three Army investigators from Criminal Investigation Command sent for his one-year evaluation. More like interrogation. And he knew they weren't legit. Nobody got a review once they were out. This wasn't about legitimacy. This was about them insuring he'd kept his mouth shut.
Canyon watched his reflection as a bead skidded over his forehead and nose. Felt warm and moderately sticky. So much like. . .
It's not blood. Not blood.
"Captain, do you have anything to add?" Major Hartwicke lifted the inches-thick file in her manicured hands and stared at him.
"You understand, Captain, if you reveal anything about what has happened here, you will face a full court-martial and dishonorable discharge."
The voice from twenty-one months ago forged his response. "No, sir."
Behind the one-way mirror a ghost of a shape shifted. Or was that a shadow? No, he was pretty sure he'd seen the human outline. So, there were more eyes monitoring this so-called review. They're testing me. No surprise. As a matter of fact, he'd expected them to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night, haul him into the woods, and try to beat a confession out of him.
Innocence didn't matter. Justice didn't matter.
Only one thing mattered: silence.
Hartwicke pushed her chair back from the table and stood. "Captain, I don't understand." She motioned to the two investigators with her. "We've told you the CID believes there is enough. . .ambiguity in the charges and proceedings from thirteen March of last year to question the guilty verdict." She tilted her head. "In fact, this panel believes you may be innocent."
"You are not innocent in this brutal crime, Captain Metcalfe. No matter your role, you are guilty. As the officer in charge, you bear that responsibility. Do you understand?"
The eyes of the government held no boundaries. They saw everything. Knew everything. One way or another. Always waiting to throw him away for good. Just as they'd done with the villagers.
Her shoes scritched against the cement floor as she stepped nearer. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered. "Why would you throw away your career?"
Throw away his career? Was she kidding? It'd been ripped from his bloodied hands in a colossal mistake twenty-four months ago. Canyon ground his teeth together. Do not look at her; do not respond. She didn't deserve a response if she thought this was his choice.
A chair squawked, snapping his gaze to the second investigator who moved from behind the table, his gaze locked on Canyon. What did they want from him? He'd kept the dirty little secret. Lived with it. Relived it night after painful night. Living when she died.
Brown eyes cut off his visual escape. "Captain Metcalfe," Major Rubart said in a low, controlled voice. "I don't know what they"—he rolled his eyes to the side to indicate the one-way mirror—"told you or what they used against you as a threat in retaliation for talking, but I think you know something."
Despite his every effort not to, Canyon looked at the mirror.
"You know the truth about that fateful night, don't you?"
The words yanked his eyes to Rubart's. Did this officer really want the truth? Or was this another test? What Canyon wouldn't do to tell, to right the wrong, to relieve the burden. . . But that's just what they wanted him to do—relieve his mind and prove they were right, that he could be coerced into talking. That he was weak.
He flicked his attention back to the glass and the shadow moving behind it.
"You disappoint me, Captain." Air swirled cold and unfeeling as Rubart eased away. "Your sister says you've not been the same since you returned from that mission."
"My sister puts her mouth before her brain." And for that, Canyon would have a long talk with Willow.
"Do you understand what your silence means?" A bitter edge dug into Rubart's words as he glared at Canyon, who stared through the man.
"What I understand is that you've abused a relationship with my impressionable sister to extract information for the military."
Rubart's lips tightened. "Your silence means the people of Tres Kruces receive no justice."
The thick-bladed words sliced through Canyon's heart.
Quiet tension tightened the air.
"Willow says you've wanted to be a Green Beret since you were twelve."
"Ten." Canyon bit his tongue on the automatic correction. He wouldn't do this. Wouldn't cave under the pressure. He'd endured far worse.
"How can you let them rip it from you? Everything you love and worked for with blood, sweat, and tears?" After several slow, calming breaths, Rubart gave a single nod. "Enough evidence exists to open a full investigation that could reinstate you with full honors, full rank. Just give us one word, one inclination that you'll work with us, and it'll be as if you never left."
Everything in Canyon wanted that back. Wanted the career he'd felt called to, the adrenaline rush of battle, the humanitarian work of helping villages after a tragedy or an insurgency. . .
Screams howled through the fires. He glanced back. Where was she? How had they gotten separated? He spun, searching the debris and crackling embers.
A scream behind him.
He pivoted. Two feminine forms raced into a hut. "No," he shouted. "Not in—"
BOOM!
His body lifted, flipped as he sailed through the taunting flames and grieving ashes.
"Captain?"
Canyon blinked back to Major Rubart.
"Just give us some indication you'll help. We'll mete out the details later. Just don't let it go at this. You know this is wrong. Don't let them win."
Irritation clawed its way up Canyon's spine, burrowing into his resolve. He saw through the tactic. "Are we done, sir?"
Rubart's cheek twitched. "You're going to walk away?"
"In a three-to-one decision, you are hereby discharged. Your actions will be mentioned in limited detail in our final report to the congressional oversight committee. Should you speak openly about this again, you will find yourself in a federal prison for the rest of your life. Do you understand the ruling, Captain Metcalfe?"
"Yes, sir."
"I cannot express this enough—this favor we are extending you will be revoked completely if you ever again speak of Tres Kruces."
"Captain?"
He met Rubart's gaze evenly. "Decision's been made."
"You can't mean that." Hartwicke's voice pitched. "Think—"
"Dismissed, Captain," the third investigator barked from his chair at the table.
Canyon saluted, then pivoted and strode out. He punched open the door. As he stomped across the parking lot, he wrangled himself free of the dress jacket. He jerked open the door of his black Camaro and snatched off the beret. Flung it into the car. Slammed the door shut. Shuffled and kicked the wheel.
Voices behind pushed him into the car. Letting the roar of the engine echo the one in his head, he peeled away from the curb. Screaming tires fueled his fury. He accelerated. First gear. Second. He sped down the streets. Third. Raced out of Fort Story as fast as he could. He shifted into fourth.
They'd stolen everything from him. What did he have now? The last twelve months had been a futile attempt to plaster meaning to the disaster of a thing called life. Can't serve. What was the point? They had him on an invisible leash. Shame trailed him like the dust on the roads.
As he rounded a corner, a light glinted—yellow. Speed up or slow down?
Slow down? I don't think so.
Canyon slammed into fifth and pressed the accelerator. The Camaro lunged toward the intersection. A blur of red swept over his sunroof as he sailed through and cleared it.
Ahead, a sign beckoned him to First Landing State Park. The beach. Something inside him leapt.
Sirens wailed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and growled. Banged the steering wheel. One more violation and he'd lose his license. Two seconds of fantasy had him on his bike screaming off into the sunset.
Yeah. Right. A high-speed chase. Wouldn't his mother love that? She'd give him that disappointed look, and in it, he'd read the hidden message—"what would your father have said?"
Dad.
His foot hit the brake. He eased the gears down and brought the car to a stop along the pylons that led to the beach. Less than a mile out, blue waters twinkled at him.
He eyed the mirror as a state trooper pulled in behind him. Lights awhirl, the car sat like a sand spider ready to strike.
Canyon roughed a hand over his face. This was it. Career gone. License gone. He gave his all for his country, and all of it had been systematically disassembled in the last two years.
Hands on the steering wheel, he let the call of the Gulf tease his senses. He should've taken a swim instead of unleashing his anger on the road. He was a medic. He knew better than to endanger lives. How stupid could he get?
What was taking so long?
He glanced back to the mirror, only. . .nothing.
Huh? Canyon looked over his shoulder. Where. . .?
An engine roared to the left. A Black Chrysler 300M slid past him with a white-haired old man inside.
But where was the cop? Again, he double-checked his six.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
With more care and attention this time, he pulled back onto the road and drove to the ocean. He parked and stared at the caress of the waters against the sand that lured him out of the Camaro and to the warm sand. Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way down the beach.
On a stone retaining wall he stood and watched a couple of surfers ride a wave. Canyon squatted. Hands fisted against his forehead he struggled through Rubart's promise—they'd give him his career back if he ratted out the very people who'd made the nightmare go away.
He wanted to. Wanted to set the record straight. Knew they'd done wrong, but blowing this thing open meant they'd pin every drop of blood and blame on his shoulders. He'd go down in a blaze of disgrace. It was bad enough he'd had to tell his mom he was put out of the military for "medical" reasons. She didn't buy it. She was smarter. But she didn't press him.
Maybe. . .maybe he should let the panel dig into the tsunami-sized disaster and find the truth.
But he couldn't. They'd promised to make his life a living hell.
That happened anyway. Everything that felt right and just died. Just like her.
Canyon closed his eyes against the pull of memories and allowed his mind to drift. To everything he felt for her. To all the things he'd done wrong, could've done better.
I'm sorry.
Lot of good that did. She died.
He hopped off the wall and strolled to where the waters stroked the sand. He let out a long breath and ran a hand over the back of his longer-than-normal hair. He'd tried to leave the tragedy behind. Move on. But who could move on after something like that? Even the government was scared of Tres Kruces. Nice PR disaster with the whole world as witnesses.
Canyon drew out the small vial. Shouldn't do this. The back pain was gone. The heart pain permanent. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed.
His hand closed around the Emerson in his pocket. Canyon drew it out and eyed the gleaming metal. He'd used it to cut her tethers the first night his team had come up on the backwater village. Flipping the blade to the ground, he tamped down the fireball in his gut. He saved her that night only to end up killing her thirteen months later.
She was gone. His career was gone. The government had a shackle around his neck. What was there to live for?
He retrieved it and swiped the sand from the blade on his rolled cuffs. The silver glinted against his forearm. He pressed the metal against his flesh. Wouldn't be the first attempt. Maybe he'd succeed this time. Drew it along his arm—
"Never did understand how they stand up on a piece of wood."
Canyon jerked at the deep voice. He returned his Emerson to his pocket and eyed the old man a few feet away. Looked like the same man from the 300 earlier. What was he saying? Something about wood. . .?
Canyon followed the man's gaze to the water, the surfers. Ah. Surfboards. "They're not wood."
"Really?"
"Polyurethane and fiberglass or cloth. Depends on the board." He might be off-kilter, but he wasn't stupid. The man had a military cut and bearing. "What's your game?"
A slow smile quirked the face lined with age. White hair rustled under the tease of a salty breeze. "Recycling soldiers."
Why wouldn't they leave him alone? Believe he'd keep his trap shut when he said he'd keep his trap shut? "Sorry, I don't have anything to say."
"Yes, that was quite apparent."
Hesitation stopped Canyon from trudging back to his car. This man had been at his evaluation? Where. . .? "You were behind the mirror."
"While you said little, your actions said much more, Captain Metcalfe."
A knot formed in his gut. "In case you missed the point, I'm no longer a captain. Go back to your leeches and tell them I'm done."
"Is your career worth cutting your wrists, Captain?"
The knot tightened. "My career was everything," he ground out. "It's who I am." He swallowed. "Was."
"Yes." The man smiled. "You wanted to finish what your father started."
A blaze scorched his chest. "Who are you? What do you know about my father?" Who did this guy think he was?
"Major Owen Metcalfe lost his life trying to free his spec-ops team from a POW camp during Vietnam."
Canyon jerked his attention back to the water. Focused on the undulating waves. The way they rolled in, rolled out. Just like breathing. In. . .out. . . "How. . .how do you know about my father?" The only reason Canyon knew was because the government tried to use it against him in his trial.
Slowly, the man turned toward him, his smile growing.
Only then did Canyon recognize him. "General Lambert." He took a step back. "I didn't. . . You're out of uniform."
"Yes, thank goodness. I've put on a few pounds since they issued the last uniform." Lambert laughed and pointed. "Walk with me, Captain."
What possessed Canyon to indulge him, he didn't know. But he found himself walking the quiet beach, curious that the general would seek him out. Was it yet another trap?
"So that you will understand me, I have read the full file on Tres Kruces."
Of course. He'd fallen right into the general's trap, hadn't he? "This conversation is over." He pivoted and started back to his car.
"If my memory serves me correctly, the vote was three to one."
Canyon hesitated. Cursed himself for hesitating. Just walk away. That's what they'd done to him.
"What would you say the value of that single dissenter is worth?"
"Nothing. I still lost my career, everything."
"What if that dissenter held the power to change everything? What would you say it was worth then?"
Eyeballing the man, Canyon tried to think past his drumming pulse. "My life."
Lambert grinned. Nodded. "Good. . .good."
Good? How could he say that? What use was a dissenter now anyway? But that unflappable grin and knowing eyes—this man knew something.
"You." Canyon stumbled back as if hit by a squall. "It was you. You were the dissenter." He slid a hand over his head and neck. "General, I— It has to stay buried. Or I go down hard and fast. I'm not playing with this fire."
Hands in his pockets, Lambert smiled up at him. "I am not here in any official capacity related to the U.S. government."
Dare he hope that this nightmare was over?
"How do you like working as a physical therapist?"
Canyon shrugged. "Not bad. It's work. I help people." He hated it.
"That's what's important to you, helping people, is it not?" When Canyon shrugged again, Lambert continued. "Thought so. I have a proposition for you, Captain. One that will get you back in your game."
Wariness crowded out hope. "What game is that?"
"The one you do best. The one that allows you to serve your country, use the medic skills crucial to saving lives, and be part of a winning team."
"They benched me, said I was done, no more or they'd—"
"What do you say?"
A wild, irregular cadence pounded in his chest. "I'm ready to get off the bench."
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!
July 29, 2011
Excerpt - Dead Reckoning by Rachelle McCalla
Dead Reckoningby
Rachelle McCalla
Risky maneuvers are no novelty for stunt pilot Ginny McCutcheon…until danger follows her to the ground. Someone's targeting Ginny—and former air force pilot Ben McAlister won't rest until he finds the culprit. He'll stay glued to Ginny's side until she's safe, whether the stubborn beauty accepts him there or not.
Ginny tries to resent Ben's protectiveness—and instead finds herself falling for the man whose fierce determination so perfectly matches hers. But trusting Ben means going home, something she can't bear to do. Until someone gets very close to grounding her—and Ben—forever.
Excerpt of chapter one:
She didn't have time to blink. Ginny McCutcheon flew her plane low over the wide-open high plains of eastern Wyoming and was just pulling out of a loop-the-loop when she spotted another plane bearing down on her. Her evasive maneuver was pure reflex—she snapped into a vertical bank, swerving off to the right and trying to pull up, though her downward-pointed wing sliced so close to the ground that the tops of the prairie grasses slapped against its tip.
That was way too close for comfort.
Flipping upside down as she came around, Ginny twisted her head for some sign of where the other plane had gone, and spotted it in a hairpin arc behind her. What kind of maniac was flying that thing, anyway? And what was he doing in her air zone? The Dare Divas Barnstorming Troupe kept to a strict practice schedule; no one was supposed to be in her airspace.
Ginny's heart beat hard, and she felt the same painful squeeze of fright she'd felt the last time she'd nearly lost her life in the air. There had been too many suspicious incidents lately, too many close calls. First Kristy Keller's accident, then the gunshots that had narrowly missed Ginny, not to mention irregular engine troubles that had plagued
the Divas' planes. If she was the paranoid type, she might have thought someone was targeting her troupe.
Rather than risk an in-air collision, Ginny found a relatively level spot and brought the plane down to land. Her wheels didn't like the tall prairie grasses, but she wasn't about to risk crossing the flight path of the other plane by heading toward the landing strip five miles west. She struggled to inhale against the fear that clenched at her heart. If flying didn't kill her, the stress would.
As her snub-nosed stunt plane quickly shed its momentum, Ginny caught sight of the other plane again, landing on the same stretch of level ground—headed straight for her again! The other pilot was apparently trying to get out of her way, but he'd picked the same stretch of ground to land on that she had.
With no room to try to take off with the other plane in her way, Ginny threw herself into the brake, gritting her teeth as her plane finally came to a stop nose to nose with the other plane. Her feet hit the ground a moment later.
"What do you think you're doing?" she screamed as the door opened on the other aircraft. That plane clearly didn't belong to the barnstorming fleet. She'd never seen it before. Probably another reporter, maybe a news crew. They'd been everywhere since Kristy's accident, hounding the rest of the Dare Divas and looking for answers about what had happened. Ginny only wished she had answers to give them—especially since Kristy's accident had occurred when she'd been flying Ginny's plane, in Ginny's act. Guilt toyed with her fear-clenched heart. It should have been Ginny at the controls that day.
Right now, she was fixing to give the imbecile inside a piece of her mind for flying so dangerously close during her practice session. But the moment she saw the size of the boots that came through the door of the plane, Ginny realized it wasn't some sheepish, small-framed news-hound.
Two trunk-like legs followed, landing solidly in the prairie grass as a trim waist and broad shoulders ducked under the wing to approach her.
For one terrified moment, Ginny was eight years old again, running out of the house intending to scare off the neighbor's milk cow that had gotten into the garden for the fifteenth time, only to have the bovine beast turn around and point its horns at her. It hadn't been a cow that day. It had been a bull.
Fortunately, the bull had been more interested in her mother's sweet corn than in chasing Ginny, and she'd gotten away with nothing more than a skinned knee as she'd tripped over herself trying to run back inside.
But she could tell she wouldn't be so lucky today. If his determined stride was any indication, this pilot looked ready to lock horns and fight.
"What am I doing? What are you doing?" he growled. "Do you realize you almost got us both killed? Haven't you ever heard of flying in a straight line?"
Ginny's anger flared. No way was she going to stand there and let this giant of a man bully her. "Me?" she shrieked. "I was assigned to this practice zone. This is Dare Diva airspace, and you have no legal right to be here."
"Dare Diva airspace?" The pilot came to a stop less than two feet from her, towering over her, which was saying something, since at five foot ten she was taller than many men. This guy was big.
"The barnstorming flying troupe." She took a step back, peeling off her flying helmet so she could see him better. She shook out her long, red hair as it tumbled free of her helmet in a move that had become her signature on the stunt flying circuit—though anyone who'd ever tried to stuff thick, waist-length hair into a flying helmet would tell you there was no other way to free it.
Though she hadn't meant to make any sort of impression on the other pilot, she caught a second's satisfaction as his jaw dropped and he watched, dumbfounded, as her hair fell free.
Her feeling of satisfaction was immediately erased by the next words to fall from his lips. "Little Ginny McCutcheon."
Ginny's blood froze. How did he know her name—her real name? Her flying moniker was Ginger McAlister, and that was all anybody outside her hometown of Holyoake, Iowa, was supposed to know her by. "There's no Ginny McCutcheon here," she corrected him quickly.
But his eyes had turned up at the corners and he looked far too pleased with himself. "Excuse me, then. I suppose you're Ginger McAlister?"
An icy chill trickled through her veins. How did this man know both her names? Nobody in Wyoming was supposed to know her Iowa identity. And the only person in Iowa who knew the name she flew under was her older brother, Cutch, and he'd been sworn to secrecy. Ginny thought about the stray gunshots that had narrowly missed hitting her twice in the past two weeks, as well as Kristy Keller's accident, which had happened while her fellow pilot had been flying her plane.
Too many near misses.
Too many unanswered questions.
"Who are you?" Ginny glared up at the mysterious man who'd so narrowly avoided colliding with her in midair.
"Funny you should ask that." He peeled back his helmet, revealing a strong-featured face that struck Ginny first as being handsome, and then, as she struggled to think past that fact, as oddly familiar. But not one she'd seen any time lately.
"Ben McAlister." The man introduced himself and extended a beefy hand her way.
His hand hovered between them for a moment while Ginny sorted out what this new revelation meant. Ben McAlister was from Holyoake, Iowa. She'd heard all about him when he'd joined the Air Force right out of high school, going on to become a hero fighter pilot back when she was still too young to follow in his footsteps. He was the reason she'd chosen the McAlister name to fly under—because he was the greatest pilot she'd ever known who wasn't a McCutcheon. And there was no way she was going to fly under her own name.
Swallowing hard, she shifted her helmet to her hip and took the big man's hand. She'd seen this guy march in Fourth of July parades many times, but had never come so close to him. His hand closed gently over hers and she felt her pain-clenched heart nearly stop.
Wow. Ben McAlister was shaking her hand.
What on earth was he doing in Wyoming?
"What are you doing here?" She summoned up some of the fire that had gone out when he'd taken her hand.
His hazel eyes looked a little too pleased as he smiled down at her. "Your brother sent me to bring you home."
"Whoa." Ginny pulled her hand away from his and took a couple of steps back toward her plane. "No deal."
His smile disappeared. "His wedding is two weeks from tomorrow. He wants you to be there." He had a deep, rumbling voice that reminded her of a plane engine purring smoothly with a steady tailwind.
"I'll be there," Ginny nearly shouted as the brisk Wyoming airstream whistled through the space between them as she backed away, feeling the need to escape, to put
distance between herself and anything having to do with her hometown. "It's not for over two weeks."
"But there's a shower, parties, the rehearsal." Ben's long legs brought him closer to her in a single stride. "And dress fittings."
"It's a dress. How well does it have to fit?" She shook her head, throwing off his arguments like a dog shaking off water. "I have obligations here. I'll be there in time for the rehearsal, okay?"
"Ginny." Ben's voice dipped an octave and he bent his face closer to hers. "This is important to your brother and his new wife—"
But his words were cut off as the alarm on Ginny's watch began to bleat. "My training time is up," she informed Ben flatly, glad to have an excuse to end a conversation she really didn't want to be having anyway. "If we're not out of this training zone in ten minutes, you'll have another stunt pilot to tangle with."
"I can follow you in," Ben volunteered.
Ginny hadn't figured she'd lose him very easily. "Fine. Just don't crowd me."
"I'll try not to." He headed back toward his plane, pausing before he climbed into the cockpit. "By the way, that was some mighty fine flying you did up there. I thought for a second we were both done for."
Ginny tried her best not to smile, but the corners of her mouth angled up in spite of her efforts. "You, too," she said finally, and watched him climb aboard before heading back to her own plane and beginning the laborious process of stuffing her hair back inside her flight helmet in an orderly fashion.
By the time she had her head back up, Ben had gotten his plane turned around and was artfully executing a skilled takeoff from the less-than-optimum surface of the grassy plain. With his plane now out of her way, she could take off, and he could circle around and follow her in.
She took a deep breath, glad to have him gone, for the moment, at least. But even then, the pain that squeezed her chest didn't go away. The doctors she'd seen had chalked up the ever-present pain to stress, and told her to find a less frightening occupation, which she wasn't about to do. She loved stunt flying and the sense of freedom she felt when she was in the sky. Nothing would ever change that.
After making sure Ben had flown wide and clear of her intended takeoff route, Ginny got her plane into the air and headed back to the Dare Diva training headquarters, thoughts buzzing through her mind. If Ben thought he was going to get her to turn her back on her responsibilities with the Dare Divas and go back to her oppressive hometown, he was mistaken. Her training schedule had suffered enough interruptions with all the recent incidents.
As the wheels of her stunt plane touched down on the hardened soil of the Wyoming airfield, she felt her anger at Ben's interruption recede as fear clenched its fingers tighter around her heart. Maybe she was just paranoid after everything that had happened lately, but it was almost as though she could smell danger on the wind. Years before, when her grandfather had first taught her how to fly, he'd always said landing was the most dangerous part of flying. But lately Ginny had learned to expect trouble at any time.
As she taxied the small plane toward the largest hangar and through the wide-open door, she saw with a sinking feeling that the light was still out near the back, leaving the far corner of the hangar in shadowy darkness. Ginny didn't like it, but she forced herself to take slow, steady breaths as she parked her plane in the corner where it belonged, hoping to exit quickly and leave the darkness behind.
But as she jumped down from the plane, she heard a voice call. "Ginger?"
Ginger McAlister—her flying name. Since Ben had kept his promise to stay well behind her when she landed, she knew it wasn't him. He was likely still in the air. It was probably a fan, or maybe one of those nosy reporters who'd been everywhere since Kristy's accident. It seemed the Dare Divas brought trouble with them wherever they went lately.
"Yes?" She peered into the shadows, her eyes still sun-blinded from the bright sky she'd been flying in. A red orb glowed hot as someone in the darkness sucked in on a cigarette. Ginny picked up the scent over the smell of fuel and oil.
"You're not allowed to smoke in the hangar," she informed the shadowy figure. "It's a safety hazard—against the rules."
"Rules were made to be broken," the gravelly voice said as the glowing cigarette fell to the floor. He crushed it with his boot as he advanced toward her.
Not good. Ginny loved her fans, but creepy guys who blatantly disregarded the rules were another thing entirely.
"I just want your autograph." The man's tobacco breath stung her nose as he placed his hand on her arm, his grip uncomfortably tight.
Ginny felt pain stab through her heart as a sense of panic rose inside her. They were in a dark corner of the hangar and from what she'd seen, the rest of the Dare Divas and their crew were outside or on the far side of the hangar where plane engines whirred, their high-pitched hums more than enough to drown out her voice if she cried out, even if she screamed.
Oh, so very not good.
"Just let me get a pen," Ginny said, trying to sound unconcerned as she took a step toward the light, and safety.
The hand tightened around her arm. Ouch. That was going to leave a bruise.
A silver shaft appeared.
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July 28, 2011
Excerpt - Dangerous Reunion by Sandra Robbins
Dangerous Reunionby
Sandra Robbins
A murderer on tiny, safe Ocracoke Island? Deputy Sheriff Kate Michaels doesn't want to believe it—until someone at the crime scene starts shooting at her. Then Nashville detective Brock Gentry shows up. Brock broke her heart years ago when he called off their engagement. Now, torn apart by a case, Brock seeks sanctuary on the island. Yet as the threats against Kate escalate—and Kate's sisters are targeted—she turns to the man she's never stopped loving. Even if their reunion is more dangerous than it ever was before.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Murder didn't happen on Ocracoke Island. But with a gunshot wound in the center of Jake Morgan's back, Hyde County senior deputy Kate Michaels knew it had to be murder.
She glanced at Grady Teach, self-proclaimed island historian, who had discovered the body. "What were you doing at the beach so early this morning, Grady?"
Before he could answer, the police equipment bag she'd placed in the sand beside Jake's body exploded in a rush of air followed by the crack of a rifle. She pulled her service revolver from its holster and whirled to determine the shooter's position. The second shot kicked up sand inches from her feet.
Kate lunged for a stunned Grady and shoved him to the ground as another rifle report echoed across the quiet beach. The bullet sailed over their heads. "Stay down. Someone's shooting from the beach ridge dune," she screamed. She turned her mouth to her lapel mic. "Shots fired. Officer needs assistance at beach ramp."
"Ten-four." The reply crackled in the crisp morning air.
Another shot whizzed over their heads, and then silence.
A car engine roared and tires squealed on the pavement of the road that skirted the beach. Kate jumped to her feet and bolted across the two hundred feet of sand and up the hundred-foot-long wooden ramp toward the top of the dune ridge that ran parallel to the coastline. When she reached the road on the other side of the dunes, she looked in both directions, but the car had disappeared.
She ran toward the spot from where the shots had seemed to come—the overwash pass where storms had cut a low section into the dunes. She stared into the sea oats that covered the area. The tall, drooping clusters of seedheads had provided good cover for the shooter.
Kate squatted and parted the long stems to get a better look at the ground around their base. The shooter had also cleaned up after himself. There were no spent shells on the ground.
A siren wailed in the distance, and a squad car, its blue lights flashing, came into view from the direction of the village. Deputy Trainee Doug O'Neil, his gun in his hand, was out of the vehicle almost before it stopped. "What happened, Kate?"
"Somebody took some shots at us. Did you meet any cars on your way here?"
Doug shook his head. "No."
Kate stared in the opposite direction. "He must have gone that way. See if you can catch up to him."
The words were hardly out of her mouth before Doug was back in the car and speeding down the beach road. Kate watched until he disappeared into the distance before she slipped her gun back into its holster and headed down the ramp to the beach.
Grady still lay on the ground where she'd left him. He pushed to his feet as she approached. "I ain't never been so scared in my life, Kate. I thought we was dead for sure."
Kate had known Grady all her life and often laughed about his tendency to make everything that happened on Ocracoke his business. This morning she was sure he had gotten more involved than he'd wanted.
She reached out and gripped his shoulder. "Are you all right, Grady?"
He picked up his straw hat from where it had fallen in the sand and slapped it against his leg. He wiggled his finger between the matted gray hairs that hung over his ears and scratched his head before he deposited the hat back on his head. "Yeah, I'm all right. But I never thought finding Jake Morgan's body would almost get me killed."
Kate glanced back at the body and sighed. "I warned Jake he was going to end up like this. And we almost did, too."
She squatted beside the man lying facedown on the beach and shook her head. Jake Morgan—island bad boy, thief, drug dealer and a thorn in the flesh of law enforcement officers in three counties—had finally met someone who got the best of him. Even when she and Jake started first grade together in the old island schoolhouse, he was a troublemaker, challenging every boy in the school to a fight at one time or another. Regret for the wasted life of a childhood friend welled up in Kate, and she bit her lip.
"Okay, now where were we before the shooting began?"
Grady Teach shifted from one foot to the other. "Ain't you gonna call the sheriff about us almost gettin' killed?"
Kate shook her head. "I'll report this to Sheriff Baxter later, but right now he'd expect me to take care of the investigation. You know there are only three deputies assigned to this island, and one's off duty today. Doug's pursuing the shooter's vehicle. Maybe he'll find something. But whoever shot at us isn't going anywhere. There isn't another ferry off the island until noon. We'll stake out the line of boarding cars and see if we can find anything. Until then, I still have a murder here."
Grady's leathered skin wrinkled into a frown. "You're the law. I guess you know what you're doin'."
Kate sighed. "Now, tell me what happened this morning."
"Before the shooting started, I was just about to tell you that I seen him a-layin' here when I went for my mornin' walk."
"Did you touch anything, Grady?"
"Nope. I called you the minute I seen him. Knew there warn't nothing I could do to help him."
Kate pushed to her feet, propped her hands on her hips and glanced around. With the exception of the dead man at her feet and a shooter loose on the island, it looked like any other morning on the beach. It was still too early for the tourists to spread out across the sand for a day in the sun. The only person she could see was a jogger who approached from the south, his feet splashing a misty spray in the surf.
On the water the sun glinted on the white hull of a lone fishing skiff that cruised up the shoreline. It slowed and anchored about eight hundred feet offshore, its hull bobbing on the waves like the cork on a fishing line.
She turned and studied the jogger, who had come closer. A frown wrinkled her forehead, and she narrowed her eyes in order to get a better look. Something about him appeared familiar.
He reminded her of a movie she'd seen about athletes who trained by running on the beach. With his straight back, arms bent at the elbows and legs stretched in a lengthy stride, he could very well have been trained by her college track coach.
He drew closer, and his gait slowed. She opened her mouth to tell him to move on down the beach, but the words froze in her throat. Surprise flashed across his face as he stumbled to a stop a few feet away and stared at her. Her heart skipped a beat at the sudden revelation—he had been trained by her college track coach.
Kate glanced from the corpse to the runner. Two men she knew well. At her feet lay Jake Morgan, a guy who'd spent several years in prison for stealing. Facing her stood Brock Gentry, a thief of another kind. He'd once made her a victim by capturing her heart and trampling it in the process.
This couldn't be happening. Brock? After all these years, why was he here?
Brock, a surprised expression on his face, stopped a few feet away. "Hello, Kate. Is everything okay? I thought I heard shooting."
Kate opened her mouth to speak, but the words lodged in her throat. She swallowed and tried again. "Somebody took a shot at us. Did you see anybody down the beach?"
"No." He took a step closer. "Are you all right?"
"We're fine."
His gaze raked her from head to toe. A slight smile curled his lips as he took in her deputy's uniform. "You're a police officer here?"
Kate bristled at what she interpreted as cynicism in his voice. Before she could offer a retort, Grady laughed. "She's not just an officer. She's the chief deputy on the island."
Brock smiled. "Good for you, Kate. Just like your father."
She opened her mouth, but the words didn't want to come. "Wh-what are you doing here?" She clenched her fists at her sides and berated herself for stammering.
A frown flickered across his face. "I guess you could call it a vacation." He stared past her at the body. "Do you think your shooter had anything to do with your victim?"
"I don't know." She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. "You sound like a police officer."
His face flushed. "I'm a detective with the Nashville Police Department now."
Nashville, Tennessee? He'd traveled over eight hundred miles to vacation on the North Carolina barrier island where they'd spent so much time together? Her instinct told her he had to have an ulterior motive for coming back, but she couldn't imagine what it might be.
She glanced back at Jake's body. This was insane. She was standing at a murder scene making small talk with the man who had broken her heart. She took a deep breath. "Good for you. That's what you always wanted."
He nodded and turned his attention back to the body. "Do you have much crime on Ocracoke?"
Kate pushed her sunglasses up on her nose and straightened to her full height. "No. Mostly drunk and disorderlies." She tilted her head to one side and struggled to regain her professional composure. "You're headed toward the village, so that must mean you ran past this spot earlier. Didn't you see the body then?"
He shook his head. "I jogged down the road coming out here. Then about a mile down the road I decided to run in the sand on the way back and detoured down onto the beach." He glanced up toward the road. "I guess I didn't look this way when I passed by."
"So you didn't see anything?"
"No. Sorry."
Kate took a deep breath. "That seems strange."
His eyes narrowed. "Not really. If I'd seen him, I probably would have thought he was a drunk sleeping it off on the beach." He took a step backward. "If you don't have any more questions, I'll go and let you get on with your work here."
Her fingers curled in her palms. "That's a good idea."
He turned and jogged away. He'd only gone a few yards when he called over his shoulder, "I'm going to be on the island for a few weeks. I'll come see you. We have a lot to catch up on."
A lot to catch up on? Brock Gentry was the last person on earth she wanted to sit down with and relive old times. She was happy. She had her sisters to care for and an island full of residents and tourists to protect. She didn't need an ex-fiancé to remind her of another time in her life.
She watched him jog up the beach before she turned back to the body. A big grin covered Grady's mouth, and she frowned. "What?"
Grady shrugged. "He seemed like a nice feller."
A nice fellow? Kate supposed Brock appeared that way to most people, but she knew another side to him. How long had it been since she'd last seen him? Six years, but sometimes it seemed like yesterday.
It had been hard to get over him, but she'd done it. Lately weeks and sometimes months would pass that she hardly thought of him. The love she thought they'd shared had begun to fade from her memory, and for the first time she felt as if she could live again.
After all this time, he'd returned. But why? Knowing him as she did, he must have a good reason. It didn't matter why he'd returned. While he was here, she'd just have to make sure their paths didn't cross.
Although Brock wanted to glance back at Kate, he clenched his fists and willed himself to stare straight ahead as he jogged away. This wasn't how he'd planned to let Kate know he was on the island. He had wanted to call her and ask if he could come by her home and talk. Instead he had run into her at a murder scene.
He'd tried to act surprised that she was still on the island, but he was sure she didn't believe him. He knew she'd still be here. Ocracoke held a fascination for her, and she never could understand why it didn't for him. He wondered how many times he'd asked himself in the past six years what his life would have been like if he'd given in to Kate's wishes and agreed to live on Ocracoke after they were married.
At the time, all he'd wanted was a career in a large city police department, and he believed if she loved him she would support his choice. In the end, though, the lure of the island had won out, and she had stayed while he left to follow his dream.
Now he was back, and they had met again on the beach where they'd spent so much time arguing about their future six summers before. Meeting her at a murder scene had hardly been what he'd envisioned.
And she was chief deputy on Ocracoke. It appeared the island had a greater hold on her now, and she had moved on with her life. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Too bad he hadn't learned how to do that.
He wondered what she would say when she found out he'd come to Ocracoke on a mission to find peace for his battered soul. When his life had fallen apart three months ago, the only thought that had saved his sanity was that he needed to talk to Kate, the one person who'd always understood him. But was he being selfish? After all this time, would she care about the problems in his life?
He had asked himself those questions and had come to the conclusion that whatever the cost, he had to try. He needed cleansing for his soul, and he wanted that elusive peace that hovered just out of his reach. He hoped he could find forgiveness here in the island paradise that she always said God created, but now Brock wasn't so sure. If there was a God, He had more important things to do than worry about somebody like him.
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