Camy Tang's Blog, page 149
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
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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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July 27, 2011
Prayer and Incense
I'm over at Girls, God, and the Good Life today:
Read the rest at http://girlsgodgoodlife.blogspot.com/2011/07/prayer-and-incense.html
Come join me!
Camy here! Thanks so much for praying for me a couple weeks ago. I finished my manuscript on time and thought it turned out rather well, if I do say so myself. :)
While I was writing, I totally could feel the prayers of people for me. I don't know how to explain it. I just knew people were praying. I really felt God's supernatural power working in me to help me get my book done.
Read the rest at http://girlsgodgoodlife.blogspot.com/2011/07/prayer-and-incense.html
Come join me!
July 26, 2011
Thoughts on my new Nook
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.26.2011
My old Nook had a crack in the plastic right over the forward page button on the right side, and I kept forgetting to NOT use the button so the crack was getting worse (as in, the plastic was pulling even further apart and leaving a gaping hole).
So, Captain Caffeine bought me the new B&W touchscreen Nook for an early birthday present.
The new Nook has so much I really like about it. It's extremely light, it's touch screen is extremely responsive (the touch screen on my old Nook was just really not very responsive at all), and the battery life is amazing.
What I didn't realize is that unlike the old Nook, the new Nook does not support .pdb files.
This is not as much a problem for the books I've bought from Barnes and Noble. All the books are automatically downloaded to my Nook (via wireless) from my BN.com library as .epub files and I don't have to do anything except click the little cover.
However, there are two problems.
A) Being extremely paranoid, I download a copy of all my ebooks onto my computer, which is a Mac. I didn't realize until I read this article by Paul Biba that when Mac users download their purchased books, the BN.com website automatically sends the books in the .pdb format, but when PC users download their books, the BN.com website sends them the books in .epub format.
So extremely not fair and annoying!
The only workaround is to change your user agent in your web browser. I am using Firefox, so I Googled it and found this helpful article by Chris Hoffman. I had to download a Firefox add-on, restart Firefox, and then go into Tools to change my user agent settings (I changed it to Internet Explorer 8). It worked fine and now I can download ebooks from BN.com in .epub format, and it's very easy to change back and forth from Mac to PC user agent setting.
B) The other problem is that I have older books I purchased from Fictionwise.com that were in .pdb format, so now I either have to redownload them in .epub format (if they were not DRM protected) or I can only read the ebooks on my computer OR on my iPad or iPhone using the eReader app or Stanza.
How much suckage is that????
The good thing is that most of the ebooks I bought from Fictionwise that are .pdb format were bought a long time ago, and I've read most of them already.
So … a bit annoying but not impossible to (mostly) fix situations A and B. However, I do wish I'd known especially about situation A a few weeks ago when I was diligently downloading all my files from BN.com to my computer so I'd have a backup.
Am I sad I bought my Nook? No, not really, since most of the ebooks I buy these days are from BN.com. I am a little peeved that BN.com downloads .pdb files to Mac users when the Nook doesn't even read .pdb files, but that might be a glitch they'll fix eventually either on the website or the Nook itself. I know there was a bunch of stuff added to my old Nook in various software updates, so it might be possible.
If you want to know the difference between the new Nook and the Kindle, there's a CNET prizefight video below. I didn't quite agree with their assessment of features because if I wanted to listen to an audiobook, I'd get an MP3 player rather than wasting space on my ereader, and the text to speech isn't something I'd use, so I don't see the lack of audio capabilities as something important on the Nook, and I don't use my ereader to surf the web or play games.
I want to say that I'm not knocking on the Kindle. I think the Nook and Kindle are pretty much the same.
Ultimately, I think that it really depends on what ebooks you've already bought--whether they're mostly .azn or .pdb/.epub format--to determine which ereader you get. I already had tons of .pdb/.epub format ebooks, which I could only read read on the (old) Nook, so it didn't make sense for me to get a Kindle. The few .azn books I've got, I can read on my computer or my iPad or iPhone. So far, when I compare what books are available on BN.com versus Amazon.com, they're almost identical. The only differences might be that Amazon has some small presses and self-pubbed ebooks that BN.com doesn't have, but I don't read many of those anyway.
My old Nook had a crack in the plastic right over the forward page button on the right side, and I kept forgetting to NOT use the button so the crack was getting worse (as in, the plastic was pulling even further apart and leaving a gaping hole).
So, Captain Caffeine bought me the new B&W touchscreen Nook for an early birthday present.
The new Nook has so much I really like about it. It's extremely light, it's touch screen is extremely responsive (the touch screen on my old Nook was just really not very responsive at all), and the battery life is amazing.
What I didn't realize is that unlike the old Nook, the new Nook does not support .pdb files.
This is not as much a problem for the books I've bought from Barnes and Noble. All the books are automatically downloaded to my Nook (via wireless) from my BN.com library as .epub files and I don't have to do anything except click the little cover.
However, there are two problems.
A) Being extremely paranoid, I download a copy of all my ebooks onto my computer, which is a Mac. I didn't realize until I read this article by Paul Biba that when Mac users download their purchased books, the BN.com website automatically sends the books in the .pdb format, but when PC users download their books, the BN.com website sends them the books in .epub format.
So extremely not fair and annoying!
The only workaround is to change your user agent in your web browser. I am using Firefox, so I Googled it and found this helpful article by Chris Hoffman. I had to download a Firefox add-on, restart Firefox, and then go into Tools to change my user agent settings (I changed it to Internet Explorer 8). It worked fine and now I can download ebooks from BN.com in .epub format, and it's very easy to change back and forth from Mac to PC user agent setting.
B) The other problem is that I have older books I purchased from Fictionwise.com that were in .pdb format, so now I either have to redownload them in .epub format (if they were not DRM protected) or I can only read the ebooks on my computer OR on my iPad or iPhone using the eReader app or Stanza.
How much suckage is that????
The good thing is that most of the ebooks I bought from Fictionwise that are .pdb format were bought a long time ago, and I've read most of them already.
So … a bit annoying but not impossible to (mostly) fix situations A and B. However, I do wish I'd known especially about situation A a few weeks ago when I was diligently downloading all my files from BN.com to my computer so I'd have a backup.
Am I sad I bought my Nook? No, not really, since most of the ebooks I buy these days are from BN.com. I am a little peeved that BN.com downloads .pdb files to Mac users when the Nook doesn't even read .pdb files, but that might be a glitch they'll fix eventually either on the website or the Nook itself. I know there was a bunch of stuff added to my old Nook in various software updates, so it might be possible.
If you want to know the difference between the new Nook and the Kindle, there's a CNET prizefight video below. I didn't quite agree with their assessment of features because if I wanted to listen to an audiobook, I'd get an MP3 player rather than wasting space on my ereader, and the text to speech isn't something I'd use, so I don't see the lack of audio capabilities as something important on the Nook, and I don't use my ereader to surf the web or play games.
I want to say that I'm not knocking on the Kindle. I think the Nook and Kindle are pretty much the same.
Ultimately, I think that it really depends on what ebooks you've already bought--whether they're mostly .azn or .pdb/.epub format--to determine which ereader you get. I already had tons of .pdb/.epub format ebooks, which I could only read read on the (old) Nook, so it didn't make sense for me to get a Kindle. The few .azn books I've got, I can read on my computer or my iPad or iPhone. So far, when I compare what books are available on BN.com versus Amazon.com, they're almost identical. The only differences might be that Amazon has some small presses and self-pubbed ebooks that BN.com doesn't have, but I don't read many of those anyway.
July 25, 2011
Excerpt - Her Guardian by Sharon Dunn
Her Guardianby
Sharon Dunn
Julia Randel was thirteen when she was kidnapped by a cult leader.
It took her seven years to escape. Two years later her captor's trial is about to begin—and so are threats from his loyal followers. Julia is relieved when her father hires bodyguard Gavin Shane, but she's furious when he rushes her to a safe house. After years under lock and key, she doesn't want to be forced into hiding again. But with cultists seeking to stop Julia's testimony at any cost, it'll take both Julia and her determined protector to set her free for a new life—and new love.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Professional bodyguard Gavin Shane glanced around the small department store as a sense of foreboding spread through him. He looked at the young woman he had been hired to protect. His client, Julia Randel, picked up a bottle of tester perfume and sprayed it onto her thin wrist. A smile graced her pretty face. She didn't seem alarmed.
The other shoppers whirled benignly through the store. Yet everything in Gavin's training told him it had been a mistake to stop here, to let Julia out in public. Mentally he kicked himself for his poor judgment. He should have said no when she had looked at him with large blue eyes and asked to stop on their way to the secure location. Her request had held a tone of desperation, as if stopping to shop at this tiny department store meant the world to her.
Julia showed him the perfume bottle, her expression bright. "I think I would like to get this one."
Gavin stepped toward her. The citrus scent of the perfume she had just sprayed hung in the air. As he scanned the faces of the other customers, he couldn't pinpoint his reason for unease…something just felt off. If he had learned nothing else in his ten years as a bodyguard, it was to trust his instincts.
He leaned close and whispered, "We need to go."
"What?" She shook her head as the exuberance he'd seen a moment before disappeared. She turned a half circle, studying the people around her, disbelief clouding her features. "No, it can't be."
Julia was coping with the threat she was under through denial. He'd seen it before. She was shutting down. He had to push her past it. "Put the perfume back. Let's get out of here."
"Elijah's followers couldn't have found me that easily." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "They couldn't have." Her voice faltered.
"I don't think we should take chances." He didn't want to feed into the constant anxiety she must be under, but to be on the safe side, they had to leave immediately.
One of the customers caught Gavin's attention. A man dressed in a dated suit circled closer to Julia through the cosmetic section. How peculiar. Men usually didn't shop for lipstick and mascara. Gavin maintained a surface calm, but adrenaline charged through his muscles as he prepared to grab Julia and run.
Go, now, go.
Julia had been held captive for seven years by the cult leader Elijah True. Now two years after her escape, she was ready to testify against him. That meant his followers had ramped up their efforts to make sure she didn't set foot in a courtroom.
"Put the perfume back." Struggling to keep the sense of urgency out of his voice, he gripped her arm above the elbow.
"All right, if that's what we have to do." A tone of despair colored her words. She set the perfume on the display shelf. Her hand brushed over the top of the bottle. "I wish I had time to get this."
Why was she so fixated on getting such a small thing as perfume?
The man in the suit moved down the aisle toward them. He didn't have that vagueness in the eyes or long hair and beard that was common to male cult members, but the way he narrowed his eyes at Julia made alarm bells go off in Gavin's head.
"We gotta move, now." As gently as he could, he hooked his arm through hers and pulled her toward the door. She allowed herself to be directed out to the street. The winter cold of February in Montana hit them as he pulled his keys from his pocket. Julia rubbed her bare arms. She'd left her coat in the SUV.
He could be totally wrong about the threat, but it wasn't a chance he was willing to take. He looked directly into her blue eyes, hoping to shake her from her inertia. "Please trust me when I say we have to go."
The man in the suit came out on the sidewalk. Julia pulled free of Gavin's arm and stared blankly at him.
The denial was paralyzing her. He had to break her free of it. "Your father hired me to protect you. Do what I say. Get in the car." He enunciated each word.
Her lips drew into a tight, hard line. She shook her head, but she complied. As he slipped behind the wheel of the SUV, he checked his rearview mirror. The man in the suit was talking on his cell phone and casting furtive glances in their direction. It was possible he was only phoning a friend. All the same, Gavin was reminded of the mantra his boss down in Florida had repeated over and over. It was always better to be paranoid than dead.
Gavin pulled away from the curb and sped up as soon as he reached the city limits.
"When I say we need to go, we need to go." He shifted into fourth gear and revved the engine. He took in a deep breath. Being upset with her wouldn't do either of them any good.
Julia stared straight ahead. "It would have only taken a minute to get that perfume."
Why was she bringing up the perfume again? There was something deeper going on here. "It was a minute we didn't have," he said.
Frustration rose up in her voice. "Are you sure they were there? I didn't see anybody."
She still didn't want to believe that they were after her again. "Your father told me that you might not recognize all the cult members." He checked the rearview mirror. "A lot of them don't live at the compound anymore. They've fanned out into the surrounding towns, but they are still loyal to Elijah." A dark blue van had eased in behind them. When Gavin let up on the accelerator, the van remained behind them instead of passing.
"That's true." She combed her fingers through her long, blond hair. "I didn't even get to know many of the cult members at the compound." Her voice was a harsh whisper filled with pain. "Elijah mostly kept me in his house." She shook her head. "How did they find us so easily?"
"I don't know." If it had just been the man in the suit, he would have dismissed the incident as him being overly cautious. But the van was clearly tailing them, which meant his instincts had been right. "They must have been watching your father's house for days waiting for us to leave. That's the only way they could have found us."
Elijah's followers had been a concern since his arrest, but they had done nothing overt enough for the police to justify spending tight funds on protection. Though he could not prove a clear connection to Elijah, Julia's father had become alarmed when strange cars were parked outside their house, and it had looked as though someone might be going through their garbage. With the trial less than a month away, William Randel had hired Gavin and decided to move his daughter to a safe and unknown location.
Now as he watched the van edge closer, Gavin realized that all of William Randel's suspicions were confirmed.
In his peripheral vision, he could see that Julia's cheeks had turned crimson. She was growing more agitated as the reality of her situation sank in.
"What's going on?" He spoke as gently as he could manage.
"It's like that monster still has me in a prison even though I got away from him. I did what Elijah ordered me to do for seven years. Then I did what my father and the counselor said for two years. Now I have to listen to you." Her voice broke. "I just feel…like I'll never be free…that's all."
Gavin's glance bounced from the road and back to Julia. Sympathy washed through him as he comprehended why she was so upset. He'd known her for less than a week, and their conversations at the house had been brief. All the abuse and loss she had been through made any words of comfort he could come up with sound trite.
She laced her hands together. "Sorry, I know this is the way it has to be. I'm…it's just hard sometimes. Nine years is a long time."
The van was nearly touching his bumper. They'd have to talk later. He pressed the accelerator. "I've got to lose these guys."
Julia craned her neck and then turned back around, sinking in her seat. "That's them, isn't it?" A tinge of fear colored her words.
"I thought we took enough precautions." He kept his voice neutral, not wanting to add fuel to the panic she must be feeling. This wasn't her doing, it was his. They never should have gone into that store. Gavin pressed the accelerator. The car hugged the curves as the needle pressed past one hundred. The SUV didn't handle like a race car, but it would do.
Julia gripped the door. "Do you always go this fast?"
"Only when I'm trying to lose someone." The distance between the van and the SUV increased. "Let's just get you to that safe house your father set up."
"If we don't crash first, right?"
"Julia, would you trust me? I've done this before." Maintaining the same high speed, he drove for a few more miles. No sign of the van. He hit the blinker and veered toward an exit ramp.
She sat up straighter. "This isn't the way we need to go."
He came to a small town and zigzagged through the streets. "I can't take you directly to the secure location until we are sure we're not being followed." If the van could tail them through all this, he'd be impressed.
She pushed her head against the back of the seat. He could sense her rising frustration in the car's confined space. "I understand," she said softly, as though she was resigned to the conditions she had to live with.
"We'll just drive around for a while." He injected a false cheerfulness into his voice as he pulled back out on to a two-lane road. "These back roads can be kind of nice to look at."
She turned her head away from him. He drove without talking for an hour. He had to remind himself that her frustration wasn't because of something he had done, though he was the target. Even before he had been hired by William Randel, he'd known who Julia was. Two years ago, her face was splashed across the tabloids. Julia had been abducted at thirteen by Elijah True. Elijah had been born Leonard Reef but had changed his name, called himself a prophet and founded what he called the True Church.
Seven years later, after witnessing Elijah murder another cult member, Julia had slipped away from the cluster of houses that had been built in the remote Badlands of Montana. He'd seen the news photos of the compound—rows of trailers and modular homes surrounded by barbed wire. In an effort to ease their dependence on the outside world, the cult members grew much of their own food and kept goats and sheep.
Gavin suspected that the lawyers had had something to do with the lack of details about the murder charges against Elijah in the news stories. Most of the coverage had focused on Julia's captivity and escape. She had run five miles in winter conditions to a small town to get help. It had taken two years to put together the murder and kidnapping charges. Only Elijah and one other follower had been aware of the kidnapping. Elijah had told the other cult members that Julia was a niece he'd received custody of.
Even though they had not been a part of the kidnapping, the forty or so families at the compound viewed Julia as the enemy who had betrayed their innocent leader.
The True Church, which borrowed bits and pieces of theology from almost every other religion, seemed to be based around a distrust of the government. Their hypocrisy showed though, in that they had no problem collecting welfare checks. A belief that they were special and all outsiders were woefully misled also came out in the interviews that had been done with ex-cult members.
The words of Julia's father as he briefed Gavin floated back into his memory. "My daughter has had two years of counseling and she is doing much better, but she is still.fragile. We initially thought we would hire a much older man, but your experience is quite impressive for someone so young. I trust you won't think Julia is romantic material."
Though it seemed an odd request, William's protec-tiveness of his daughter was understandable; Gavin had given his word. After William Randel's description of his daughter, Gavin had expected a shrinking violet. The woman with the white-blond hair falling past her shoulders and intense blue eyes had exuded poise and strength as she reached out to shake Gavin's hand the first time he met her. The newspaper pictures hadn't done her justice. She was a stunning woman.
So far, he had seen none of the fragility William had referenced. Anyone who could run that far in freezing conditions, avoiding capture, had to be strong and smart. He admired that.
Still, he needed a level of cooperation from her if he was to do his job. He tried to understand her point f view. She was tired of confinement, tired of taking orders. He got that. She'd come this far; it was only a month until the trial now. With the end in sight, maybe all the emotion she had pushed down was rising to the surface.
Gavin focused on his driving. Ice covering the trees that lined the two-lane highway made them look as if they were made of crystal. At least the roads were clear. He checked his mirrors one more time. Nobody behind them. No cars had passed them in the last thirty minutes.
"We can stop if you like," he said. Julia turned back toward him. "I don't need to stop."
"I just thought maybe you would like to get some fresh air." He infused his voice with as much pleasantness as he could muster. They didn't have to be best friends, but he needed her to trust his judgment. They had gotten lucky with this incident. Next time, her hesitation could cost her her life. "It's only a month until the trial, Julia."
He caught a flash of hurt in her expression before she jerked in her seat and bent her head allowing her hair to fall over her face.
He pulled over on a shoulder of the road and killed the engine. They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, he pushed his door open. "You can stay here if you want. I'm going to stretch my legs."
He got out of the car and walked a few feet away. In the distance, two horses gamboled through a snowy field. The sky was a robin's-egg blue. He'd missed winter. Florida had been nice, but five years away from Montana was too long. When he exhaled, his breath was visible. Behind him, the car door opened and slammed.
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July 22, 2011
Excerpt - The Innocent Witness by Terri Reed
The Innocent Witnessby
Terri Reed
Faith sustained Vivian Grant through her horrible childhood and loveless marriage, but how much more can she take? Her husband has been killed. Her autistic son is the only witness. And someone is twisting the evidence to place the blame on her. Viv has no one to trust—and danger is closing in.
A failed protection detail cost former Secret Service agent Anthony Carlucci his job—and his self-confidence. He's not going to fail anyone under his care again. Anthony will risk anything to keep Viv and her son safe…including his heart.
Excerpt of chapter one:
One o'clock in the morning.
Her son's bed was empty. Anxiousness jump-started Vivian Grant's frozen blood.
"Mikey?" she called out as she frantically searched her eight-year-old's closet, under the bed and in the connected bathroom. Empty.
A thud had awoken her.
This wouldn't be the first time he'd tried to escape the house in the middle of the night. The locator monitor!
She raced back to her room and groped for the wall light switch, then flipped it on. A soft glow filled the room, casting shadows on her antique four-poster bed. The Wanderer Alert receiver sat atop her dresser. She grabbed it. The locator screen showed that Mikey or at least the ankle bracelet he wore was still within the set parameters of the house. She wouldn't breathe a sigh of relief, though, until he was in her arms. Palming the device, she ran downstairs.
Searching all his normal hiding spots proved fruitless. Not in the kitchen. Not the living room or the playroom. She passed the empty dining hall and hurried toward her husband's quarters. Had Mikey gone to see his father?
A normal desire for any eight-year-old boy, even one with autism.
In her head, she could hear Steven's snarled complaint that she couldn't control her son. Mikey had stopped being their son the minute they'd received the autism diagnosis.
She clenched her fist as she entered her husband's sacred domain. For more years than she could remember this part of the house had been off-limits to her and Mikey. Steven liked his privacy. But mostly he didn't want anything to do with them, his family. Except when it served his burgeoning political career.
Steven's sitting room was empty. So was the bedroom. His bed was still made up. She flipped on the light in the connecting bath. No one. Where were they?
A horrible thought streaked across her mind. Had Steven finally had enough and taken Mikey to a home? Every time Steven perceived some offense on her part, he yanked her chain with the threat.
The very idea of losing Mikey choked her with rage and fear.
Dread slithered through her veins. Steven had seemed even more furious than normal earlier because Mikey had interrupted his dinner by throwing a fit when a baseball game preempted his favorite television show. She'd chalked up Steven's overreaction to his campaign heating up. Election time always increased the stress around their home.
No. He wouldn't send Mikey away, she rationalized. If he did, what would Steven have left to hold over her?
Smoldering anger and terror spurred her toward Steven's study. Light leaked from beneath the door. Steven hated when she came to his study uninvited, but right now she didn't care. She'd put up with his wrath for her son. She flung the door open. Her gaze swept the room. No Mikey. Her heart sank.
Steven sat at his desk, his chair twisted away from her so she could only see the top of his salted dark head over the high back of his red leather chair. Working, as usual.
"Steven, have you seen Mikey?"
Steven didn't respond. Annoyed at being ignored yet again, she rounded the chair and sucked in a sharp breath. Steven's head lolled back, his eyes open and unseeing. A large ornamental knife—the knife she'd bought him for their first anniversary while on a trip to China—protruded from his chest. A crimson stain spread over his white dress shirt.
Shock siphoned the blood from her brain. The world tilted. Her knees buckled. She clutched the desk to keep from hitting the floor. A sob escaped.
She reached out with a shaky hand and pressed two fingers to the spot where his pulse should beat. Nothing.
Revulsion and horror swept through her. Someone had violently murdered Steven. In their home.
Panic gripped her heart. Where was Mikey? He had to be here. Please, Lord, she prayed, trying not to lose complete control. "Mikey?"
Eerie silence settled around her, sending chills down her spine. Nearly hysterical, she grabbed the phone and fumbled to dial 911. It seemed to take forever for the emergency operator to answer. "What is your emergency?"
"My son!" A sob broke through. "Someone's taken my son and…killed my husband, Senator Grant."
From deep in the shadows of a blooming cherry tree growing near the patio of the Grant's Woodley Park home, the man watched Vivian Grant through the study window with interest. He'd barely made it out the sliding door before she'd burst into the room.
He hadn't thought he and Steven had made enough noise to draw her attention. But there she was, looking beautiful as usual. Even in the middle of the night, Viv was a sight to see. All curves beneath her silky pajamas, her long blonde hair cascading down her back, her big blue eyes filling with tears. Her pretentious mother had known what she was doing when she'd named the future beauty queen after the Gone with the Wind movie star.
Steven hadn't deserved such a woman. He'd come from nothing and ended up with everything. Or at least he'd thought he had.
The upstart had had the nerve to try blackmailing him. Ha!
He'd shown Steven Grant just what he thought of the extortion threat. He hadn't come here tonight with murder on his mind. He'd come expecting to reason with Steven. But no go. The idiot wouldn't listen.
Steven really should have heard him out. Now it was too late.
Frustrated rage had overtaken his good sense. The decorative knife sitting on the mantel had been within arm's reach. And years spent throwing knives at birch trees as a boy had made wielding the knife too easy. His fists clenched. Grant had driven him too far.
And now he couldn't search for the evidence Steven had claimed to have.
He saw Viv pick up the phone. Calling for help, no doubt. Time to leave and act properly shocked when news of the murder became public knowledge.
He'd make arrangements for the premises to be searched tomorrow.
As he began to turn away, movement inside Grant's home office froze him in place.
A thin, young boy, clutching a teddy bear, climbed out from beneath the massive mahogany desk. Viv dropped the phone as she sank to her knees and gripped the boy tight.
The man gritted his teeth. How had he not known the child was there? Steven must have been protecting the kid.
And the brat could possibly identify him.
Viv lifted her head, her gaze boring straight at him through the window. He jerked back farther into the shadows. Logically he knew she couldn't see him, she couldn't know he was here. Didn't matter. She and the child both posed a threat that would need to be removed. Quickly.
As he left the scene, he plotted the best way to eliminate Vivian Grant and her son, Mikey.
* * *
Relief flooded through Viv as she clung to her son. "Thank you, Lord."
She placed a kiss on Mikey's bent head, breathing deep the scent of powder-fresh shampoo clinging to his dark curls. Quickly, she checked to see that he was unhurt. His thin shoulders bowed inward as he hugged his tattered bear to his chest and his pj's hung on his small frame, but he didn't appear injured.
She lifted his chin with her finger and tried to make eye contact. His midnight-blue eyes looked everywhere but at her. Not unusual even in the best of circumstances. Focusing on personal interaction took energy and concentration. "Mikey, what are you doing down here?"
"Daddy." The single word came out whisper-soft. He dropped the bear. His right hand grasped his left index finger and began to twist, the skin growing red with the exertion. A sign of his growing agitation.
"I know, baby, I know." She needed to get him out of the room and away from the macabre scene.
Was the killer still in the house? Could she and Mikey make it to the secret passageway in the dining room that came out next to the detached garage?
The distant wail of a siren filled her with relief. The police would handle this. They'd protect her and Mikey.
Taking Mikey by the arm, she urged him toward the study door. The quicker they got to safety the better.
He dug in his heels. "Bear!"
She scooped up the stuffed toy. "Come, sweetie. We need to go."
She ushered him swiftly toward the front door. Decorum dictated she stop at the entryway closet long enough to grab a long wool coat to cover her pajamas. She slipped on a pair of rain boots, the only footwear available in the closet. Taking Mikey's jacket off the hanger, she slung it over her arm. Figuring she should have her ID on her, she snagged her hobo-style carryall bag from the entryway table and slipped the monitor and the bear inside before shepherding Mikey out onto the porch.
She knelt beside Mikey and pulled on his coat. "Can you tell Mommy what you saw?"
Could he identify Steven's killer? She held her breath, waiting for Mikey to reveal something. "Mikey? I need you to tell me what you saw."
He abandoned twisting his finger in favor of flapping his hands, a sign that a fit was brewing. Whatever he'd seen was locked up inside his head. Pushing him would only drive him further away.
The loud screech of tires combined with flashing red-and-blue lights sent Mikey into a full-blown agitated fit. He batted at his ears and made a high-pitched noise echoing the siren's wail even after it was turned off. Viv's heart pitched. At the moment she couldn't do anything to help him. He would continue on until the chaos ended. Which might take a while. She kept one hand on his shoulder, more for her comfort than his.
Two police cruisers pulled into the driveway. Four officers jumped out of the cars.
"Mrs. Grant?" An older officer stepped close as the others hung back.
"Yes. I'm Vivian Grant. I'm so glad you're here."
"Officer Peal," he said, his gaze sliding to Mikey. "We had a call that your son was missing and your husband.killed?"
She nodded. "My son was hiding. His father… Senator Grant is dead." She pointed toward the house. "In the study."
Peal gestured with his head. Two officers entered the house, hands on their holsters. The third officer moved toward the back of the house.
Peal gestured toward the cars. "Ma'am, can I have you and your son take a seat inside my car? Just until we know for sure the scene is secure."
She gestured to the flashing lights on top of the police cars. "Could you turn off the lights first? They're bothering my son."
"Sure thing, ma'am." Peal vaulted down the porch steps to the nearest cruiser. A second later the flashing light went dark.
"Let me take care of the other car," he said as he walked around the front of the vehicle. A moment later the second cruiser's lights went out.
Mikey calmed almost immediately. His high-pitched whine dimmed to a small whimper. He went back to worrying his index finger.
Viv maneuvered Mikey into the back passenger seat of the nearest cruiser. The car smelled of stale coffee and body odor, but at least it was less conspicuous than standing on the porch in the summer night air. And safer.
A metal grate separated them from the front seats. Mikey grabbed a hold and shook the metal. The deafening rattle bounced around the interior of the vehicle.
Now Viv knew how criminals must feel, like caged animals. A familiar helpless, vulnerable sensation slithered up her spine, reminding her of her childhood.
Taking deep breaths to harness her rising anxiety, she silently repeated in her mind, This too shall pass.
Peal squatted next to her, bracing one elbow on the back wheel well, and removed a small notepad from his shirt pocket. His pen poised over the paper. "Ma'am, can you tell me what happened?"
"A noise woke me. I thought it was Mikey needing something. But he wasn't in his bed so I went to ask Steven if he'd seen Mikey. I found Steven… He'd been stabbed." Bile rose as the image of Steven's death filled her brain. "I called 911, then I found Mikey hiding just as you arrived."
Peal nodded encouragingly. "Did you see anyone else in the house?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Homicide will have more questions for you."
The sound of more vehicles arriving floated into the car through the open door. Viv twisted around to look out the back window. Two men dressed in dark suits climbed out of a black SUV and made their way toward the cruiser. It didn't take a genius to know who these guys were. Viv had seen enough of them during her years as a politician's wife to recognize the swagger of the FBI.
She wasn't surprised the FBI had been called. Steven was a junior senator, after all, and had just declared his intent to run for the presidency.
Mikey drew her attention when he began combing her hair with his fingers. One of his calming rituals.
Officer Peal greeted the two men as they stopped beside the police car. Viv leaned forward to listen.
The men flashed credentials. "I'm Agent Jones, this is Agent Thompson."
"Homicide hasn't arrived yet," Peal said. "I've got two men inside and one searching the perimeter."
Agent Jones slanted a glance at Peal. "Good work, Officer. We'll take care of the witnesses."
Thompson leaned into the open door of the cruiser. His puggish face with round probing eyes sent goose bumps prickling Viv's skin. "Mrs. Grant, we need you to come with us."
"Where?"
He grasped her by the elbow and tugged. "We're to escort you to the WFO."
She stiffened. She didn't like being manhandled.
"WFO?"
"Washington Field Office."
"I want to see your badges," she demanded.
Each agent let her inspect their credentials. The official-looking identification appeared in order. She handed them back. "Shouldn't we wait for Homicide?"
"They can question you at headquarters. It's safer this way," Agent Jones supplied as he also reached in to help pull her from the vehicle. He was a big man with a scar on his chiseled chin. She was no match for the two of them.
"All right, already," she snapped and climbed out of the cruiser. "Can I get a change of clothes?"
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July 21, 2011
July 7, 2011
Weddings and Wasabi available in both print and ebook
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.07.2011
I just found out (like a few days ago) that the ebook version of Weddings and Wasabi, is now available! This is the fourth book in my Sushi series. What's even better is that it's only $2.99!
After finally graduating with a culinary degree, Jennifer Lim is pressured by her family to work at her control-freak aunty's restaurant. But after a family dispute, Jenn is determined to no longer be a doormat and instead starts her own catering company. Her search for a wine merchant brings John into her life—a tall, dark, handsome biker in form-fitting black leather, who's Hispanic to boot. It would be wonderfully wild to snag a man like that!
Shy engineer Edward tentatively tries out his birthday present from his winery-owner uncle—a Harley-Davidson complete with the trimmings. Jennifer seems attracted to the rough, aggressive image, but it isn't his real self. Is she latching onto him just to spite her horrified family? And if this spark between them is real, will showing her the true guy underneath put it out?
And what's with the goat in the backyard?
PRINT BOOK: Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
E-BOOK: Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
I just found out (like a few days ago) that the ebook version of Weddings and Wasabi, is now available! This is the fourth book in my Sushi series. What's even better is that it's only $2.99!
After finally graduating with a culinary degree, Jennifer Lim is pressured by her family to work at her control-freak aunty's restaurant. But after a family dispute, Jenn is determined to no longer be a doormat and instead starts her own catering company. Her search for a wine merchant brings John into her life—a tall, dark, handsome biker in form-fitting black leather, who's Hispanic to boot. It would be wonderfully wild to snag a man like that!
Shy engineer Edward tentatively tries out his birthday present from his winery-owner uncle—a Harley-Davidson complete with the trimmings. Jennifer seems attracted to the rough, aggressive image, but it isn't his real self. Is she latching onto him just to spite her horrified family? And if this spark between them is real, will showing her the true guy underneath put it out?
And what's with the goat in the backyard?
PRINT BOOK: Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
E-BOOK: Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
June 21, 2011
Excerpt - Lawman-in-Charge by Laura Scott
Lawman-in-Charge
by
Laura Scott
Former crime-scene investigator Megan O'Ryan helped convict the St. Patrick's Strangler, who killed Megan's sister. Now she's trying to heal in a small Wisconsin town. But a copycat killer is at work in Crystal Lake, and Sheriff Luke Torretti needs Megan's help…on the case and at home, where the widower's troubled teenage son has become a suspect. The boy claims he's innocent—and Megan believes him. Because the more she and Luke investigate, the more Megan becomes convinced that her own past has brought the killer to Crystal Lake. And without Luke's help, the next victim will be her.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Megan O'Ryan kept a wary eye on the black sedan staying two cars behind her. She'd noticed the sedan the moment she'd hit the highway, and the driver had kept pace with her all the way into the small town of Crystal Lake.
A nagging itch settled between her shoulder blades. She'd felt the same sensation of being followed just two days ago. Was someone really tailing her?
With an abrupt move, she cranked the steering wheel to the right and pulled into the first vacant parking space on Main Street.
Moments later, the black car passed her by. Wrenching her neck to peer after it, she noticed the driver kept his head averted, but not before she saw the usual dark T-shirt and baseball cap. The tag number was nothing but a blur by the time she switched her attention from the driver to the license plate.
Megan climbed out of her car and stood for a moment, pretending to debate where she should go but really tracking the black car out of the corner of her eye as it pulled into the Gas N Go station located a few blocks north on Main Street.
No way could this be a coincidence. Not again. Not
after experiencing the same thing for the third time in the past week. The cars weren't always the same make or color, but the guy behind the wheel invariably wore dark clothing and a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes.
Megan stifled a surge of alarm as she turned toward Rose's Cafe. She wasn't hungry, but Rose's was always packed with people, especially in the summer with tourists aplenty, and she could at least get a cup of coffee while she tried to figure out why on earth anyone in Crystal Lake would want to follow her. Three months wasn't long enough to have made enemies. Especially considering she'd been holed up in her cabin most of the time, leaving only to go to work and back. She'd spoken to just a handful of people.
Megan! Wait up!
Katie? The young voice was so much like her sister's that she spun toward the sound, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She blinked against the brightness of the sun to see a lithe young woman with long, silky blond hair walking toward her. Her heart stopped. She couldn't breathe. Hoarsely she called, Katie? Is that you?
Teagan, wait up. Didn't you hear me? The blond-haired girl changed directions, moving toward another girl, this one a petite redhead. The blonde caught up and gave the red-haired girl's shoulder a playful shove. There's no rush. It's not like the guys are going to leave without us.
Not Katie. Her vision blurred as the loss hit with the force of a tsunami, sucking every bit of oxygen from her lungs. Katie hadn't been calling her name because Katie was gone.
Megan blinked, forcing her vision to clear, and watched the girls cross the street heading toward a group of boys who stood waiting on the grassy bank of Crystal Lake. She focused on a scowling boy who held himself aloof, dressed head to toe in black with long dark hair that could have used a comb. He looked like trouble with a capital T. Someone she was tempted to warn the young girls about. Except he wasn't her problem.
Blindly, she turned her attention back toward Rose's Cafe, her stomach tight with nausea, as if she'd been sucker punched.
Katie wouldn't be heading off to her sophomore year at college in the fall, or hanging around with undesirable boys. Katie was dead.
Murdered.
Logically, she knew her younger sister was gone. Yet in that one brief moment when she'd imagined she'd heard Katie calling her name, she'd wanted so badly to believe Katie's death was nothing more than a horrible nightmare.
But it wasn't. Katie was gone.
Her church pastor tried to tell her Katie was in a much better place, but she didn't buy that theory. The real question was why hadn't God stopped her sweet sister from being murdered? Why hadn't he taken her, instead?
Desperately trying to get a grip on her rioting emotions, she paused outside Rose's Cafe and glanced once again toward the Gas N Go station, where the black car had pulled in. There was no sign of the vehicle now. With a frown, she scanned the entire area, including the various businesses.
The black sedan had disappeared.
Or she'd imagined the whole thing, just like she'd imagined she'd heard Katie.
Exhausted and shaken, Megan slumped against the building, putting a hand to her throbbing head, and swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. No. No way. I absolutely refuse to be crazy.
You refuse, huh? A tall man stepped forward, blocking her view of the sun. He stood with his arms crossed over his uniformed chest, looking down at her with an arched brow. So how's that working for
you?
She grimaced, realizing she'd spoken out loud. Wasn't it true that insane people didn't believe they were crazy? Shaking off the bitter fear that plagued her, Megan straightened and belatedly noticed the crisp tan uniform along with the shiny badge pinned to the stranger's chest.
A cop. Great. This was not what she needed in the middle of her nervous breakdown. She strove for a light tone. So far, it's working fine, thanks. Excuse me. She ducked past him, seeking refuge in Rose's Cafe.
She slid onto the only vacant stool at the counter, figuring she wouldn't be there long. The main reason she'd come at all was to get a good look at the guy driving the black car.
What can I get for you, sweetie? Josie, the middle-aged waitress, called all her customers sweetie. Megan suspected Josie thought the term was easier than trying to remember so many names, especially in the height of the tourist season.
A cup of coffee, please. She glanced back in time to see that the cop who'd followed her into the diner had joined another officer in one of the booths that lined the
wall. She turned her attention back to Josie. She wasn't paranoid enough to think he'd followed her inside to keep an eye on her. Cops had to eat too. Cream, no sugar.
Is that all? Josie arched an exasperated brow, propping a hand on her plump hip. Sweetie, you picked the middle of the lunch rush to order a measly cup of
coffee?
Josie obviously wasn't pleased she'd taken a seat that an otherwise paying customer may have occupied. Since Megan wasn't sure her legs could hold her weight if she left, she tried to recall the menu. Ah, I almost forgot. I'll take a grilled chicken sandwich too.
Coming right up. Josie poured her coffee, pushed a container of cream at her, and then disappeared to give her order to the cook.
Megan sipped her coffee, trying not to notice how several of the locals stared at her with obvious suspicion. Since she'd taken over her aunt's property, a small cabin on the north shore of Crystal Lake, her status was barely one step above the tourists, but not by much. She'd moved here from Chicago, and people in the town of Crystal Lake, Wisconsin, seemed to carry a grudge against people from Illinois. She should be used to the sensation of being the unwelcome newcomer by now.
Crystal Lake wasn't a large town, but it was right in the middle of Hope County, which made it the hub of all county activities. The courthouse, the post office and the sheriff's department headquarters, to name a few. Her tiny log cabin was located ten miles outside of town on a very deserted road with an awesome view of the lake, nice and private, the way she preferred. So what if the
general population of Crystal Lake considered her little more than a weird hermit? She didn't care.
Except when she was being followed.
She turned her head to peek at the pair of cops seated behind her. The taller of the two had impossibly broad shoulders and black hair kept military-short, which did nothing to soften his broad, rugged features. His square jaw was strong and firm, but his nose looked as if it may have been broken at one point. He had dark eyes and tanned skin that made his teeth look shockingly white when he smiled. He was definitely attractive, if you appreciated a tall man in uniform. Since the other cop was much older and shorter and had a slight paunch around his middle, she knew it was the taller man who'd overheard her talking to herself outside. With the sun glare in her eyes, she hadn't gotten a very good look at him.
What would he say if she went over to announce she thought she was being followed? Probably not much, since she'd also practically told him she was insane.
So how's that working for you?
Her cheeks burned and she ducked her head, deciding not to bother. There was no point when she hadn't even managed to get a simple license plate number. Once she had something solid to give them, she'd go to the authorities.
She took another sip of her coffee, reveling in the warmth of the mug despite the sunny day outside. A group from the back of the diner passed behind her on their way out. An elbow hit her hard in the back, causing her to spill her coffee down the front of her green blouse.
'Scuse me, a gruff male voice muttered as the group
left.
She clenched her teeth against a wave of annoyance
and dabbed at the stain. A moment later, Josie set her chicken sandwich in front of her.
Need anything else, sweetie? Josie asked, automatically refilling her coffee cup.
No, thanks. She forced a smile and gave up on her blouse. Josie slapped her bill upside down next to her plate and sashayed away to attend to her other customers.
She didn't want to believe the jab to her back had been done on purpose, but she couldn't help but think so. Why she'd become a target, she had no idea. She wasn't hurting anyone. She wasn't even in town very often. She was either in her cabin or working her part-time and rather mundane job of processing DNA samples at the State Crime Lab in Madison.
Obviously, her level of paranoia was already several standard deviations from the mean. Picking at her chicken sandwich, she took only a few bites before pushing her plate away.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. Diagnosed by her psychologist after she'd testified against the serial killer who'd strangled Katie as his last victim. PTSD brought on from being the lead crime scene investigator in a series of murders that included her sister's. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Katie's body lying sprawled on the asphalt with the bright orange hollow-braided rope wrapped around her neck.
The image would haunt her forever.
Her boss had forced her to step back from being the lead investigator, but she'd continued working on the case in the lab until she'd gathered enough evidence to nail the man who'd killed her sister. It was small consolation to know Paul Sherman was serving a life
sentence in a high-security Illinois prison as a result of her work.
Megan sighed and scrubbed a hand over her eyes. She needed to get a grip. She wasn't being followed. The people of Crystal Lake weren't out to get her. And Katie, the sister she'd raised since their parents had died in a tragic car wreck, wasn't ever coming back.
She'd come to Crystal Lake to heal. To take a break. To find herself. Somehow, she needed to get over her loss. Now that the trial was over, she couldn't seem to find something to focus on. She tossed down some cash to cover her tab and Josie's tip before sliding off the stool and heading toward the door.
She really, really didn't want to believe she was going crazy.
Because if that were truly the case, sheer determination might not be enough to prevent the inevitable.
Lucas Torretti watched the petite woman, her shoulder-length red hair glinting brightly in the sun as she left the diner. She was pretty, in a wholesome girl-next-door kind of way. Must be the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her cute nose. And when she'd looked up at him, her bright eyes had been almost mesmerizing. He caught Frank's gaze and lifted his chin in her direction. Do you know her? Or is she one of the summer tourists?
Deputy Frank Rawson followed Megan's lean figure as she climbed back into her car. Out of the group of guys working for the sheriff's department, Frank was one of the few who didn't begrudge Luke's position as interim sheriff. Mainly because Frank had never wanted the job for himself. Frank was serving the last
two years of his duty before taking a well-earned retirement. Yeah, that's Megan O'Ryan. Moved into the old Dartmouth place. Lucille Dartmouth was her mother's sister.
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