Camy Tang's Blog, page 155
March 30, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - WOLVES AMONG US by Ginger Garrett
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Wolves Among Us David C. Cook; New edition (April 1, 2011) by Ginger Garrett
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginger Garrett is the author of the Chronicles of the Scribes series (In the Shadow of Lions, In the Arms of Immortals, In the Eyes of Eternity), Dark Hour, and Beauty Secrets of the Bible. Chosen: The Lost Diaries of Queen Esther was recognized as one of the top five novels of 2006 by the ECPA.
Focusing on ancient women's history, Ginger creates novels and nonfiction resources that explore the lives of historical women. A frequent media guest and television host, Ginger has been interviewed by Fox News, Billy Graham's The Hour of Decision, The Harvest Show, 104.7 The Fish Atlanta, and many other outlets.
A graduate of Southern Methodist University with a degree in Theater, she is passionate about creating art from history. Ginger resides in Georgia with her husband and three children.
ABOUT THE BOOK
This richly imagined tale takes readers to a tiny German town in the time of "the burnings," when pious and heretic alike became victims of witch-hunting zealots. When a double murder stirs up festering fears, the village priest sends for help. But the charismatic Inquisitor who answers the call brings a deadly mix of spiritual fervor and self-deceptive evil. Under his influence, village fear, guilt, and suspicion of women take a deadly turn. In the midst of this nightmare, a doubting priest and an unloved wife—a secret friend of the recently martyred William Tyndale—somehow manage to hear another Voice…and discover the power of love over fear.
Dinfoil, Germany, 1538. In a little town on the edge of the Black Forest, a double murder stirs up festering fears. A lonely woman despairs of pleasing her husband and wonders why other women shun her. An overworked sheriff struggles to hold the town—and himself—together. A priest begins to doubt the power of the words he shares daily with his flock. And the charismatic Inquisitor who arrives to help—with a filthy witch in a cage as an object lesson—brings his own mix of lofty ideals and treacherous evil. Under his influence, ordinary village fears and resentments take a deadly turn. Terror mounts. Dark deeds come to light. And men and women alike discover not only what they are capable of, but who they are…and what it means to grapple for grace.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Germany, 1538 Dinfoil Village at the southeastern edge of the Black Forest
Weeks had gone by since winter had lost her blinding white beauty. Cold gray mud at Father Stefan's feet and dull clouds above him were all that remained of her icy pageant. He waved his hand at the low clouds, willing them to be gone. The hopeful golden sun of spring was overdue. He longed for its warmth to awaken new life in his little village.
The good Lord had other plans for the morning, however. The sun remained shrouded, and the air kept its chill after a midnight rain. Father Stefan could see his breath when he exhaled, a small wonder that still fascinated him even in these, the middle years of his life.
Each wet stone on the cobblestone streets of Dinfoil was packed so close to the next that the market lane looked like the side of an enormous, glistening brown fish. The lane was as slippery as a fish too, and Father Stefan was careful as he walked. If he slipped and broke a leg, he would be of no use to anyone—not as a spiritual father or as the town physician.
The sky may have refused any promise of warmth, but the new day still brought its own comforts. Bread baking in ovens and the crisp hints of spring's first greens teased his nose as life burst out into the lanes everywhere he looked. Last night the great lashes of lightning had driven everyone inside early. Now no one wasted a moment starting the new day: Shutters were being opened as he walked, children ran through the leaves torn from trees by the winds, and merchants dashed with their carts along the bumpy stone lanes, anxious to reclaim yesterday's lost business. When winter's ice melted away, travelers appeared from many villages, eager to spend their money at the market and meet new people. Fresh tales were as coveted as fresh supplies in those first weeks of spring.
Father Stefan walked through the town square, where children played prancing ponies, skipping in wide circles. One boy slipped, catching himself on his palms. He winced and muttered a curse under his breath. When he caught Father Stefan watching him, he blushed and looked away.
Stefan suppressed a frown and looked around. The boy's mother had done penance for her coarse language not a week ago, and here her boy was, repeating her sin.
"Mothers, mind your children," he called out, hoping the village's women could hear him through their open windows. "The stones are treacherous this morning." He shook a finger at a boy. "No more of that," he said.
Father Stefan walked along, greeting his parishioners, nodding at the shopkeepers and housemaids who were still opening shutters. The wealthier the family, the closer they lived inside the square, and the more housemaids he saw at work.
As was usual for this hour, no one appeared in the windows of those expensive homes except maids and dogs. After maids opened the shutters, several dogs popped their heads into the windows, looking down with great interest at the people in the square. Father Stefan particularly liked seeing the yellow mastiff that often sat, solemn as a magistrate, in a window, his jowls set in judgment. Another dog across the lane watched with bulging eyes and a little black mouth. That dog, outraged at the activity below him, barked and yapped at each passerby.
Marie, the young daughter of a parishioner in Father Stefan's church, pranced past, chasing after her little brother. She ran into Father Stefan, knocking him onto his rear. She looked horrified.
"Father Stefan. Forgive me," she said.
He held his side with one hand and used the other to push himself back up.
"No need for forgiveness, Marie. It was an accident, after all."
Her face looked ashen. Her chin began to tremble. She was one good breath away from a loud wail. Stefan reached out and tapped her on the nose, startling her.
"How is your mother's new baby girl?" he asked, looking down to wiggle his eyebrows at the young boy who now stood at the girl's side. The boy giggled, and Marie glanced at him before she smiled too.
She had swallowed back her tears, but her eyes were still wide and watering. "The baby is well, thank you. She is at home with Mother. She doesn't smell very good, though."
Father Stefan pressed his lips together to catch a chuckle. "Yes, Marie, babies do smell. Tell your mother I will be glad to have her back with us for Mass."
"But Mother is not well, Father Stefan. She cries a lot now that she has given birth. And she is pale. I try to get my brother to play with me outside, to let her rest, but I don't think she notices."
"I see." He smiled and nodded, a signal that he was ready to be on his way.
Marie grabbed him by the hand. "Perhaps you could come see her?"
Stefan disentangled himself and stepped back. "My place is in the church. As is hers. Remind her of that. When she gets back to church, she will feel better at once." He leaned down and flicked his hands at Marie, sending her away.
Marie hesitated, then rushed at him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She turned and ran off with her brother before he could say anything else. Stefan pressed a hand against the spot she had touched, mystified.
The sun broke free for a moment, warming Stefan's arms. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, catching more of this sudden pleasure, the second unmerited grace of the day.
The thought prodded Stefan to turn and get on with his morning business. He couldn't just stand here smiling in the sun like a fool. Pleasure is a fool's reward, he thought, a distraction that keeps good people from doing God's work. He must buy his dried hops and be back at the church before the next Mass. As he walked the square, he greeted the sweet young parishioner Elizabeth, who shopped at the herb market. She gave a shy nod and gestured back to the church, which stood at the far end of the square. Stefan smiled and nodded his head in agreement. Yes, it was almost time for Mass. They had both reason to hurry.
He then spotted Dame Alice with her wide, soft face. She sat on an upturned barrel at the front door of her home. Though wealthy, she rarely busied herself with women's work, much to Stefan's dismay. Instead she sat at her entranceway with her white hair neatly plaited above her ears, acknowledging those who passed.
Stefan watched as Mia, the sheriff's wife, bustled past him, darting between the town's children, clutching her coin bag to her stomach as she approached the butcher's shop.
"Mia!" Dame Alice called out.
Mia stopped, clearly startled.
Dame Alice gestured widely with her arms. "Come and eat, child. I put a leg of lamb on the fire. Come and tell me of your morning."
Mia glanced in every direction, her face turning red as others watched the interaction. She pulled her scarf lower over her eyes and hurried away.
"Mia!" Dame Alice shouted. "You need to eat. It's how God made us."
Mia pretended not to hear, though Stefan knew better. Her jaw muscles were flexing as if she was sorely tempted by Dame Alice's invitation. But Mia was a good wife who she knew had no time for the gossip of idle women. Stefan would have to chastise Dame Alice once more at her next confession, though it would do no good. She had lost both her daughters and one grandson in a plague years before. Since then she had cared for the young women of the village like a mother might. He worried that too much gossip was exchanged at her kitchen table.
Stefan nodded in satisfaction as Mia ducked inside the shop. Perhaps she was too thin, but it was merely a testament to her tireless devotion to her husband and child. A model citizen, that Mia, he thought. Never a moment spent in mischief with other women.
Stefan looked up to see an unfamiliar woman with a hard, lined face staring at him from across the square. From the distance her eyes were blue flames. Her dull gray hair was long and free, hanging down to her waist. The strange woman looked up into storm clouds that were now rolling toward the village. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Stefan, accusing and cold, as if the night's storm had been his doing.
A rooster crowed from the roof of a shop, distracting him. Thunder growled as it approached from behind the clouds. He turned back and strained for a glimpse of the woman again, but with no reward. Sometimes the market brought strange customers. She was, no doubt, just another oddity in his day.
Storm winds stirred his thin robes. He pulled his sleeves further down on his arms and put his mind back to his errand.
Mia's husband, Sheriff Bjorn, had arrived on his doorstep last night. He had drunk a considerable amount of Stefan's beer before he left for home. Stefan's beer had no equal, though all the priests of his order learned the art of brewery. Wine tasted bitter and ruined many stomachs. But Stefan's beer, made with grains he selected by hand and scent, ministered to anyone who drank it. His beer, the color of an emperor's robe, was rich in nourishment and always bubbling. Even the pasty, flecked loam, leftover from the brewing yeast, proved good for ailing infants and livestock.
Bjorn, thirsty and agitated, had arrived at his doorstep, hoping for a draught. He had said he spent all night looking for the wolf that had stolen two of the sheep from the parish stock. Erick, Stefan's servant, had wanted to join the hunt, but Bjorn refused him. Bjorn was not given to companionship. Erick would learn that in time.
The wolf—a tiresome, clever enemy who had yet to be caught— taunted then all. Taking two sheep was a crime that could not be overlooked. Stefan's flock of sheep was small, only ten animals. His flock of parishioners was small too, perhaps one hundred people in total, not including those too weak or old to come to Mass. Stefan knew the wolf would be caught in time. But wolves and sinners had one thing in common: When they stole what was not theirs, their appetite for more only grew stronger. Appetite was always the doom of the unjust.
Another cloud rolled over the sun, and its shadow swept over the townspeople. A slinking darkness stole their last hope for a fine spring morning. Everyone paused, looking up and around. Shadows so early in the day meant a storm was growing in power, hiding itself at the edges of town, preparing for its first strike.
As the cloud peeled back from the sun, the shadow passed, and Stefan sighed.
A woman bumped into Stefan just then. He steadied himself and reached out to her, but she collapsed. His knees buckled under her sudden weight in his arms, and he struggled to get her to her feet. He lifted her and realized the woman was Catarina, a quiet, gentle wife from his parish. He looked up and saw Mia step from the butcher's shop, carrying a roast, stopping when she saw the accident, as did a few others.
Catarina's eyes were open, but she didn't seem to recognize anyone. She pointed at the darkened alley that ran between two lopsided rows of houses.
"What is wrong, Catarina?" he asked.
She opened her mouth to gasp for a breath she could not catch.
"Did something scare you? Is it the wolf?"
She managed a deep breath that shook her body. "I love the Lord, as you are my witness. This crime is not my doing."
Stefan saw in his peripheral vision Dame Alice, who jumped up and moved toward them.
"Do you believe me?" Catarina asked, her voice straining. "Father Stefan," she said, grasping his arms. "I'm trying to tell you he's dead."
"Who is dead?"
Dame Alice came from behind Father Stefan, pushing him aside, taking Catarina by the shoulder. "Who is dead, child? What are you talking about?"
"My husband."
Catarina kept pointing down the lane, but there was no sign of mischief. "Nonsense, dear," Dame Alice said. "Why would you say he is dead?"
"His horse is in the lane. My husband is not on it."
"You saw his horse wandering alone?" Dame Alice asked, stroking her arm. "Is that all? My dear …"
"From this one fact you have imagined your husband's death and have frightened us all?" Stefan tried to control his indignation. "He's probably drunk again, is all. Sleeping it off somewhere to get out of the rain."
Catarina should have been happy. Cronwall was not known for being a gentle husband.
Dame Alice reached for Catarina's hand. "You're so cold, child." She took off her outer cloak and wrapped it around Catarina, who did not notice.
Stefan pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. "Now, Catarina …" "You're going to say this is my fault." Catarina looked up at him. She dug her fingers into his arm. "The village is in danger." Father Stefan tried to pry away her fingers. "Stop this. Cronwall is just sleeping his liquor off somewhere. He will be home soon." She gripped his arm tighter, making her knuckles go white, then she buried her face in his robe. "You don't understand."
"Elizabeth," Stefan called out, hoping the young girl would still be about. When he saw her peering through the crowd, he nodded to her. "Bring Catarina a dried apple. She has no color in her face." The girl obediently ran off to the market.
He sighed. "And someone wake Bjorn," he called out.
Catarina shoved him away. "No."
"My request for Bjorn should please you. If what you say is true, we'll need the sheriff. He can make an arrest." She laughed or coughed—he couldn't be sure which—and flecks of spit landed across his cheek.
When he unlatched her hand from his arm, Catarina ran off, leaving Stefan to wipe off the spit. His wet fingers were tinged with what looked like blood, but Catarina had said nothing about being hurt. The crowd that had gathered was whispering, watching him. Stefan walked between them to peer down the lane Catarina had pointed to.
Church bells rang, calling everyone to Mass. Stefan frowned at the reminder. He belonged in church, not in the street, and not down a dirty, empty lane looking for a lone horse and a dead man on the word of a confused woman. Women were prone to hysteria. He found it most discouraging. His fine morning was ruined.
He turned for the church, which was only a few doors down, but no one followed.
"Time for Mass!" he shouted. A few people glanced at each other. "Bjorn will not be here for a good hour; we all know that." At this, people followed.
Stefan glanced back at the lane just once more. Sin was his responsibility. Crime belonged to Bjorn. As for women—well, only God knew what to do with them.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Wolves Among Us David C. Cook; New edition (April 1, 2011) by Ginger Garrett
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginger Garrett is the author of the Chronicles of the Scribes series (In the Shadow of Lions, In the Arms of Immortals, In the Eyes of Eternity), Dark Hour, and Beauty Secrets of the Bible. Chosen: The Lost Diaries of Queen Esther was recognized as one of the top five novels of 2006 by the ECPA.
Focusing on ancient women's history, Ginger creates novels and nonfiction resources that explore the lives of historical women. A frequent media guest and television host, Ginger has been interviewed by Fox News, Billy Graham's The Hour of Decision, The Harvest Show, 104.7 The Fish Atlanta, and many other outlets.
A graduate of Southern Methodist University with a degree in Theater, she is passionate about creating art from history. Ginger resides in Georgia with her husband and three children.
ABOUT THE BOOK
This richly imagined tale takes readers to a tiny German town in the time of "the burnings," when pious and heretic alike became victims of witch-hunting zealots. When a double murder stirs up festering fears, the village priest sends for help. But the charismatic Inquisitor who answers the call brings a deadly mix of spiritual fervor and self-deceptive evil. Under his influence, village fear, guilt, and suspicion of women take a deadly turn. In the midst of this nightmare, a doubting priest and an unloved wife—a secret friend of the recently martyred William Tyndale—somehow manage to hear another Voice…and discover the power of love over fear.Dinfoil, Germany, 1538. In a little town on the edge of the Black Forest, a double murder stirs up festering fears. A lonely woman despairs of pleasing her husband and wonders why other women shun her. An overworked sheriff struggles to hold the town—and himself—together. A priest begins to doubt the power of the words he shares daily with his flock. And the charismatic Inquisitor who arrives to help—with a filthy witch in a cage as an object lesson—brings his own mix of lofty ideals and treacherous evil. Under his influence, ordinary village fears and resentments take a deadly turn. Terror mounts. Dark deeds come to light. And men and women alike discover not only what they are capable of, but who they are…and what it means to grapple for grace.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Germany, 1538 Dinfoil Village at the southeastern edge of the Black Forest
Weeks had gone by since winter had lost her blinding white beauty. Cold gray mud at Father Stefan's feet and dull clouds above him were all that remained of her icy pageant. He waved his hand at the low clouds, willing them to be gone. The hopeful golden sun of spring was overdue. He longed for its warmth to awaken new life in his little village.
The good Lord had other plans for the morning, however. The sun remained shrouded, and the air kept its chill after a midnight rain. Father Stefan could see his breath when he exhaled, a small wonder that still fascinated him even in these, the middle years of his life.
Each wet stone on the cobblestone streets of Dinfoil was packed so close to the next that the market lane looked like the side of an enormous, glistening brown fish. The lane was as slippery as a fish too, and Father Stefan was careful as he walked. If he slipped and broke a leg, he would be of no use to anyone—not as a spiritual father or as the town physician.
The sky may have refused any promise of warmth, but the new day still brought its own comforts. Bread baking in ovens and the crisp hints of spring's first greens teased his nose as life burst out into the lanes everywhere he looked. Last night the great lashes of lightning had driven everyone inside early. Now no one wasted a moment starting the new day: Shutters were being opened as he walked, children ran through the leaves torn from trees by the winds, and merchants dashed with their carts along the bumpy stone lanes, anxious to reclaim yesterday's lost business. When winter's ice melted away, travelers appeared from many villages, eager to spend their money at the market and meet new people. Fresh tales were as coveted as fresh supplies in those first weeks of spring.
Father Stefan walked through the town square, where children played prancing ponies, skipping in wide circles. One boy slipped, catching himself on his palms. He winced and muttered a curse under his breath. When he caught Father Stefan watching him, he blushed and looked away.
Stefan suppressed a frown and looked around. The boy's mother had done penance for her coarse language not a week ago, and here her boy was, repeating her sin.
"Mothers, mind your children," he called out, hoping the village's women could hear him through their open windows. "The stones are treacherous this morning." He shook a finger at a boy. "No more of that," he said.
Father Stefan walked along, greeting his parishioners, nodding at the shopkeepers and housemaids who were still opening shutters. The wealthier the family, the closer they lived inside the square, and the more housemaids he saw at work.
As was usual for this hour, no one appeared in the windows of those expensive homes except maids and dogs. After maids opened the shutters, several dogs popped their heads into the windows, looking down with great interest at the people in the square. Father Stefan particularly liked seeing the yellow mastiff that often sat, solemn as a magistrate, in a window, his jowls set in judgment. Another dog across the lane watched with bulging eyes and a little black mouth. That dog, outraged at the activity below him, barked and yapped at each passerby.
Marie, the young daughter of a parishioner in Father Stefan's church, pranced past, chasing after her little brother. She ran into Father Stefan, knocking him onto his rear. She looked horrified.
"Father Stefan. Forgive me," she said.
He held his side with one hand and used the other to push himself back up.
"No need for forgiveness, Marie. It was an accident, after all."
Her face looked ashen. Her chin began to tremble. She was one good breath away from a loud wail. Stefan reached out and tapped her on the nose, startling her.
"How is your mother's new baby girl?" he asked, looking down to wiggle his eyebrows at the young boy who now stood at the girl's side. The boy giggled, and Marie glanced at him before she smiled too.
She had swallowed back her tears, but her eyes were still wide and watering. "The baby is well, thank you. She is at home with Mother. She doesn't smell very good, though."
Father Stefan pressed his lips together to catch a chuckle. "Yes, Marie, babies do smell. Tell your mother I will be glad to have her back with us for Mass."
"But Mother is not well, Father Stefan. She cries a lot now that she has given birth. And she is pale. I try to get my brother to play with me outside, to let her rest, but I don't think she notices."
"I see." He smiled and nodded, a signal that he was ready to be on his way.
Marie grabbed him by the hand. "Perhaps you could come see her?"
Stefan disentangled himself and stepped back. "My place is in the church. As is hers. Remind her of that. When she gets back to church, she will feel better at once." He leaned down and flicked his hands at Marie, sending her away.
Marie hesitated, then rushed at him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She turned and ran off with her brother before he could say anything else. Stefan pressed a hand against the spot she had touched, mystified.
The sun broke free for a moment, warming Stefan's arms. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, catching more of this sudden pleasure, the second unmerited grace of the day.
The thought prodded Stefan to turn and get on with his morning business. He couldn't just stand here smiling in the sun like a fool. Pleasure is a fool's reward, he thought, a distraction that keeps good people from doing God's work. He must buy his dried hops and be back at the church before the next Mass. As he walked the square, he greeted the sweet young parishioner Elizabeth, who shopped at the herb market. She gave a shy nod and gestured back to the church, which stood at the far end of the square. Stefan smiled and nodded his head in agreement. Yes, it was almost time for Mass. They had both reason to hurry.
He then spotted Dame Alice with her wide, soft face. She sat on an upturned barrel at the front door of her home. Though wealthy, she rarely busied herself with women's work, much to Stefan's dismay. Instead she sat at her entranceway with her white hair neatly plaited above her ears, acknowledging those who passed.
Stefan watched as Mia, the sheriff's wife, bustled past him, darting between the town's children, clutching her coin bag to her stomach as she approached the butcher's shop.
"Mia!" Dame Alice called out.
Mia stopped, clearly startled.
Dame Alice gestured widely with her arms. "Come and eat, child. I put a leg of lamb on the fire. Come and tell me of your morning."
Mia glanced in every direction, her face turning red as others watched the interaction. She pulled her scarf lower over her eyes and hurried away.
"Mia!" Dame Alice shouted. "You need to eat. It's how God made us."
Mia pretended not to hear, though Stefan knew better. Her jaw muscles were flexing as if she was sorely tempted by Dame Alice's invitation. But Mia was a good wife who she knew had no time for the gossip of idle women. Stefan would have to chastise Dame Alice once more at her next confession, though it would do no good. She had lost both her daughters and one grandson in a plague years before. Since then she had cared for the young women of the village like a mother might. He worried that too much gossip was exchanged at her kitchen table.
Stefan nodded in satisfaction as Mia ducked inside the shop. Perhaps she was too thin, but it was merely a testament to her tireless devotion to her husband and child. A model citizen, that Mia, he thought. Never a moment spent in mischief with other women.
Stefan looked up to see an unfamiliar woman with a hard, lined face staring at him from across the square. From the distance her eyes were blue flames. Her dull gray hair was long and free, hanging down to her waist. The strange woman looked up into storm clouds that were now rolling toward the village. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Stefan, accusing and cold, as if the night's storm had been his doing.
A rooster crowed from the roof of a shop, distracting him. Thunder growled as it approached from behind the clouds. He turned back and strained for a glimpse of the woman again, but with no reward. Sometimes the market brought strange customers. She was, no doubt, just another oddity in his day.
Storm winds stirred his thin robes. He pulled his sleeves further down on his arms and put his mind back to his errand.
Mia's husband, Sheriff Bjorn, had arrived on his doorstep last night. He had drunk a considerable amount of Stefan's beer before he left for home. Stefan's beer had no equal, though all the priests of his order learned the art of brewery. Wine tasted bitter and ruined many stomachs. But Stefan's beer, made with grains he selected by hand and scent, ministered to anyone who drank it. His beer, the color of an emperor's robe, was rich in nourishment and always bubbling. Even the pasty, flecked loam, leftover from the brewing yeast, proved good for ailing infants and livestock.
Bjorn, thirsty and agitated, had arrived at his doorstep, hoping for a draught. He had said he spent all night looking for the wolf that had stolen two of the sheep from the parish stock. Erick, Stefan's servant, had wanted to join the hunt, but Bjorn refused him. Bjorn was not given to companionship. Erick would learn that in time.
The wolf—a tiresome, clever enemy who had yet to be caught— taunted then all. Taking two sheep was a crime that could not be overlooked. Stefan's flock of sheep was small, only ten animals. His flock of parishioners was small too, perhaps one hundred people in total, not including those too weak or old to come to Mass. Stefan knew the wolf would be caught in time. But wolves and sinners had one thing in common: When they stole what was not theirs, their appetite for more only grew stronger. Appetite was always the doom of the unjust.
Another cloud rolled over the sun, and its shadow swept over the townspeople. A slinking darkness stole their last hope for a fine spring morning. Everyone paused, looking up and around. Shadows so early in the day meant a storm was growing in power, hiding itself at the edges of town, preparing for its first strike.
As the cloud peeled back from the sun, the shadow passed, and Stefan sighed.
A woman bumped into Stefan just then. He steadied himself and reached out to her, but she collapsed. His knees buckled under her sudden weight in his arms, and he struggled to get her to her feet. He lifted her and realized the woman was Catarina, a quiet, gentle wife from his parish. He looked up and saw Mia step from the butcher's shop, carrying a roast, stopping when she saw the accident, as did a few others.
Catarina's eyes were open, but she didn't seem to recognize anyone. She pointed at the darkened alley that ran between two lopsided rows of houses.
"What is wrong, Catarina?" he asked.
She opened her mouth to gasp for a breath she could not catch.
"Did something scare you? Is it the wolf?"
She managed a deep breath that shook her body. "I love the Lord, as you are my witness. This crime is not my doing."
Stefan saw in his peripheral vision Dame Alice, who jumped up and moved toward them.
"Do you believe me?" Catarina asked, her voice straining. "Father Stefan," she said, grasping his arms. "I'm trying to tell you he's dead."
"Who is dead?"
Dame Alice came from behind Father Stefan, pushing him aside, taking Catarina by the shoulder. "Who is dead, child? What are you talking about?"
"My husband."
Catarina kept pointing down the lane, but there was no sign of mischief. "Nonsense, dear," Dame Alice said. "Why would you say he is dead?"
"His horse is in the lane. My husband is not on it."
"You saw his horse wandering alone?" Dame Alice asked, stroking her arm. "Is that all? My dear …"
"From this one fact you have imagined your husband's death and have frightened us all?" Stefan tried to control his indignation. "He's probably drunk again, is all. Sleeping it off somewhere to get out of the rain."
Catarina should have been happy. Cronwall was not known for being a gentle husband.
Dame Alice reached for Catarina's hand. "You're so cold, child." She took off her outer cloak and wrapped it around Catarina, who did not notice.
Stefan pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. "Now, Catarina …" "You're going to say this is my fault." Catarina looked up at him. She dug her fingers into his arm. "The village is in danger." Father Stefan tried to pry away her fingers. "Stop this. Cronwall is just sleeping his liquor off somewhere. He will be home soon." She gripped his arm tighter, making her knuckles go white, then she buried her face in his robe. "You don't understand."
"Elizabeth," Stefan called out, hoping the young girl would still be about. When he saw her peering through the crowd, he nodded to her. "Bring Catarina a dried apple. She has no color in her face." The girl obediently ran off to the market.
He sighed. "And someone wake Bjorn," he called out.
Catarina shoved him away. "No."
"My request for Bjorn should please you. If what you say is true, we'll need the sheriff. He can make an arrest." She laughed or coughed—he couldn't be sure which—and flecks of spit landed across his cheek.
When he unlatched her hand from his arm, Catarina ran off, leaving Stefan to wipe off the spit. His wet fingers were tinged with what looked like blood, but Catarina had said nothing about being hurt. The crowd that had gathered was whispering, watching him. Stefan walked between them to peer down the lane Catarina had pointed to.
Church bells rang, calling everyone to Mass. Stefan frowned at the reminder. He belonged in church, not in the street, and not down a dirty, empty lane looking for a lone horse and a dead man on the word of a confused woman. Women were prone to hysteria. He found it most discouraging. His fine morning was ruined.
He turned for the church, which was only a few doors down, but no one followed.
"Time for Mass!" he shouted. A few people glanced at each other. "Bjorn will not be here for a good hour; we all know that." At this, people followed.
Stefan glanced back at the lane just once more. Sin was his responsibility. Crime belonged to Bjorn. As for women—well, only God knew what to do with them.
March 27, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - WINNING HIM WITHOUT WORDS by Dineen A. Miller and Lynn Donovan
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Winning Him Without Words: 10 Keys to Thriving in Your Spiritually Mismatched Marriage
by
Dineen A. Miller and Lynn Donovan
Week after week, they sit in church . . . alone. They are the spiritually mismatched, those who are committed to a spouse who does not share their faith. Feeling abandoned by their spouse and forgotten by their church, they live out their faith in survival mode, guarding the spiritual flame yet never feeling free to share it. But God wants them to thrive—not just survive.
Winning Him Without Words presents 10 Christ centered keys to thriving in a spiritual mismatch. Readers are encouraged to commit to Christian community, to release their spouse to God's capable hands, to find peace in their relationships with Christ and with their spouse, to continue their pursuit of a growing faith and to love their spouse with fresh enthusiasm. God wants every marriage to exude peace and love, and Winning Him Without Words empowers readers to create that environment in their homes and thrive as God works.
"It matters not how we came to be in our crazy, mixed-up and unexpected marriage situations. What matters is that God desires that we honor our marriage commitment and fulfill our marriage vows through His power and His strength," says Miller. "There were many years of confusion, sadness and unfulfilled expectations, but I discovered it's possible to love, live and thrive in an unequally yoked marriage."
Both Lynn and Dineen are Christian women in spiritually unequally yoked marriages, but believe that God wants every marriage to exude peace and love. Chapters include:
• Know You're Not Alone: (Lynn) Recognizing that we aren't the only person living in an unequally yoked marriage is a key aspect to restoring hope. Having Christ in our lives enables us to view our husbands as the wonderful man God created, regardless of your different beliefs.
• Don't Save Your Husband – Save Yourself: (Lynn) The best thing I ever did was to get out of the way so that Jesus could be Jesus. I relinquished control and turned my man completely over to Christ and an unexpected, peaceful freedom emerged in our marriage.
• Trade Perfection for Authenticity: (Dineen) I came to understand that many of my disappointments had come from expectations I'd placed upon him to fulfill needs he wasn't even aware of. In the end, all I really accomplished was a heart full of resentment.
• Keep Your Armor On-You're at War! (Dineen) Instead of putting on the label of martyr in a spiritually mismatched marriage, we need to put on the label of missionaries. We need to think of ourselves as soldiers on the front lines of our marriages.
Other chapters include parenting children in an unequally yoked marriage, praying into the life of your spouse and scriptures to encourage and strengthen you. Winning Him Without Words empowers readers to create that environment in their homes and thrive as God works. The official website is www.winninghimwithoutwords.com
About Winning Him Without Words:
Winning Him Without Words: 10 Keys to Thriving in Your Spiritually Mismatched Marriage by Lynn Donovan and Dineen Miller. Published by Regal Books. February 2011. Trade Paper, 224 pages. $14.99. ISBN: 978-08307-5605
LYNN DONOVAN writes for the online ministry she founded in 2006, Spiritually Unequal Marriage. Lynn is a popular Bible study leader and national speaker who dispels the myths women believe about love and marriage and points them to the freedom that is theirs through a living relationship with Christ. She lives in Temecula, California, with her husband, Mike.
DINEEN MILLER has won several prestigious awards for her fiction, and her devotional writing has been featured in Our Journey and Christian Women Online Magazine. In addition to writing for Spiritually Unequal Marriage, Dineen writes for Laced with Grace and various other fiction online magazines and newsletters. Married for more than 23 years, she shares her life with a great guy who adores disc golf and their two daughters, who never stops surprising her with their own creativity.
Click here to download a .pdf file of chapter one
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Kindle
Winning Him Without Words: 10 Keys to Thriving in Your Spiritually Mismatched Marriageby
Dineen A. Miller and Lynn Donovan
Week after week, they sit in church . . . alone. They are the spiritually mismatched, those who are committed to a spouse who does not share their faith. Feeling abandoned by their spouse and forgotten by their church, they live out their faith in survival mode, guarding the spiritual flame yet never feeling free to share it. But God wants them to thrive—not just survive.
Winning Him Without Words presents 10 Christ centered keys to thriving in a spiritual mismatch. Readers are encouraged to commit to Christian community, to release their spouse to God's capable hands, to find peace in their relationships with Christ and with their spouse, to continue their pursuit of a growing faith and to love their spouse with fresh enthusiasm. God wants every marriage to exude peace and love, and Winning Him Without Words empowers readers to create that environment in their homes and thrive as God works.
"It matters not how we came to be in our crazy, mixed-up and unexpected marriage situations. What matters is that God desires that we honor our marriage commitment and fulfill our marriage vows through His power and His strength," says Miller. "There were many years of confusion, sadness and unfulfilled expectations, but I discovered it's possible to love, live and thrive in an unequally yoked marriage."
Both Lynn and Dineen are Christian women in spiritually unequally yoked marriages, but believe that God wants every marriage to exude peace and love. Chapters include:
• Know You're Not Alone: (Lynn) Recognizing that we aren't the only person living in an unequally yoked marriage is a key aspect to restoring hope. Having Christ in our lives enables us to view our husbands as the wonderful man God created, regardless of your different beliefs.
• Don't Save Your Husband – Save Yourself: (Lynn) The best thing I ever did was to get out of the way so that Jesus could be Jesus. I relinquished control and turned my man completely over to Christ and an unexpected, peaceful freedom emerged in our marriage.
• Trade Perfection for Authenticity: (Dineen) I came to understand that many of my disappointments had come from expectations I'd placed upon him to fulfill needs he wasn't even aware of. In the end, all I really accomplished was a heart full of resentment.
• Keep Your Armor On-You're at War! (Dineen) Instead of putting on the label of martyr in a spiritually mismatched marriage, we need to put on the label of missionaries. We need to think of ourselves as soldiers on the front lines of our marriages.
Other chapters include parenting children in an unequally yoked marriage, praying into the life of your spouse and scriptures to encourage and strengthen you. Winning Him Without Words empowers readers to create that environment in their homes and thrive as God works. The official website is www.winninghimwithoutwords.com
About Winning Him Without Words:
Winning Him Without Words: 10 Keys to Thriving in Your Spiritually Mismatched Marriage by Lynn Donovan and Dineen Miller. Published by Regal Books. February 2011. Trade Paper, 224 pages. $14.99. ISBN: 978-08307-5605
LYNN DONOVAN writes for the online ministry she founded in 2006, Spiritually Unequal Marriage. Lynn is a popular Bible study leader and national speaker who dispels the myths women believe about love and marriage and points them to the freedom that is theirs through a living relationship with Christ. She lives in Temecula, California, with her husband, Mike.
DINEEN MILLER has won several prestigious awards for her fiction, and her devotional writing has been featured in Our Journey and Christian Women Online Magazine. In addition to writing for Spiritually Unequal Marriage, Dineen writes for Laced with Grace and various other fiction online magazines and newsletters. Married for more than 23 years, she shares her life with a great guy who adores disc golf and their two daughters, who never stops surprising her with their own creativity.
Click here to download a .pdf file of chapter one
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Kindle
March 25, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Vicious Cycle by Terri Blackstock
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Vicious Cycle Zondervan (February 22, 2011) by Terri Blackstock
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Terri Blackstock is a New York Times best-seller, with over six million copies sold worldwide. She has had over twenty-five years of success as a novelist. She sold her first novel at the age of twenty-five, and has had a successful career ever since.
Besides entertaining her readers, Terri tackles issues that she hopes will change lives. Her recent book, Predator, was inspired by her experiences on Facebook and Twitter, and her concern that people posted too much personal information about themselves. The book deals with an online predator who uses social networks as his playground. She hopes the book will change readers' online habits. Her New York Times best-seller, Intervention, was inspired by her own personal struggles with a daughter on drugs. In the book, a mother hires an interventionist for her drug-addicted daughter. But on the way to treatment, the interventionist is murdered, and the daughter disappears. Barbara, the mother, sets out to search for her daughter. Terri modeled Barbara after herself, and poured many of her own emotions and experiences into that character. As a result, many families experiencing drug addiction have written to thank her for telling their story and giving them hope. Vicious Cycle, Book Two of the Intervention Series, releases February 22, 2011. She's currently working on Book Three.
Other recent books include a stand-alone novel called Double Minds, as well as Last Light, Night Light, True Light and Dawn's Light (from her acclaimed Restoration Series). She is also known for her popular Newpointe 911 Series and Cape Refuge Series. Terri makes her home in Mississippi, where she and her husband Ken are enjoying their empty nest after raising three children.
Terri has appeared on national television programs such as "The 700 Club" and "Home Life," and has been a guest on numerous radio programs across the country. The story of her personal journey appears in books such as Touched By the Savior by Mike Yorkey, True Stories of Answered Prayer by Mike Nappa, Faces of Faith by John Hanna, and I Saw Him In Your Eyes by Ace Collins.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When fifteen-year-old Lance Covington finds an abandoned baby in the backseat of a car, he knows she's the newborn daughter of a meth addict he's been trying to help. But when police arrest him for kidnapping, Lance is thrust into a criminal world of baby trafficking and drug abuse.
His mother, Barbara, looks for help from Kent Harlan---the man whom she secretly, reluctantly loves and who once helped rescue her daughter from a mess of her own. Kent flies to her aid and begins the impossible work of getting Lance out of trouble, protecting a baby who has no home, and finding help for a teenage mother hiding behind her lies.
In this latest novel of suspense and family loyalty, bestselling author Terri Blackstock offers a harrowing look at drug addiction, human trafficking, and the devastating choices that can change lives forever.
Watch the Book Video:
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
I should have died.
Jordan lay on her bloody sheets, her newborn daughter in her arms, and longed for one more hit. She had never hated herself more. Her baby had come two weeks early, and she hadn't been sober enough to get to the hospital. Giving birth at home had never been part of the plan, but there was no one in her house whose mind was clear enough to care.
What kind of mother traded prenatal vitamins for crystal meth? Her age was no excuse. At fifteen, Jordan knew better than to get high while she was pregnant. Now she had this beautiful little girl with big eyes and curly brown hair, innocence radiating like comfort from her warm skin. That innocence, so rare and short-lived in her family, made the birth all the more tragic. Worse, the baby seemed weak and hadn't cried much, and sometimes her little body went stiff and trembled.
Was she dying? Had Jordan tied off the umbilical cord wrong? Her mother, who had once worked as a nurse's aide, had told her to use a shoestring. What if that was wrong? What if she'd waited too long to cut the cord? It wasn't like she could trust her mother. It was clear she didn't have Jordan's or the baby's best interests in mind.
Jordan had made up her mind to give the baby up for adoption, even though she'd felt so close to her in the last few weeks as her daughter had kicked and squirmed inside her. While she was sober, she'd come to love the baby and dream of a future for her . . . one that bore no resemblance to her own. But once Jordan went back into the arms of her lover — that drug that gave her a stronger high than the love
of a boy — the baby stopped kicking. For the last week of her pregnancy, Jordan believed she was dead. So she'd smothered her fear, guilt, and grief in more drugs.
Then last night her water broke, and cramps seized her. She had responded to her fear as she did every emotion — by taking more drugs. By the time she felt the need to push, it was too late to get to the hospital, even if there had been someone who would drive her. She craved another hit, but she was out of ice. Her mother and brother claimed to be out too. They'd already burned through Zeke's casino win, so one of them would have to find a way to score. Maybe it was better if they didn't, though. Her baby needed her.
She wrapped the child in a dirty towel, swaddling it like she'd seen on one of those baby shows. She hadn't expected to love it so fiercely. The baby had big eyes, and now and then she would open them and look up at Jordan, as if to say, "So you're the one who's supposed to protect me?"
The door to her bedroom burst open, and Jordan's mother, eyes dancing with drug-induced wildness, swooped in with sheets in her hand. She must have been holding out on Jordan. She had a secret stash of dope somewhere that she didn't want to share.
"Up, up, up," she said with trembling energy. "Come on, baby, you've made a mess. Now let's clean it up."
Since when did her mother care about neatness? Rotten dishes festered in every room, and garbage spilled over on the floors. "Mom, I have to get the baby to the hospital. She's not acting right, and I don't know about the cord."
Her mother leaned over the baby, stared down at her with hard, steel-gray eyes. "Looks fine to me. I've called the Nelsons. They'll be here soon. They're anxious to get their baby."
The Nelsons? No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Her mother released the fitted sheet from the corners of one side of the mattress and pulled it up, clearly trying to roll them both out. Jordan braced herself. "Stop! Mom, I can't."
"Get up," her mother said, clapping. "Come on. We've got to get the little thing cleaned up before its mommy and daddy come. If they come back here I don't want them to see these sheets."
"Mom — you don't get to pick her parents!" Jordan got up, clutching the baby. Blood rushed from her head, blotches blurring her vision. "I've worked it all out with the adoption agency. I'll call them and tell them — "
Her mother's face hardened even more, all her wrinkles from hard living starkly visible now. "It's a done deal, darlin'. Baby, we have to do this. It's great for our family! This is the whole reason we let you leave rehab early."
"It's not the reason you gave me, Mom. You said you missed me, that I needed my mama while I was pregnant. But it was all a lie."
Her mother snapped the sheets. "Forty thousand dollars, baby. Do you know how much ice that'll buy?"
"Just take her to the hospital to make sure she's all right. Then we can talk about who — "
"No!" her mother bellowed, and the baby jerked and started to cry.
Jordan pulled the baby's head up to her shoulder and rubbed her back. She was so tiny, just a little ball. Her arms and legs thrashed, as if she protested her birth into the wrong family.
"Its new parents can take it to the hospital," her mother said.
"Not it — her!" How could her mother talk about her as if she were an object? "And they're not her parents. I don't know them. They're not on the list the agency gave me."
Her mother flung the soiled sheets into a corner. The blood had seeped through and stained the mattress. "Look what you did, you piece of trash! Bleeding all over the mattress."
"If you'd taken me to the hospital — "
"To do what? Let them arrest you because you were high as a kite while you were giving birth to that kid? Let them arrest me? I'm on probation. You know they can't see me like this. And you're fifteen. They might have taken you away from me, put you into foster care. Then where would you be? Or they could take the baby away and put it into foster care. Then we got nothing to show for it. I ain't gonna
let that happen."
Jordan squeezed her eyes shut. If she'd only stayed in rehab, under the protective wings of New Day.
She felt dizzy, weak, but as she held the baby, her mother threw the clean sheets at her. "Put these on the bed. But first get that stain out of the mattress."
"Mom . . . I need some things." She kept her voice low. "Something to dress her in. Some diapers. Bottles."
"You can nurse her until they take her. I'm not putting one penny into this. They're paying me!" She yanked the baby out of Jordan's arms. "I'll hold it while you change the bed."
Jordan hesitated, uneasy about the fragile baby in the hands of a wild woman who didn't know her own drug induced strength.
"Do it!" her mother screamed.
Again, the baby let out a terrified howl. Jordan took her back. "I will, Mom," she said softly. "Just let me put the baby down."
Breathing hard, her mother watched as Jordan laid the baby on the floor and tried to make her comfortable. Then Jordan got a towel and blotted at the blood stain on the mattress, watching the baby from the corner of her eye.
She couldn't get the stain out, so she grabbed the new sheets and tossed them over the mattress. Out of sight, out of mind, she hoped. As she worked, she panted, fighting dizziness. Her bones ached, and she shivered with chills, though her skin was damp with perspiration.
"Now clean the kid up. I want it to make a good impression. Wish she was a blonde. They pay more for blondes."
Jordan tried one last time. "Don't you think she'll look better to that couple if she's dressed? They're not gonna want to take her without a diaper or outfit. Get Zeke to go and get her some things."
Her mother hesitated, then walked out. A few minutes later, Jordan heard her shrieking at her brother. After a loud exchange, the front door slammed.
Jordan's hands trembled as she picked up the baby and wrapped her in the towel again. These people her mother had found to take the baby — how did they even know Jordan's mother and brother, who only hung out with losers and convicts? Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Maybe it meant they were desperate for a child and would be good parents.
But something about this whole scheme stank. She couldn't let it happen.
The baby's crying grew louder then silenced as her little body arched and jerked. Was this a seizure? Panic drove Jordan to the window. She'd have to climb out with the baby and get to the car. But Zeke had taken it.
Jordan dragged a chair to the window. When Zeke came back, maybe she could make her escape. Her child's whole life hung on the frayed cord of a lot of maybes. And she knew from past experience that maybes never worked out in her favor.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Vicious Cycle Zondervan (February 22, 2011) by Terri Blackstock
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Terri Blackstock is a New York Times best-seller, with over six million copies sold worldwide. She has had over twenty-five years of success as a novelist. She sold her first novel at the age of twenty-five, and has had a successful career ever since.
Besides entertaining her readers, Terri tackles issues that she hopes will change lives. Her recent book, Predator, was inspired by her experiences on Facebook and Twitter, and her concern that people posted too much personal information about themselves. The book deals with an online predator who uses social networks as his playground. She hopes the book will change readers' online habits. Her New York Times best-seller, Intervention, was inspired by her own personal struggles with a daughter on drugs. In the book, a mother hires an interventionist for her drug-addicted daughter. But on the way to treatment, the interventionist is murdered, and the daughter disappears. Barbara, the mother, sets out to search for her daughter. Terri modeled Barbara after herself, and poured many of her own emotions and experiences into that character. As a result, many families experiencing drug addiction have written to thank her for telling their story and giving them hope. Vicious Cycle, Book Two of the Intervention Series, releases February 22, 2011. She's currently working on Book Three.
Other recent books include a stand-alone novel called Double Minds, as well as Last Light, Night Light, True Light and Dawn's Light (from her acclaimed Restoration Series). She is also known for her popular Newpointe 911 Series and Cape Refuge Series. Terri makes her home in Mississippi, where she and her husband Ken are enjoying their empty nest after raising three children.
Terri has appeared on national television programs such as "The 700 Club" and "Home Life," and has been a guest on numerous radio programs across the country. The story of her personal journey appears in books such as Touched By the Savior by Mike Yorkey, True Stories of Answered Prayer by Mike Nappa, Faces of Faith by John Hanna, and I Saw Him In Your Eyes by Ace Collins.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When fifteen-year-old Lance Covington finds an abandoned baby in the backseat of a car, he knows she's the newborn daughter of a meth addict he's been trying to help. But when police arrest him for kidnapping, Lance is thrust into a criminal world of baby trafficking and drug abuse. His mother, Barbara, looks for help from Kent Harlan---the man whom she secretly, reluctantly loves and who once helped rescue her daughter from a mess of her own. Kent flies to her aid and begins the impossible work of getting Lance out of trouble, protecting a baby who has no home, and finding help for a teenage mother hiding behind her lies.
In this latest novel of suspense and family loyalty, bestselling author Terri Blackstock offers a harrowing look at drug addiction, human trafficking, and the devastating choices that can change lives forever.
Watch the Book Video:
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
I should have died.
Jordan lay on her bloody sheets, her newborn daughter in her arms, and longed for one more hit. She had never hated herself more. Her baby had come two weeks early, and she hadn't been sober enough to get to the hospital. Giving birth at home had never been part of the plan, but there was no one in her house whose mind was clear enough to care.
What kind of mother traded prenatal vitamins for crystal meth? Her age was no excuse. At fifteen, Jordan knew better than to get high while she was pregnant. Now she had this beautiful little girl with big eyes and curly brown hair, innocence radiating like comfort from her warm skin. That innocence, so rare and short-lived in her family, made the birth all the more tragic. Worse, the baby seemed weak and hadn't cried much, and sometimes her little body went stiff and trembled.
Was she dying? Had Jordan tied off the umbilical cord wrong? Her mother, who had once worked as a nurse's aide, had told her to use a shoestring. What if that was wrong? What if she'd waited too long to cut the cord? It wasn't like she could trust her mother. It was clear she didn't have Jordan's or the baby's best interests in mind.
Jordan had made up her mind to give the baby up for adoption, even though she'd felt so close to her in the last few weeks as her daughter had kicked and squirmed inside her. While she was sober, she'd come to love the baby and dream of a future for her . . . one that bore no resemblance to her own. But once Jordan went back into the arms of her lover — that drug that gave her a stronger high than the love
of a boy — the baby stopped kicking. For the last week of her pregnancy, Jordan believed she was dead. So she'd smothered her fear, guilt, and grief in more drugs.
Then last night her water broke, and cramps seized her. She had responded to her fear as she did every emotion — by taking more drugs. By the time she felt the need to push, it was too late to get to the hospital, even if there had been someone who would drive her. She craved another hit, but she was out of ice. Her mother and brother claimed to be out too. They'd already burned through Zeke's casino win, so one of them would have to find a way to score. Maybe it was better if they didn't, though. Her baby needed her.
She wrapped the child in a dirty towel, swaddling it like she'd seen on one of those baby shows. She hadn't expected to love it so fiercely. The baby had big eyes, and now and then she would open them and look up at Jordan, as if to say, "So you're the one who's supposed to protect me?"
The door to her bedroom burst open, and Jordan's mother, eyes dancing with drug-induced wildness, swooped in with sheets in her hand. She must have been holding out on Jordan. She had a secret stash of dope somewhere that she didn't want to share.
"Up, up, up," she said with trembling energy. "Come on, baby, you've made a mess. Now let's clean it up."
Since when did her mother care about neatness? Rotten dishes festered in every room, and garbage spilled over on the floors. "Mom, I have to get the baby to the hospital. She's not acting right, and I don't know about the cord."
Her mother leaned over the baby, stared down at her with hard, steel-gray eyes. "Looks fine to me. I've called the Nelsons. They'll be here soon. They're anxious to get their baby."
The Nelsons? No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Her mother released the fitted sheet from the corners of one side of the mattress and pulled it up, clearly trying to roll them both out. Jordan braced herself. "Stop! Mom, I can't."
"Get up," her mother said, clapping. "Come on. We've got to get the little thing cleaned up before its mommy and daddy come. If they come back here I don't want them to see these sheets."
"Mom — you don't get to pick her parents!" Jordan got up, clutching the baby. Blood rushed from her head, blotches blurring her vision. "I've worked it all out with the adoption agency. I'll call them and tell them — "
Her mother's face hardened even more, all her wrinkles from hard living starkly visible now. "It's a done deal, darlin'. Baby, we have to do this. It's great for our family! This is the whole reason we let you leave rehab early."
"It's not the reason you gave me, Mom. You said you missed me, that I needed my mama while I was pregnant. But it was all a lie."
Her mother snapped the sheets. "Forty thousand dollars, baby. Do you know how much ice that'll buy?"
"Just take her to the hospital to make sure she's all right. Then we can talk about who — "
"No!" her mother bellowed, and the baby jerked and started to cry.
Jordan pulled the baby's head up to her shoulder and rubbed her back. She was so tiny, just a little ball. Her arms and legs thrashed, as if she protested her birth into the wrong family.
"Its new parents can take it to the hospital," her mother said.
"Not it — her!" How could her mother talk about her as if she were an object? "And they're not her parents. I don't know them. They're not on the list the agency gave me."
Her mother flung the soiled sheets into a corner. The blood had seeped through and stained the mattress. "Look what you did, you piece of trash! Bleeding all over the mattress."
"If you'd taken me to the hospital — "
"To do what? Let them arrest you because you were high as a kite while you were giving birth to that kid? Let them arrest me? I'm on probation. You know they can't see me like this. And you're fifteen. They might have taken you away from me, put you into foster care. Then where would you be? Or they could take the baby away and put it into foster care. Then we got nothing to show for it. I ain't gonna
let that happen."
Jordan squeezed her eyes shut. If she'd only stayed in rehab, under the protective wings of New Day.
She felt dizzy, weak, but as she held the baby, her mother threw the clean sheets at her. "Put these on the bed. But first get that stain out of the mattress."
"Mom . . . I need some things." She kept her voice low. "Something to dress her in. Some diapers. Bottles."
"You can nurse her until they take her. I'm not putting one penny into this. They're paying me!" She yanked the baby out of Jordan's arms. "I'll hold it while you change the bed."
Jordan hesitated, uneasy about the fragile baby in the hands of a wild woman who didn't know her own drug induced strength.
"Do it!" her mother screamed.
Again, the baby let out a terrified howl. Jordan took her back. "I will, Mom," she said softly. "Just let me put the baby down."
Breathing hard, her mother watched as Jordan laid the baby on the floor and tried to make her comfortable. Then Jordan got a towel and blotted at the blood stain on the mattress, watching the baby from the corner of her eye.
She couldn't get the stain out, so she grabbed the new sheets and tossed them over the mattress. Out of sight, out of mind, she hoped. As she worked, she panted, fighting dizziness. Her bones ached, and she shivered with chills, though her skin was damp with perspiration.
"Now clean the kid up. I want it to make a good impression. Wish she was a blonde. They pay more for blondes."
Jordan tried one last time. "Don't you think she'll look better to that couple if she's dressed? They're not gonna want to take her without a diaper or outfit. Get Zeke to go and get her some things."
Her mother hesitated, then walked out. A few minutes later, Jordan heard her shrieking at her brother. After a loud exchange, the front door slammed.
Jordan's hands trembled as she picked up the baby and wrapped her in the towel again. These people her mother had found to take the baby — how did they even know Jordan's mother and brother, who only hung out with losers and convicts? Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Maybe it meant they were desperate for a child and would be good parents.
But something about this whole scheme stank. She couldn't let it happen.
The baby's crying grew louder then silenced as her little body arched and jerked. Was this a seizure? Panic drove Jordan to the window. She'd have to climb out with the baby and get to the car. But Zeke had taken it.
Jordan dragged a chair to the window. When Zeke came back, maybe she could make her escape. Her child's whole life hung on the frayed cord of a lot of maybes. And she knew from past experience that maybes never worked out in her favor.
March 24, 2011
Catch-up and Prayer
Captain's Log, Stardate 03.23.2011
So as you can guess, I've been pretty busy. I recently detailed this all for my friend Meredith Efken when she called me the other day, so here it is in all its goriness:
1) I finished a book January 10th, another book (number 15) in the Patchwork Mysteries series by Guideposts. The books are written by several authors and only available to the Guideposts Book Club right now—you can't buy them in stores—so I haven't said much about them, but I've been having a lot of fun writing them since they're cozy mysteries, and I'm a huge Agatha Christie fan.
2) On January 11th, I finished the Art Fact Sheet for Stalker in the Shadows, my next Love Inspired Suspense, coming out in spring 2012. I'm excited about it—it's about Monica, the third Grant sister (you can read about her sisters Naomi and Rachel in Deadly Intent and Formula for Danger).
3) On January 16th, I finished self-edits for my fourth Sushi series book, Weddings and Wasabi , and sent it to my freelance editor, Meredith Efken at the Fiction Fix-It Shop. This is the book that I'll be self-publishing and releasing in September or October this year.
4) On February 7th, I finished the manuscript for Stalker in the Shadows and mailed it off to New York! I also started work on another story proposal for Love Inspired Suspense.
5) On February 15th, I turned in to my editor revisions on Protection for Hire, my next book with Zondervan which releases in November. I loved this book because it enabled me to channel my Nikita-Alias side in writing the heroine, who is ex-Japanese mafia. She finds Jesus in jail and now is trying to use her skill set to help people rather than breaking kneecaps.
6) I went to Hawaii for my cousin's wedding, and then to Nebraska to visit Tosca Lee and Meredith Efken, and during that time, the 2011 ACFW Genesis contest ended, and since I'm coordinating that, well, I had to process entries, scramble to get extra judges, and assign judges to all the entries (we had 550 entries!). Tosca's OCD tendencies rubbed off on me, plus I was envious of her immaculate house, and so I have also been slowly cleaning up my house a little each day. I have a gigantic pile of stuff to give away to Salvation Army and I am just terribly proud of myself.
7) By March 15th, I had to finish revisions on the Patchwork Mysteries manuscript I turned in back in January. And actually, I was a little late because a) I was stupid, and b) a character stumped me, and I had to write 5 new scenes from scratch.
Whew! Are you tired yet? I sure am!
Right now, I'm writing a prologue to Protection for Hire that I hope to get done today or tomorrow, and I also got contracted for a third book for the Patchwork Mysteries series, and the one-sheet outline is due April 1st while the synopsis is due April 11th. I was also contracted to write devotionals for a devotion book by Guideposts, and those are due April 18th.
I hope it doesn't sound like I'm whining, because I'm not. I LOVE that I'm busy and on deadlines because otherwise I'd waste time and eat too much. Can you relate? I really don't work as efficiently as I do when I'm on deadline.
But it does seem sometimes that I'm playing catch up with all my other work—my Story Sensei critique service, my Street Team, my blogging, and let's not forget knitting! I take a few minutes to knit every day (usually when I'm hanging out with my husband after he comes home from work) but I haven't touched my spinning wheel in forever and I kind of miss it. Maybe I'll spin a little tomorrow.
OH and I'm starting a new training program for my marathon running to help me improve my time (because really, running for seven hours straight was kind of painful). I'd like to one day run a marathon in 5 hours. I won't do it anytime soon, but I can at least aim for 6.5 hours. I'm hoping to be able to run the Disneyworld Marathon in January!
That's my catch-up for today (actually, reading over it, it kind of looks like throw-up rather than catch-up ...) and I hope you all are doing well!
If you have any prayer requests, feel free to leave them in the comments and I'll say a prayer for you! And if you can please pray I make all my deadlines (without dying or at the very least without having a mental breakdown) I'd appreciate it!
So as you can guess, I've been pretty busy. I recently detailed this all for my friend Meredith Efken when she called me the other day, so here it is in all its goriness:
1) I finished a book January 10th, another book (number 15) in the Patchwork Mysteries series by Guideposts. The books are written by several authors and only available to the Guideposts Book Club right now—you can't buy them in stores—so I haven't said much about them, but I've been having a lot of fun writing them since they're cozy mysteries, and I'm a huge Agatha Christie fan.
2) On January 11th, I finished the Art Fact Sheet for Stalker in the Shadows, my next Love Inspired Suspense, coming out in spring 2012. I'm excited about it—it's about Monica, the third Grant sister (you can read about her sisters Naomi and Rachel in Deadly Intent and Formula for Danger).
3) On January 16th, I finished self-edits for my fourth Sushi series book, Weddings and Wasabi , and sent it to my freelance editor, Meredith Efken at the Fiction Fix-It Shop. This is the book that I'll be self-publishing and releasing in September or October this year.
4) On February 7th, I finished the manuscript for Stalker in the Shadows and mailed it off to New York! I also started work on another story proposal for Love Inspired Suspense.
5) On February 15th, I turned in to my editor revisions on Protection for Hire, my next book with Zondervan which releases in November. I loved this book because it enabled me to channel my Nikita-Alias side in writing the heroine, who is ex-Japanese mafia. She finds Jesus in jail and now is trying to use her skill set to help people rather than breaking kneecaps.
6) I went to Hawaii for my cousin's wedding, and then to Nebraska to visit Tosca Lee and Meredith Efken, and during that time, the 2011 ACFW Genesis contest ended, and since I'm coordinating that, well, I had to process entries, scramble to get extra judges, and assign judges to all the entries (we had 550 entries!). Tosca's OCD tendencies rubbed off on me, plus I was envious of her immaculate house, and so I have also been slowly cleaning up my house a little each day. I have a gigantic pile of stuff to give away to Salvation Army and I am just terribly proud of myself.
7) By March 15th, I had to finish revisions on the Patchwork Mysteries manuscript I turned in back in January. And actually, I was a little late because a) I was stupid, and b) a character stumped me, and I had to write 5 new scenes from scratch.
Whew! Are you tired yet? I sure am!
Right now, I'm writing a prologue to Protection for Hire that I hope to get done today or tomorrow, and I also got contracted for a third book for the Patchwork Mysteries series, and the one-sheet outline is due April 1st while the synopsis is due April 11th. I was also contracted to write devotionals for a devotion book by Guideposts, and those are due April 18th.
I hope it doesn't sound like I'm whining, because I'm not. I LOVE that I'm busy and on deadlines because otherwise I'd waste time and eat too much. Can you relate? I really don't work as efficiently as I do when I'm on deadline.
But it does seem sometimes that I'm playing catch up with all my other work—my Story Sensei critique service, my Street Team, my blogging, and let's not forget knitting! I take a few minutes to knit every day (usually when I'm hanging out with my husband after he comes home from work) but I haven't touched my spinning wheel in forever and I kind of miss it. Maybe I'll spin a little tomorrow.
OH and I'm starting a new training program for my marathon running to help me improve my time (because really, running for seven hours straight was kind of painful). I'd like to one day run a marathon in 5 hours. I won't do it anytime soon, but I can at least aim for 6.5 hours. I'm hoping to be able to run the Disneyworld Marathon in January!
That's my catch-up for today (actually, reading over it, it kind of looks like throw-up rather than catch-up ...) and I hope you all are doing well!
If you have any prayer requests, feel free to leave them in the comments and I'll say a prayer for you! And if you can please pray I make all my deadlines (without dying or at the very least without having a mental breakdown) I'd appreciate it!
Excerpt - Bathsheba by Jill Eileen Smith
Bathshebaby
Jill Eileen Smith
Can love triumph over treachery?
Bathsheba is a woman who longs for love. With her husband away fighting the king's wars, she battles encroaching loneliness–making it frighteningly easy to succumb to the advances of King David. Will one night of unbridled passion destroy everything she holds dear? Can she find forgiveness at the feet of the Almighty? Or has her sin separated her from God—and David—forever?
With a historian's sharp eye for detail and a novelist's creative spirit, Jill Eileen Smith brings to life the passionate and emotional story of David's most famous—and infamous—wife. You will never read the story of David and Bathsheba in the same way again.
"Thoroughly engrossing. Jill Eileen Smith receives my highest recommendation as an author of biblical fiction."—Kim Vogel Sawyer, award-winning author of My Heart Remembers
"Bathsheba is Jill Eileen Smith's finest work to date. It vividly portrays the devastation caused by selfish passion and betrayal, and the incredible blessing of repentance and restoration through God's grace."—Jill Stengl, award-winning author of Wisconsin Brides
"This well-researched and beautifully crafted story will resonate in your heart and mind long after you've read the final page. An excellent read with a message that transcends time."—Judith Miller, author of the Daughters of Amana series
Excerpt of chapter one:
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P A r t I
These are the names of David's mighty men. . . . Among the Thirty were . . . Eliam son of Ahithophel the Gilonite . . . and Uriah the Hittite. There were thirty-seven in all.
2 Samuel 23:8, 24, 34, 39
Ahithophel was the king's counselor. Hushai the Arkite was the king's friend.
1 Chronicles 27:33
And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?
2 Samuel 11:3 KJV
.Jerusalem, 994 BC
1
Darkness curtained the sky, hiding the stars, sheltering Bath- sheba in the inner courtyard of her home. She clutched the soft linen towel to her chest, shivering, while Uriah stood with his back to her, a sentry guarding her privacy.
"Of course you must do this, but hurry, dear wife." His mischievous tone heated her blood. Suddenly the chilly spring breeze seeping from her bare feet to the rest of her robe- draped body didn't seem quite so cold.
"Yes, husband. Would you like to help?" Her tone teased him, and she took courage from his own playful manner. She had Tirzah, her maid, to pour the water over her head, but if he was in such a hurry to be with her . . .
He turned to face her, his dark eyes pools of interest. She had never suggested such a thing before. Tirzah always helped her do this. It was a woman's place, a woman's ritual. Would his strict adherence to the law of Moses let him help her? Did she want him to?
She pulled the robe tighter about her, watching him. He seemed to be assessing her question, and she knew him well
enough to know he was thinking through every purification law and tradition to determine whether such a thing was proper before Adonai.
"We would defeat the purpose, Bathsheba," he said at last. "Though if Tirzah were not available to help . . . I am your husband, after all." Gentleness filled his expression, his eyes revealing how much he longed to do as she asked.
"It is a sacred moment." She looked into his face as he took a step closer. "To remind a woman she is set apart unto God, and for her husband alone." She placed a hand on his arm, seeing him warm to the thought.
"The law of Moses—it would allow for such a thing?" He rubbed a hand over his beard, the thought clearly troubling. He worked so hard to obey the law . . . If only he could relax and not take every jot, every little word, so strictly. But even after three years of marriage, she trod carefully in matters of the law lest she be party to his guilt. Guilt that was not worth the price of carelessness.
"I don't know," she said at last, stroking his cheek with her hand. "Until we do, Tirzah will help me. I will hurry." She smiled at the relief in his eyes and moved quickly to the bronze basin he had purchased for her own private use. She set the towel on the stone bench beside it, and slipped the robe from her shoulders, listening to his sigh.
"I will ask Jozadak in the morning." The lame Levite tutor Uriah paid to teach him the law would spend many hours seeking an answer to Uriah's question.
She glanced at him, his back now turned to her, the well- muscled body evident beneath a tan linen tunic. He was an intelligent, handsome man, and she marveled at his constant questions, his determination to learn the ways of her people.
"Are you ready, mistress?" Tirzah interrupted her musings, pulling her thoughts back to their purpose here. Distrac- tion was too easy with Uriah nearby. The water in the basin sparkled with the night's chill, making her shiver again. Tirzah rested the jar on her shoulder, waiting.
Bathsheba pulled the comb from her hair, letting the length of it fall to her back, the thick tresses covering her like a cloak. She stepped into the basin and knelt, the frigid water prickling her flesh. She sucked in a quick breath as Tirzah poured the first stream of cool water over her head.
She took the hyssop from Tirzah's outstretched hand and rubbed her arms and legs, then wrapped both arms about her, bracing herself again. Tirzah lifted the water and poured a second stream over Bathsheba's head until it touched every part of her body. The shock of the cold and drenching water caused her to look up, to gaze heavenward. Her heart con- stricted with this gentle reminder of her need to be pure before Yahweh—something she could not do during her time of uncleanness. She bowed her head, praying her humility would grant her favor in His eyes. Would her night in Uriah's arms bring about the child they both craved?
She closed her eyes as Tirzah poured the water a third time. Shame filled her, her heart as bare before the Lord as her glistening skin. Oh, Adonai, I am in need of You, a sinner at birth, unable to keep Your perfect law. Wash me and I will be clean, whiter than snow.
The words, once a memorized tradition she had learned to quote by rote as a girl in her father's house, had become personal in recent months. A sense of unworthiness filled her, a stark reminder that her uncleanness must be atoned for.
She let the last of the water drain into the basin and lifted 11
shaky hands toward the heavens, tears mingling with the moisture dripping from her hair. Forgive me, Adonai. She knew a sacrifice must be given to know true forgiveness, but her heart longed for it just the same. Perhaps it would be enough to acquire God's favor this night.
She stepped out of the bath and snatched the towel from the bench, drying her skin along with her tears. Slipping her arms through the sleeves of her robe again, she hurried into Uriah's outstretched arms.
###
Bathsheba rose from the bed, careful not to awaken Uriah. He shifted at her movement, and she stilled, looking down on his contented form. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythmic pattern, his breath even and soft. The dark hairs of his neck curled beneath his night tunic and met the edges of his beard. She felt a blush fill her cheeks as she lingered, remembering, longing to keep him with her. But they had only two more nights together before he left again for many months. On the third night he would sleep in another room, refusing any intimate touch in preparation for war. Something she could never understand and could not bring herself to accept. The days spent marching to the place of battle should give him plenty of time to become pure. Why did he have to start before he even left her side?
She sighed, felt along the wall for the clay lamp where it sat in its niche in the wall, then grasped it with one hand and slipped from the room. She padded softly through the dark halls toward the cooking room, where embers were banked in the clay oven, sufficient to spark a flame and light her lamp. She moved to the jar of oil and replenished the
bowl to keep the light from going out. The lamp illumined the room where the servants would soon set the bread to baking and prepare the foods Uriah would take to break his morning fast. He always rose before dawn, ate quickly, then hurried to the tent where the ark stood, in time for the first trumpet's sound. One more way he showed his devotion to Adonai. Or perhaps he thought somehow his actions would win the Lord's favor . . .
Banishing the thought, she sat on the end of a long wooden bench and rested her elbows on the smooth table, trying to stifle a yawn to no avail. She never slept well before Uriah left for war, and she couldn't decide if it was missing him that troubled her most or the fear of losing him to an enemy arrow. She searched her mind, wishing she could stop the fear, but exhaustion kept the worry always on the fringes, clinging when she wished she could release it like chaff blown away with the wind.
What was wrong with her?
"Trouble sleeping again?" Tirzah appeared at the threshold of the cooking room, her own lamp in hand, her hair dishev- eled in a tangled mess. She stepped closer and took a seat at Bathsheba's side. She placed a hand on Bathsheba's shoulder, patting it softly.
Tears pricked Bathsheba's eyes. Exhaustion made her emo- tional, something Uriah seemed at a loss to handle. So she'd taken to hiding her feelings from him when she could. He was good at drawing them out of her when the mood was right, when he felt especially considerate.
"Worried again?" Tirzah stood and retrieved a flask of wine, pouring some into a clay cup. She handed it to Bathsheba and sat beside her. "Drink."
Bathsheba obeyed as she used to do when Tirzah had cared for her as a child, though the woman had not been all that old herself at the time her father bought her to tend his motherless child. She swiped her eyes. "Yes. I can't seem to help myself."
Tirzah smoothed her rumpled hair, then leaned an elbow against the table. "I think it's time for you to be honest, mistress."
Bathsheba's stomach fluttered, the sensation strongly re- sembling dread. "Honest? You think I would lie to you about something?"
"I think you would lie to yourself. To your husband. Me, you would avoid." She smiled, the lamplight casting strange shapes over her round face.
Bathsheba turned away, not liking the direction the conver- sation had taken. "I have nothing to lie about." She scanned the walls and ceiling of the room, listening to the scratching sound of field mice somewhere in the shadowed corners. Despite their efforts to keep the food high and away and the room swept, the creatures always managed to find some reason to invade the house. She lifted her feet beneath the bench on instinct, shuddering.
"I think . . ." Tirzah paused as if weighing whether she should continue. "I think you are lonely, perhaps even angry." She held Bathsheba's gaze for a suspended moment.
"If I am lonely, it is only because he's gone more than he's home, and I have no child to take his place. Any woman would feel the same." She took another sip from the cup, feeling the warmth of the wine move through her.
"There are things you could do to fill his absence. The poor always need attending and there are garments to be made. Perhaps your Aunt Talia could advise you?" Tirzah leaned
away from her, placing both hands on her knees. "She might have something for you to do."
"My aunt can't keep my bed warm at night. I don't sleep well when Uriah is away." Tirzah's compassionate look made Bathsheba regret her sharp tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap." She toyed with her cup, then finished the last of the wine. "My aunt also has Chava's child—soon to be chil- dren—to help care for. And Rei just married a wife and they live with Aunt Talia. It is easy for her to feel worthy with so much to keep her occupied."
"You feel unworthy, mistress? Whatever for?" Tirzah moved close to Bathsheba again, the lamp between them.
Bathsheba shifted, the familiar shame filling her, adding to the emotion she could not hold in check. "A married woman without a child—there is no value in such a person. What worth is my life, my marriage, if I cannot give Uriah an heir to carry on the Hittite line? I should be helping to build his house, not live as an ornament within it." She glanced toward the door to the cooking room and lowered her voice, though the hour was too early for other servants to be about. "I fear he may take another wife if I don't conceive soon. He has his honor."
Tirzah gave a disgusted grunt but quickly looked about her as though afraid the walls had ears. "The master is as much to blame as you, mistress. If you count up the months he is gone, they would amount to more than half of every year. How can he give you a son in such conditions? You know this." She muttered something under her breath.
"What did you say?" Bathsheba leaned closer. "Tell me."
"I would rather not repeat the word I used, mistress." She looked chagrined, and Bathsheba smiled. "Men are all alike.
They put the blame on the woman when they ought to know better."
Bathsheba couldn't stop a soft laugh. "In this I will agree. But you know men would not begin to take the blame for such a thing." She set the cup on the table. "Uriah is atten- tive . . . when he is here." She couldn't help defending him, despite her irritation. He was a good man, a loyal husband. A bit overbearing where the law was concerned sometimes, but nothing she couldn't live with. He was honorable to the core, and she respected him for it.
Besides, it did no good to complain about war or to wish Uriah worked a trade instead of commanding a company of men always ready to do the king's bidding. She couldn't change Uriah or the king or the ever-present need to do battle with Israel's enemies. What she wouldn't give for a solid year of peace. But that wasn't likely to come any time soon if her father and Uriah were to be believed.
Tirzah yawned. "After the master leaves for the field, we will visit your aunt. Regardless of what you say, perhaps she can help." She patted Bathsheba's arm. "I'm going back to my pallet. Try to rest."
Bathsheba nodded, comforted by the servant's ability to take over and make sense of any situation. She watched Tirzah walk away, the fear of loneliness not quite so tangible now. If she could have been completely honest with Tirzah, she would have admitted that it was indeed the loneliness that worried her the most. She didn't want to end up a widow with no one to love her. Uriah did love her, didn't he? But his loyalty to her was not undivided. When the king called, he always answered.
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March 23, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Code of Justice by Liz Johnson
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Code of Justice
by
Liz Johnson
"Follow the drugs."
Her sister's last words shake FBI agent Heather Sloan to the core. They also convince her that the helicopter crash only Heather survived wasn't an accident. Sheriff's deputy Jeremy Latham is assigned the case—he's the one who can help Heather find the person responsible…once she convinces him they should work together. As they dig for the truth, they learn to trust and care for each other. Will they lose it all when the killer targets Heather? She's willing to risk her life to find her sister's killer—but her code of justice could cost her the chance to win Jeremy's love.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Heather's mind had been mostly foggy with only a brief respite for days. The medication the doctor had given her made it hard to remember how many days had passed or who had been to visit her since she first arrived at the hospital. Had it been three days? Maybe four?
She couldn't be sure when she had last been awake, but as the haze rolled away this time, her brain felt less fuzzy, and she was able to concentrate on the sound of footsteps on tile. Then a gentle touch on her arms and leg. Then searing pain in her left leg. She could manage only a whimper. Then there was a prick on the back of her hand and a voice she didn't recognize. "She pulled it out again."
None of the past days made any sense, no matter how hard she tried to pull them all into focus. Her brain felt like mush, her memory hibernating.
Soon the pain ebbed, and she sighed, sinking a little deeper into the pillow beneath her head. Light flashed before her closed eyes, and she tried to open them, but they refused to respond.
After several minutes another set of footsteps entered the room, this one lighter and punctuated by the staccato taps of high heels. The steps quick and purposeful. A gentle voice said, "How's she doing?" She knew that voice.
"No—" Her voice cracked, but she tried again. "Nora?" The sound was barely audible, but immediately a warm hand slid into hers.
"Heather. I'm here."
Slowly, her mind started to clear through the haze of the drugs they'd given her. Nora. Nora James. Who was engaged to Nate Andersen, her supervisor at the Bureau.
"Do you want some water?"
She nodded, but was met with resistance under her chin. The neck brace. The leg brace. They had repaired her torn ACL, which had been shredded in the crash.
The crash.
It all hit at once and tears leaked between her closed eyelids, running down the sides of her face. A smooth knuckle slid along her temples, wiping the drops away. Then a plastic straw pushed against her lips. She drank several long sips before Nora pulled it away.
Fighting the pain that wanted to keep her eyes closed and brain turned off, she opened them a crack. Nora's kind features and long blond hair were blurry but unmistakable.
"How are you doing, sweetie?" She squeezed Heather's hand. "Do you need anything else?"
Heather opened her mouth, but couldn't push another word past her throat. Was Nate here, too? She didn't want him to see her like this. Please say he hadn't already been to visit.
And then the footfalls that had walked past her office for nearly three years entered her hospital room. "Sorry I'm late, ladies." Nate stepped up to the bed, leaning over just enough so she could see his ever-present five o'clock shadow, which looked longer than usual. He rubbed it with one palm as he pulled up a chair closer to her bed. "Just had another phone call with Mitch. He's worried about you, kid. Everyone at the office is."
"I'm fine," Heather managed just before another wave of pain from her shoulder stole her breath.
Nate wrapped his arm around Nora's waist but seemed to lean in closer to Heather, even if she could barely see him out of the corner of her eye. "It's good to see you. You look good."
Liar.
She looked awful, and she didn't even need a mirror to know it.
And she looked weak. She felt weak. She just didn't want Nate to see her in this state. Would he think she couldn't handle an assignment after seeing her like this?
"Nate." She sighed, finally offering him half of a smile. "You're a good boss, but I wish you wouldn't have come."
He chuckled. "You're on a lot of medication. You'll think otherwise when you're back to normal." Picking and choosing what he heard had always been his way with her.
She managed a tiny shake of her head, despite the neck brace and heavy fog threatening to roll back in. She blinked again, trying desperately to make her mind return to its normal speed.
"We were here yesterday with Mitch and Myles and Kenzie, too. You just didn't have the decency to wake up to greet us."
She had woken up yesterday, though not while her friends or family were there. She wished her timing had been better. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much if she'd been told by her parents or friends that she was the crash's only survivor—that Kit was dead.
Still she offered the obligatory apology that she knew Nate was waiting for. "Sorry."
He chuckled again and squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go.
"The nurse said you were talking about your gun in your sleep last night," Nora said. "I think you were looking for it and pulled out your IV instead."
Nate's shoulders jostled as a broad smile spread across his face. Since he'd returned from his last assignment where he met Nora, he'd been smiling and laughing a lot more than usual. "I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else from you. But don't worry about it. I'll keep it safe until you're released."
Heather scowled, her hand searching for the cool handle of her Glock out of pure habit. She pleaded with her eyes for him to give her back her gun, but Nate shook his head. "Nope. You're on way too much medication, not to mention the amount of oxygen just sitting next to your bed. When they let you out of here, you'll get it back." He smirked at the glare she shot his way.
She swallowed again, forcing her vocal cords to recall their job. "How did you get it?"
"Your mom gave it to me. I guess the hospital had it with your clothes and other personal affects." He tugged Nora a little closer and whispered in a mock-conspiratorial tone, "Apparently she had it with her in the helicopter. Because, you know, when I go on a strictly sightseeing tour of Mount Saint Helens and Mount Hood, I always bring my weapon with me."
Nora shoved her fiancé's shoulder. "Give Heather a break."
Heather shrugged, then cringed as pain shot through her shoulder. Twisting as much as her multiple braces and injuries allowed, she turned toward Nate. "So where are my parents? Does the hospital only allow two visitors at a time?"
He looked away then brought his steel blue eyes back to meet hers, all teasing aside. "Listen, Heather, I'm sorry." He swallowed thickly, and her stomach turned with a sudden knowledge.
"Kit's funeral?"
"It was this morning. Nora and I skipped the graveside service. Your mom wanted someone here when you woke up." He studied the spot on the floor between his shoes, and she realized that he was dressed in his best black Hugo Boss. They'd worked together for almost three years, and she could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen him wearing the slick suit.
When he brought his gaze back up to meet hers, all she could see was the pain there—all traces of humor gone. He just shook his head. "I'm sorry you couldn't be there. Your parents wanted to wait, but the doctors don't know how long you're going to be in here. And your dad's unit was called back overseas. He ships out right away, so one or the other of you would have had to miss it. And the funeral home couldn't wait indefinitely, so the director suggested just going ahead with the service."
Through the fierce ache in her shoulder, Heather lifted her hand to her eyes, brushing away two unruly tears.
She'd missed her chance to say goodbye to her little sister. And she didn't have any idea why any of this had happened. Why their helicopter had gone down. What Kit had meant about following the drugs. None of it made sense.
Yet.
But she would figure it out. Kit was far too special to just let go without a reason.
Reining in her emotions, Heather cleared her throat. "I'll bet my parents told you not to tell me all of that."
"They said they weren't sure you could handle it just yet. I knew otherwise."
"Thank you, Nate. It's better to know. Right?"
"Right."
A yawn caught Heather off guard and made her two friends smile.
"We better get going and let you get some rest. We'll see you tomorrow," Nate said before squeezing Heather's hand and standing at the same time as Nora. Hand in hand they took a step toward the door before Nate suddenly stopped.
"Heather, I need you to promise me something," he said over his shoulder.
"What?" The word was more of a croak than anything else, but he seemed to understand.
"It's going to take you a while to recoup. Give it some time." His brow furrowed, his mouth turning stern. "Don't try to push yourself too hard."
After a long pause, she conceded. "I won't."
He nodded and gave her a knowing look. "And let the police do their job. Stay out of this investigation."
Nate's face softened.
She didn't respond, and he took a firm step toward her, his face a concoction of sharp angles. "I'm not kidding, Sloan." He didn't usually call her by her last name unless he was tired or she was being obstinate. "I need you to focus on getting better. Nothing else. You won't get involved in this case beyond answering whatever questions the investigator has. That's a direct order. Understood?"
She had no other choice but to agree. "Yes."
"Have the nurse call me if you need anything," Nora called from the doorway just before they disappeared. "See you tomorrow."
The way Nate had rested his hand on Nora's back mirrored the familiar actions of Clay Kramer, Kit's fiancé. Except now he wasn't engaged to her anymore. Because she was—
Heather closed her eyes, willing the image of Clay and Kit laughing together the night before the crash to vanish. It faded slightly, leaving only an imagined likeness of the pain Clay was enduring, his handsome face twisted in agony. How could he survive with the love of his life gone? How could she ever think of having a happy life with her sister gone?
Beyond questions of her own happiness lay more sinister inquiries that were painful just to ponder. Had someone really wanted to hurt Kit? Why would they want to kill someone everyone loved? Was it possible that Heather's own life could be in jeopardy, too?
These questions haunted her as she fell into a fitful sleep.
Heather heard the rattle and click of the turning door handle before she was consciously awake. Her brain still foggy from sleep and the pain medication, she struggled to open her eyes, wondering if she was having another visitor. Her parents had been by earlier, but she'd insisted they go back to the hotel. She could see how drained they were after the funeral.
At the same moment that the door opened, her eyelids raised enough that she could see through her lashes.
A short, round man ducked into the room, looking over his shoulder as though confirming that he wasn't being followed, before silently closing the door behind him. When he turned to face her, she could make out only his ratty, gray jacket and violently shaking hands. She'd never seen anyone's hands shaking that badly—except drug addicts going through withdrawal.
But what was an addict doing in her hospital room?
He spun around slowly before shuffling toward her bed. She flexed her hand, feeling around for her gun. Which Nate still had. Maybe she could reach the call button on the side of the bed without tipping him off that she was alert—if somewhat groggy. Before scaring him off, she needed to know what he wanted.
A wave of body odor nearly sent her to the floor gagging, and she quickly adjusted to breathing through her mouth.
"Put the tube in the line," the man mumbled. "Put the tube in the line. Then get the fix."
What tube? What line?
The fix was easy enough to understand.
Suddenly he grabbed the IV line attached to the back of her hand, almost tugging it out. She forced her eyes to open all the way, looking into the face of a man with glassy eyes, long white hair and several days of patchy beard growth.
"What are you doing?" she asked, carefully keeping her tone soft, if scratchy.
He didn't look at her, just continuing his chant. "Need to put the tube in the line. Then I get a fix."
"What are you doing?" she asked again, putting more force behind her words as she reached for the call button, praying it would bring help right away. Her words made him glance at her, but it didn't make him pause, as he pulled a small medical vial from his pocket and tried to connect it to her IV. "Stop! Don't do that!"
Even with the tremors in his hands, he moved quickly, slipping the vial into place to feed whatever was in it into the line. She tried to roll to the side to stop him, but the sudden burning in the back of her hand was excruciating.
The man shuffled a step toward the door, as she clawed at her hand, trying to pull the tubing out.
"What is this?" she cried as the fire raced up her arm.
It took her another moment to realize that the bloodcurdling scream filling the room came from her own throat.
Even after Jeremy Latham flashed his Sheriff's Deputy badge at the pretty blonde nurse at the station next to the elevator, she wouldn't tell him the exact condition of the survivor of the helicopter crash that had claimed two lives. Something about confidential patient records. No matter. If she was conscious, he would get Heather Sloan's statement and piece together the events leading up to the crash. But as he approached the door he'd been directed to, a scream sent him running toward the very room the nurse had indicated. As he neared it, a woman shouted again.
Hoping the door was unlocked, he crashed into the solid wood. It flew open as he twisted the handle, sending him to his knees on the slick floor.
A pair of very old shoes and an unpleasant odor shuffled past him as he scrambled to his feet. He caught only a glimpse of the back of the man's head before screams from the bed grabbed his attention.
"Get it out. Get it out! It burns!"
The cries from the woman on the bed made it clear what took priority. She needed help. Now. Jeremy ignored the other man as he scrambled to her side.
Putting one hand on her forearm, Jeremy said, "Where does it burn?"
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Code of Justice by
Liz Johnson
"Follow the drugs."
Her sister's last words shake FBI agent Heather Sloan to the core. They also convince her that the helicopter crash only Heather survived wasn't an accident. Sheriff's deputy Jeremy Latham is assigned the case—he's the one who can help Heather find the person responsible…once she convinces him they should work together. As they dig for the truth, they learn to trust and care for each other. Will they lose it all when the killer targets Heather? She's willing to risk her life to find her sister's killer—but her code of justice could cost her the chance to win Jeremy's love.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Heather's mind had been mostly foggy with only a brief respite for days. The medication the doctor had given her made it hard to remember how many days had passed or who had been to visit her since she first arrived at the hospital. Had it been three days? Maybe four?
She couldn't be sure when she had last been awake, but as the haze rolled away this time, her brain felt less fuzzy, and she was able to concentrate on the sound of footsteps on tile. Then a gentle touch on her arms and leg. Then searing pain in her left leg. She could manage only a whimper. Then there was a prick on the back of her hand and a voice she didn't recognize. "She pulled it out again."
None of the past days made any sense, no matter how hard she tried to pull them all into focus. Her brain felt like mush, her memory hibernating.
Soon the pain ebbed, and she sighed, sinking a little deeper into the pillow beneath her head. Light flashed before her closed eyes, and she tried to open them, but they refused to respond.
After several minutes another set of footsteps entered the room, this one lighter and punctuated by the staccato taps of high heels. The steps quick and purposeful. A gentle voice said, "How's she doing?" She knew that voice.
"No—" Her voice cracked, but she tried again. "Nora?" The sound was barely audible, but immediately a warm hand slid into hers.
"Heather. I'm here."
Slowly, her mind started to clear through the haze of the drugs they'd given her. Nora. Nora James. Who was engaged to Nate Andersen, her supervisor at the Bureau.
"Do you want some water?"
She nodded, but was met with resistance under her chin. The neck brace. The leg brace. They had repaired her torn ACL, which had been shredded in the crash.
The crash.
It all hit at once and tears leaked between her closed eyelids, running down the sides of her face. A smooth knuckle slid along her temples, wiping the drops away. Then a plastic straw pushed against her lips. She drank several long sips before Nora pulled it away.
Fighting the pain that wanted to keep her eyes closed and brain turned off, she opened them a crack. Nora's kind features and long blond hair were blurry but unmistakable.
"How are you doing, sweetie?" She squeezed Heather's hand. "Do you need anything else?"
Heather opened her mouth, but couldn't push another word past her throat. Was Nate here, too? She didn't want him to see her like this. Please say he hadn't already been to visit.
And then the footfalls that had walked past her office for nearly three years entered her hospital room. "Sorry I'm late, ladies." Nate stepped up to the bed, leaning over just enough so she could see his ever-present five o'clock shadow, which looked longer than usual. He rubbed it with one palm as he pulled up a chair closer to her bed. "Just had another phone call with Mitch. He's worried about you, kid. Everyone at the office is."
"I'm fine," Heather managed just before another wave of pain from her shoulder stole her breath.
Nate wrapped his arm around Nora's waist but seemed to lean in closer to Heather, even if she could barely see him out of the corner of her eye. "It's good to see you. You look good."
Liar.
She looked awful, and she didn't even need a mirror to know it.
And she looked weak. She felt weak. She just didn't want Nate to see her in this state. Would he think she couldn't handle an assignment after seeing her like this?
"Nate." She sighed, finally offering him half of a smile. "You're a good boss, but I wish you wouldn't have come."
He chuckled. "You're on a lot of medication. You'll think otherwise when you're back to normal." Picking and choosing what he heard had always been his way with her.
She managed a tiny shake of her head, despite the neck brace and heavy fog threatening to roll back in. She blinked again, trying desperately to make her mind return to its normal speed.
"We were here yesterday with Mitch and Myles and Kenzie, too. You just didn't have the decency to wake up to greet us."
She had woken up yesterday, though not while her friends or family were there. She wished her timing had been better. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much if she'd been told by her parents or friends that she was the crash's only survivor—that Kit was dead.
Still she offered the obligatory apology that she knew Nate was waiting for. "Sorry."
He chuckled again and squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go.
"The nurse said you were talking about your gun in your sleep last night," Nora said. "I think you were looking for it and pulled out your IV instead."
Nate's shoulders jostled as a broad smile spread across his face. Since he'd returned from his last assignment where he met Nora, he'd been smiling and laughing a lot more than usual. "I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else from you. But don't worry about it. I'll keep it safe until you're released."
Heather scowled, her hand searching for the cool handle of her Glock out of pure habit. She pleaded with her eyes for him to give her back her gun, but Nate shook his head. "Nope. You're on way too much medication, not to mention the amount of oxygen just sitting next to your bed. When they let you out of here, you'll get it back." He smirked at the glare she shot his way.
She swallowed again, forcing her vocal cords to recall their job. "How did you get it?"
"Your mom gave it to me. I guess the hospital had it with your clothes and other personal affects." He tugged Nora a little closer and whispered in a mock-conspiratorial tone, "Apparently she had it with her in the helicopter. Because, you know, when I go on a strictly sightseeing tour of Mount Saint Helens and Mount Hood, I always bring my weapon with me."
Nora shoved her fiancé's shoulder. "Give Heather a break."
Heather shrugged, then cringed as pain shot through her shoulder. Twisting as much as her multiple braces and injuries allowed, she turned toward Nate. "So where are my parents? Does the hospital only allow two visitors at a time?"
He looked away then brought his steel blue eyes back to meet hers, all teasing aside. "Listen, Heather, I'm sorry." He swallowed thickly, and her stomach turned with a sudden knowledge.
"Kit's funeral?"
"It was this morning. Nora and I skipped the graveside service. Your mom wanted someone here when you woke up." He studied the spot on the floor between his shoes, and she realized that he was dressed in his best black Hugo Boss. They'd worked together for almost three years, and she could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen him wearing the slick suit.
When he brought his gaze back up to meet hers, all she could see was the pain there—all traces of humor gone. He just shook his head. "I'm sorry you couldn't be there. Your parents wanted to wait, but the doctors don't know how long you're going to be in here. And your dad's unit was called back overseas. He ships out right away, so one or the other of you would have had to miss it. And the funeral home couldn't wait indefinitely, so the director suggested just going ahead with the service."
Through the fierce ache in her shoulder, Heather lifted her hand to her eyes, brushing away two unruly tears.
She'd missed her chance to say goodbye to her little sister. And she didn't have any idea why any of this had happened. Why their helicopter had gone down. What Kit had meant about following the drugs. None of it made sense.
Yet.
But she would figure it out. Kit was far too special to just let go without a reason.
Reining in her emotions, Heather cleared her throat. "I'll bet my parents told you not to tell me all of that."
"They said they weren't sure you could handle it just yet. I knew otherwise."
"Thank you, Nate. It's better to know. Right?"
"Right."
A yawn caught Heather off guard and made her two friends smile.
"We better get going and let you get some rest. We'll see you tomorrow," Nate said before squeezing Heather's hand and standing at the same time as Nora. Hand in hand they took a step toward the door before Nate suddenly stopped.
"Heather, I need you to promise me something," he said over his shoulder.
"What?" The word was more of a croak than anything else, but he seemed to understand.
"It's going to take you a while to recoup. Give it some time." His brow furrowed, his mouth turning stern. "Don't try to push yourself too hard."
After a long pause, she conceded. "I won't."
He nodded and gave her a knowing look. "And let the police do their job. Stay out of this investigation."
Nate's face softened.
She didn't respond, and he took a firm step toward her, his face a concoction of sharp angles. "I'm not kidding, Sloan." He didn't usually call her by her last name unless he was tired or she was being obstinate. "I need you to focus on getting better. Nothing else. You won't get involved in this case beyond answering whatever questions the investigator has. That's a direct order. Understood?"
She had no other choice but to agree. "Yes."
"Have the nurse call me if you need anything," Nora called from the doorway just before they disappeared. "See you tomorrow."
The way Nate had rested his hand on Nora's back mirrored the familiar actions of Clay Kramer, Kit's fiancé. Except now he wasn't engaged to her anymore. Because she was—
Heather closed her eyes, willing the image of Clay and Kit laughing together the night before the crash to vanish. It faded slightly, leaving only an imagined likeness of the pain Clay was enduring, his handsome face twisted in agony. How could he survive with the love of his life gone? How could she ever think of having a happy life with her sister gone?
Beyond questions of her own happiness lay more sinister inquiries that were painful just to ponder. Had someone really wanted to hurt Kit? Why would they want to kill someone everyone loved? Was it possible that Heather's own life could be in jeopardy, too?
These questions haunted her as she fell into a fitful sleep.
Heather heard the rattle and click of the turning door handle before she was consciously awake. Her brain still foggy from sleep and the pain medication, she struggled to open her eyes, wondering if she was having another visitor. Her parents had been by earlier, but she'd insisted they go back to the hotel. She could see how drained they were after the funeral.
At the same moment that the door opened, her eyelids raised enough that she could see through her lashes.
A short, round man ducked into the room, looking over his shoulder as though confirming that he wasn't being followed, before silently closing the door behind him. When he turned to face her, she could make out only his ratty, gray jacket and violently shaking hands. She'd never seen anyone's hands shaking that badly—except drug addicts going through withdrawal.
But what was an addict doing in her hospital room?
He spun around slowly before shuffling toward her bed. She flexed her hand, feeling around for her gun. Which Nate still had. Maybe she could reach the call button on the side of the bed without tipping him off that she was alert—if somewhat groggy. Before scaring him off, she needed to know what he wanted.
A wave of body odor nearly sent her to the floor gagging, and she quickly adjusted to breathing through her mouth.
"Put the tube in the line," the man mumbled. "Put the tube in the line. Then get the fix."
What tube? What line?
The fix was easy enough to understand.
Suddenly he grabbed the IV line attached to the back of her hand, almost tugging it out. She forced her eyes to open all the way, looking into the face of a man with glassy eyes, long white hair and several days of patchy beard growth.
"What are you doing?" she asked, carefully keeping her tone soft, if scratchy.
He didn't look at her, just continuing his chant. "Need to put the tube in the line. Then I get a fix."
"What are you doing?" she asked again, putting more force behind her words as she reached for the call button, praying it would bring help right away. Her words made him glance at her, but it didn't make him pause, as he pulled a small medical vial from his pocket and tried to connect it to her IV. "Stop! Don't do that!"
Even with the tremors in his hands, he moved quickly, slipping the vial into place to feed whatever was in it into the line. She tried to roll to the side to stop him, but the sudden burning in the back of her hand was excruciating.
The man shuffled a step toward the door, as she clawed at her hand, trying to pull the tubing out.
"What is this?" she cried as the fire raced up her arm.
It took her another moment to realize that the bloodcurdling scream filling the room came from her own throat.
Even after Jeremy Latham flashed his Sheriff's Deputy badge at the pretty blonde nurse at the station next to the elevator, she wouldn't tell him the exact condition of the survivor of the helicopter crash that had claimed two lives. Something about confidential patient records. No matter. If she was conscious, he would get Heather Sloan's statement and piece together the events leading up to the crash. But as he approached the door he'd been directed to, a scream sent him running toward the very room the nurse had indicated. As he neared it, a woman shouted again.
Hoping the door was unlocked, he crashed into the solid wood. It flew open as he twisted the handle, sending him to his knees on the slick floor.
A pair of very old shoes and an unpleasant odor shuffled past him as he scrambled to his feet. He caught only a glimpse of the back of the man's head before screams from the bed grabbed his attention.
"Get it out. Get it out! It burns!"
The cries from the woman on the bed made it clear what took priority. She needed help. Now. Jeremy ignored the other man as he scrambled to her side.
Putting one hand on her forearm, Jeremy said, "Where does it burn?"
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March 22, 2011
Don't Rain on My Parade
I'm blogging (okay, so I'm actually ranting) on the Love Inspired Authors blog today:
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Camy here, and I have to whine just a little. It's been raining a lot the past week and of course this is the week I start training for my next marathon.
I mean, God seriously has a warped sense of humor.
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Excerpt - Bound By Guilt by C.J. Darlington
Bound By Guiltby
C.J. Darlington
Roxi Gold has been shuttled from one foster home to another for most her life. She longs for a family and will do anything to fit in even if it's against the law. Soon she's traveling the country in an RV, stealing rare books from unsuspecting bookstores. She knows it's wrong, but if she refuses, she'll be put out on the streets. Police officer Abby Dawson has seen the worst of society, and not just at work. Her ex-husband wrested her daughter away from her in a bitter custody battle. The job she once loved has become a chore, the world isn't any safer, and there's no joy in her life. One fateful night a man's innocent blood changes both Roxi's and Abby's lives forever. One searches for justice; the other finds herself on the run until a first edition of The Great Gatsby catches up with her. Will the power of forgiveness set them free, or will they both remain bound by guilt?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
"Don't you ever feel guilty?" Roxi Gold cracked open her icy can of Dr Pepper and took a long sip.
Diego fell into the seat across from her at the RV's dinette table, opening his own can. Fizz erupted over its side. He licked it away and took a big gulp. "Not like we're hurting anybody."
"No, we're just stealing thousand-dollar books."
Diego eyed her. "You getting cold feet?"
She bent the silver tab of her soda can back and forth until it broke off in her fingers. A warm breeze blew through the window screen and filled her nose with the scent of dry pine needles. Could that be it? She just didn't have the guts?
"Any idea how lucky you are?" Diego leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Nothing but the wind at our back, the open road before us . . ."
Roxi managed a smile. He was right. For the past three weeks she'd been traveling with her seventeen-year-old second cousin and his mom, Irene. The thirty-foot RV was like an apartment on wheels. She'd been to places other people only saw on the Internet, experiencing things she'd never forget. Not all of them were earth-shattering, Grand Canyon moments, either. In Flagstaff, Arizona, she'd seen her first bald eagle perched high in a rustic pine, majestic and totally unreal. She even rode in an Amish buggy in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
"This is our life," Diego said, raking his hands through his black hair. "And it sure beats standing in line at a book sale for three days like we used to."
"Doesn't it ever bother you?"
He chugged down more soda, then belched. "Nope."
"What if we get caught?"
"Come on, Rox."
"They'd send me back to juvie."
Diego leaned forward, both hands holding his drink. "Listen, we're okay. We're not gonna be caught. Ma's careful."
She downed half of her Dr Pepper in one shot just to keep herself from blabbing. She didn't want Diego to know how she really felt.
"Why the change?" he asked. "I thought you were into this."
"I am; it's just . . . I don't know."
"Well, you better get a hold of yourself before Ma comes back."
Roxi blew air out of her mouth in frustration. Why couldn't she be more like Diego? Hungry for adventure. Strong under pressure. More than anything she didn't want to disappoint Irene. Because of her, Roxi had seen half the country this summer. How many sixteen-year-olds could say that?
"I've got a surprise for you," Diego said.
"You're making dinner?"
"Surprise, not shock." He pulled a slip of paper from the back pocket of his Levis, handing it to her with a grin. "I was gonna wait till your birthday, but I think you need it now."
"Wow. I've always wanted a piece of paper."
"Just read it."
Roxi unfolded the sheet. Marie Greeley. 1264 Poplar Lane. Amarillo, TX. She looked at Diego. "Is this supposed to mean something?"
He got serious. "Remember when we were talking about your mom? how you wished you knew where she was?"
Marie. That was Mom's name.
"I did some searching online, and I think I found her."
"But her last name . . . ?"
"Looks like she married a guy named Tom Greeley."
Roxi's mouth went dry. She hadn't heard from her mother in eight years, and she wasn't sure she wanted to now. Mom was married? Roxi didn't even know who her bio dad was, and now she had a stepfather?
She got up from the table and rested her back against the fridge a few feet away. The RV was designed to utilize every inch. Even the table where Diego still sat folded down to become her bed at night.
"She ditched me. Why would I care where she is?"
"Because she's your mom."
"Like that meant anything to her."
"Hey, people do dumb stuff." Diego crumpled his empty can with one hand and pitched it into the plastic trash bag they kept rubber-banded to a cabinet knob.
Roxi crossed her arms. "Not even a phone call?"
"You don't have to do anything with it now, Rox." He slid out from behind the table and opened the microwave, pulling out a bag of chips. With space at a premium, they used it more for storage than for cooking. And Irene never used it. She swore microwaves were bad for their health and mutated food.
Roxi stuffed the paper into her back pocket. Sometimes Diego could be annoyingly macho and cocky, but other times he surprised her. Like now. She'd tried to dig up this information herself a few years ago and found nothing.
"Thanks," Roxi said.
Ripping open the chips, Diego held them out to her, but she shook her head. She definitely wasn't hungry anymore. "I'm taking a walk."
"Ma should be back soon."
Which meant Irene would want to talk to both of them about tomorrow's plans, something Roxi didn't want to think about. She'd get some fresh air. Maybe things would look better after that.
She swung open the RV's door, bounded down the three metal stairs, and slammed the door behind her. This was one of the nicer campgrounds. No screaming kids or low-life slobs leering at her from their lounge chairs. The Fall River was within walking distance. Up here in Rocky Mountain National Park, late August was usually the height of tourist season, but for some reason, today there weren't many other campers. Just a few full-time RVers with satellite dishes mounted on $200,000 rigs. The place would probably be packed over the weekend.
She headed for the river and sat at the water's edge, knees to her chest. Living with Irene and Diego was better than any of the foster homes she'd been placed in over the years. The last one had two other guys her age living in the house. One afternoon she'd come home from school to find they were the only ones home, as usual, since both parents worked. The moment she walked into the kitchen and saw their faces, she knew what they planned to do to her. That split second of intuition saved her. She dropped her backpack right there and ran away. Never went back. Three days later the cops picked her up for shoplifting from a grocery store, and she'd spent a month in juvie. Finally her caseworker placed her in a group home. Only after she got beat up for the third time did they manage to find a relative willing to take her in. Irene Tonelli was her mom's cousin, and Roxi thought living with the Tonellis was the best thing that ever could've happened to her. Diego wasn't like those other guys, and she finally felt like she belonged somewhere.
Roxi heard the trill of a broad-tailed hummingbird's wings, then caught sight of the bird diving toward the rushing stream. All her life she'd prayed for a family. She used to imagine she'd wake up one morning and find everything had been a dream, and she really did have a mom and dad who loved her. Straightening her legs, she stared at the deep blue sky visible through the treetops. But no, this was her life. She shouldn't complain. Irene needed her to be a team player.
Swallowing back her emotions, she unbuttoned the cuff of her left sleeve and slowly rolled it up. With each flip of the fabric, more of her scar came into view. From wrist to elbow, a thick purple line wormed across her arm. She'd been eight when the glass had etched her with this eternal reminder of the night she lost Mom.
The night that changed her life forever.
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March 21, 2011
Excerpt - Unforgettable by Trish Perry
Unforgettableby
Trish Perry
Rachel Stanhope tries to see the good in everyone. But even her good graces are challenged when she meets Josh Reegan outside her Arlington, Virginia dance studio on a brisk fall morning in 1951. Admittedly, he's attractive, but she finds his cynicism and cockiness hard to tolerate.
A hard-news journalist and former World War II Air Force pilot, Josh considers distractions like ballroom dancing frivolous wastes of time. He has yet to shed his wartime drive to defend good against evil whenever he can. Yes, Rachel's confident nature is a refreshing challenge, but he wouldn't tangle with her if his newspaper hadn't roped him into covering one of her studio's competitions in New York City.
Between Arlington and New York, between the melodrama of ballroom antics and the real drama of political corruption, between family involvement and romantic entanglement, Rachel and Josh have their hands full. The last thing either of them expects is mutual need and support. But once they stop dancing around the truth, the results are unforgettable.
Excerpt of chapter one:
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Street Team Book List excerpt - NO SAFE HAVEN by Kimberley and Kayla Woodhouse
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing No Safe Haven B&H Books (March 15, 2011) by Kimberley and Kayla Woodhouse
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
A devoted wife and mother, Kimberley Woodhouse is a third generation Liszt student, she has passed down her love of the arts to hundreds of students over the years.
About fifteen years ago, Kimberley began writing seriously. Songs, plays, short stories, novels, picture books, articles, newsletters - you name it - she's written it. It wasn't until a dear friend challenged her to "do something with it", that she pursued publication.
Kimberley and her family's story have been on the front page of newspapers, in magazines, articles, medical journals, and most recently her family was chosen for ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. They were also asked to share their story on The Montel Williams Show and Discovery Health Channel's Mystery ER. She has recorded three albums, and has appeared at over 700 venues. Kimberley lives, writes, and homeschools in Colorado with her husband and their two children in a truly "Extreme" home.
Thirteen-year-old Kayla Woodhouse's zest for writing comes not only from her natural ability, but also from her love of the written word as witnessed by her voracious reading appetite. One of only a few dozen cases in the world, Kayla was born with HSAN, Hereditary Sensory Autonomic Neuropathy, an extremely rare nerve disorder. Unable to sweat, or feel pain, she's also been through brain surgery. But even through a life of extreme hardships, her ever-present smile encourages others to pursue their dreams, no matter the obstacles. In addition to being homeschooled and writing with her mom, she's an amazing swimmer, and spends up to thirty hours a week in training. No Safe Haven, her first release from B&H Publishers in 2011, written with mother, Kimberley, makes her the youngest author to have a full-length novel published by a royalty paying publisher.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Jenna and Andi Tikaani-Gray are hoping for a fresh start. Though twelve year-old Andi has long struggled with a rare medical disorder, she and her mother have finally received good news from out-of-town specialists. It's news they desperately needed, especially after the recent death of Jenna's husband (Andi's dad) in a car accident.
But as they are flying home to Alaska, ready to begin again, the unthinkable happens. The pilot sabotages their small plane and crashes into Sultana, one of the most remote and dangerous mountains in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Even worse, a winter storm is headed their way along with someone who doesn't want to save them, but to kill them.
Only one man can keep them alive: Cole Maddox, the mysterious last-minute passenger who joined them on their flight. But trust doesn't come easy to Jenna or AndiÑand they both sense Cole is hiding something.
A relentless tale of survival and suspense unfolds, involving military technology designed by Jenna's late husband that some would do anything to possess.
Watch the Book Video:
Read an excerpt on Christianbook.com!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing No Safe Haven B&H Books (March 15, 2011) by Kimberley and Kayla Woodhouse
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
A devoted wife and mother, Kimberley Woodhouse is a third generation Liszt student, she has passed down her love of the arts to hundreds of students over the years.
About fifteen years ago, Kimberley began writing seriously. Songs, plays, short stories, novels, picture books, articles, newsletters - you name it - she's written it. It wasn't until a dear friend challenged her to "do something with it", that she pursued publication.
Kimberley and her family's story have been on the front page of newspapers, in magazines, articles, medical journals, and most recently her family was chosen for ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. They were also asked to share their story on The Montel Williams Show and Discovery Health Channel's Mystery ER. She has recorded three albums, and has appeared at over 700 venues. Kimberley lives, writes, and homeschools in Colorado with her husband and their two children in a truly "Extreme" home.
Thirteen-year-old Kayla Woodhouse's zest for writing comes not only from her natural ability, but also from her love of the written word as witnessed by her voracious reading appetite. One of only a few dozen cases in the world, Kayla was born with HSAN, Hereditary Sensory Autonomic Neuropathy, an extremely rare nerve disorder. Unable to sweat, or feel pain, she's also been through brain surgery. But even through a life of extreme hardships, her ever-present smile encourages others to pursue their dreams, no matter the obstacles. In addition to being homeschooled and writing with her mom, she's an amazing swimmer, and spends up to thirty hours a week in training. No Safe Haven, her first release from B&H Publishers in 2011, written with mother, Kimberley, makes her the youngest author to have a full-length novel published by a royalty paying publisher.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Jenna and Andi Tikaani-Gray are hoping for a fresh start. Though twelve year-old Andi has long struggled with a rare medical disorder, she and her mother have finally received good news from out-of-town specialists. It's news they desperately needed, especially after the recent death of Jenna's husband (Andi's dad) in a car accident.But as they are flying home to Alaska, ready to begin again, the unthinkable happens. The pilot sabotages their small plane and crashes into Sultana, one of the most remote and dangerous mountains in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Even worse, a winter storm is headed their way along with someone who doesn't want to save them, but to kill them.
Only one man can keep them alive: Cole Maddox, the mysterious last-minute passenger who joined them on their flight. But trust doesn't come easy to Jenna or AndiÑand they both sense Cole is hiding something.
A relentless tale of survival and suspense unfolds, involving military technology designed by Jenna's late husband that some would do anything to possess.
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