Camy Tang's Blog, page 155

Street Team Book List excerpt - A COWBOY'S TOUCH by Denise Hunter

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Today's Wild Card author is:

Denise Hunter

and the book:

A Cowboy's Touch Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011) ***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Denise lives in Indiana with her husband Kevin and their three sons. In 1996, Denise began her first book, a Christian romance novel, writing while her children napped. Two years later it was published, and she's been writing ever since. Her books often contain a strong romantic element, and her husband Kevin says he provides all her romantic material, but Denise insists a good imagination helps too!





Visit the author's website.



SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:



Wade's ranch home needs a woman's touch. Abigail's life needs a cowboy's touch.



Four years ago, rodeo celebrity Wade Ryan gave up his identity to protect his daughter. Now, settled on a ranch in Big Sky Country, he lives in obscurity, his heart guarded by a high, thick fence.



Abigail Jones isn't sure how she went from big-city columnist to small-town nanny, but her new charge is growing on her, to say nothing of her ruggedly handsome boss. Love blossoms between Abigail and Wade--despite her better judgment. Will the secrets she brought with her to Moose Creek, Montana separate her from the cowboy who finally captured her heart?







Product Details:



List Price: $14.99

Paperback: 320 pages

Publisher: Thomas Nelson (March 29, 2011)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1595548017

ISBN-13: 978-1595548016



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:



Abigail Jones knew the truth. She frowned at the blinking curser on her monitor and tapped her fingers on the keyboard-what next?





Beyond the screen's glow, darkness washed the cubicles. Her computer hummed, and outside the office windows a screech of tires broke the relative stillness ofthe Chicago night.





She shuffled her note cards. The story had been long in coming, but it was finished now, all except the telling. She knew where she wanted to take it next.





Her fingers stirred into motion, dancing across the keys. This was her favorite part, exposingtruth to the world. Well, okay, not the world exactly, not with Viewpoint's paltry circulation. But now, during the writing, it felt like the world.





Four paragraphs later, the office had shrunk away, and all that existed were the words on the monitor and her memory playing in full color on the screen of her mind.





Something dropped onto her desk with a sudden thud. Abigail's hand flew to her heart, and her chair darted from her desk. She looked up at her boss's frowning face, then shared a frown of her own. "You scared me."





"And you're scaring me. It's after midnight, Abigail—what are you doing here?" Marilyn Jones's hand settled on her hip.





The blast of adrenaline settled into Abigail's bloodstream, though her heart was still in overdrive. "Being an ambitious staffer?"





"You mean an obsessive workaholic."





"Something wrong with that?"





"What's wrong is my twenty-eight-year-old daughter is working all hours on a Saturday night instead of dating an eligible bachelor like all the other single women her age." Her mom tossed her head, but her short brown hair hardly budged. "You could've at least gone out with your sister and me. We had a good time."





"I'm down to the wire."





"You've been here every night for two weeks." Her mother rolled up a chair and sank into it. "Your father always thought you'd be a schoolteacher, did I ever tell you that?"





"About a million times." Abigail settled into the chair, rubbed the ache in her temple. Her heart was still recovering, but she wanted to return to her column. She was just getting to the good part.





"You had a doctor's appointment yesterday," Mom said. Abigail sighed hard.





"Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"





"Goes out the window when the doctor is your sister. Come on, Abigail, this is your health. Reagan prescribed rest—R-E-S-T—and yet here you are."





"A couple more days and the story will be put to bed."





"And then there'll be another story."





"That's what I do, Mother."





"You've had a headache for weeks, and the fact that you made an appointment with your sister is proof you're not feeling well."





Abigail pulled her hand from her temple. "I'm fine."





"That's what your father said the week before he collapsed."





Compassion and frustration warred inside Abigail. "He was sixty-two." And his pork habit hadn't helped matters. Thin didn't necessarily mean healthy. She skimmed her own long legs, encased in her favorite jeans . . . exhibit A.





"I've been thinking you should go visit your great-aunt." Abigail already had a story in the works, but maybe her mom had a lead on something else. "New York sounds interesting. What's the assignment?"





"Rest and relaxation. And I'm not talking about your Aunt Eloise—as if you'd get any rest there—I'm talking about your Aunt Lucy."





Abigail's spirits dropped to the basement. "Aunt Lucy lives in Montana." Where cattle outnumbered people. She felt for the familiar ring on her right hand and began twisting.





"She seems a bit . . . confused lately."





Abigail recalled the birthday gifts her great-aunt had sent over the years, and her lips twitched. "Aunt Lucy has always been confused."





"Someone needs to check on her. Her latest letter was full of comments about some girls who live with her, when I know perfectly well she lives alone. I think it may be time for assisted living or a retirement community."





Abigail's eyes flashed to the screen. A series of nonsensical letters showed where she'd stopped in alarm at her mother's appearance. She hit the delete button. "Let's invite her to Chicago for a few weeks."





"She needs to be observed in her own surroundings. Besides, that woman hasn't set foot on a plane since Uncle Murray passed, and I sure wouldn't trust her to travel across the country alone. You know what happened when she came out for your father's funeral."





"Dad always said she had a bad sense of direction."





"Nevertheless, I don't have time to hunt her down in Canada again. Now, come on, Abigail, it makes perfect sense for you to go. You need a break, and Aunt Lucy was your father's favorite relative. It's our job to look after her now, and if she's incapable of making coherent decisions, we need to help her."





Abigail's conscience tweaked her. She had a soft spot for Aunt Lucy, and her mom knew it. Still, that identity theft story called her name, and she had a reliable source who might or might not be willing to talk in a couple weeks.





"Reagan should do it. I'll need the full month for my column, and we can't afford to scrap it. Distribution is down enough as it is. Just last month you were concerned—"





Her mother stood abruptly, the chair reeling backward into the aisle. She walked as far as the next cubicle, then turned. "Hypertension is nothing to mess with, Abigail. You're so . . . rest- less. You need a break—a chance to find some peace in your life." She cleared her throat, then her face took on that I've-made-up- my-mind look. "Whether you go to your aunt's or not, I'm insisting you take a leave of absence."





There was no point arguing once her mother took that tone. She could always do research online—and she wouldn't mind visiting a part of the country she'd never seen. "Fine. I'll finish this story, then go out to Montana for a week or so."





"Finish the story, yes. But your leave of absence will last three months."





"Three months!"







"It may take that long to make a decision about Aunt Lucy."





"What about my apartment?"





"Reagan will look after it. You're hardly there anyway. You need a break, and Moose Creek is the perfect place."





Moose Creek. "I'll say. Sounds like nothing more than a traffic signal with a gas pump on the corner."





"Don't be silly. Moose Creek has no traffic signal. Abigail, you have become wholly obsessed with—"





"So I'm a hard worker . . ." She lifted her shoulders.





Her mom's lips compressed into a hard line. "Wholly obsessed with your job. Look, you know I admire hard work, but it feels like you're always chasing something and never quite catching it. I want you to find some contentment, for your health if nothing else. There's more to life than investigative reporting."





"I'm the Truthseeker, Mom. That's who I am." Her fist found home over her heart.





Her mother shouldered her purse, then zipped her light sweater, her movements irritatingly slow. She tugged down the ribbed hem and smoothed the material of her pants. "Three months, Abigail. Not a day less."

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Blog Guest - Allie Pleiter

Yukon Wedding

by

Allie Pleiter



A gold-rush town is no place for a single mother. But widow Lana Bristow won't abandon the only home her son has ever known. She'll fight to remain in Treasure Creek, Alaska—even if it means wedding Mack Tanner, the man she blames for her husband's death. Mack sees marriage as his duty, the only way to protect his former business partner's family. Yet what starts as an obligation changes as his spoiled socialite bride proves to be a woman of strength and grace. A woman who shows Mack the only treasure he needs is her heart.







Excerpt of chapter one:



Treasure Creek, Alaska, June 1898



Mack Tanner looked up to see a raging storm coming toward him.



"Good morning," said the storm, otherwise known as Lana Bristow. Each syllable of her greeting was sharp and steely. She stood in that particular way he called her "speechifying" stance, which heralded an oncoming verbal assault. Mack spread his own feet, not particularly eager to endure whatever was coming in front of the half dozen gold rush stampeders he'd managed to hire off the Chilkoot Trail to build his new General Store.



Lana's blond hair was a nest of frayed locks, strands sticking wildly out of the careful twist she usually wore. Her apron hung diagonally across that impossibly tiny waist of hers, with a wide smear of something dark that matched the smudge currently gracing her son Georgie's chin. The brooch she always wore at her neck—that silly, frilly flower thing with all the golden swirls on it—was gone. It was held bent and misshapen, he noticed with a gulp, in her left hand, while she clamped two-year-old Georgie to one hip with her right. One side of her hem was soaked and the boy sported only one shoe.



More was amiss than the argument he'd had with her last night, that was certain. They'd gone at it again regarding Lana's accounts. Her mounting debts had been a constant sore spot between them since her husband, Jed—Mack's best friend—had died in the Palm Sunday avalanche. She'd caught him monkeying with her store credit again, giving her more than what she paid for and "misplacing" numerous bills. And yes, Mack had taken it upon himself to slash her debt so that no one in Treasure Creek would guess the sorry state of her finances.



He owed her that much.



She didn't see it that way.



Instead, his "generosity" made her furious. Why that confounding woman wouldn't let him settle things up for her—when she needed it and he had the resources to easily do so—never ceased to amaze him.



Lana stood stiff and tall. "I have something to say."



Mack could have been blind, deaf, half asleep and still have picked up on that. Every inch of her body broadcast "I have something to say." A low commentary grumble to that effect rippled through the men around him until Mack raised his hand—the one with the large hammer still in it—to silence them.



Not taking his eyes off her, Mack shifted his weight and nodded slowly. For a moment he considered motioning her toward a less public place, seeing as this was no doubt going to be a long "something to say," but the flash of fire in her blue eyes told him to stay put. He had the odd sensation of facing a firing squad.



"Yes." That single syllable loudly declared, Lana spun on her heels, hoisted her son farther up on one hip, and started back down the way she came.



Mack's mouth fell open, letting the nails tumble out to jingle on the ground at his feet. Yes? What kind of riddle thing was that to say? Glory, but the Widow Bristow would be the death of him.



The men found this hilarious, sputtering into laughter and less-than-polite commentary until he threw down the hammer and strode off after her. Once away from the crowd, Mack expected Lana to turn and explain herself. It's what rational people did, after all. When after twenty paces she failed to either turn or slow, he bellowed, "Yes what?" after her. It echoed across the intersection, raising heads on either side of the roads that made up the center of tiny Treasure Creek.



Lana stopped and whipped around to face him. The sudden move forced Georgie to grab at her just to stay upright, balling the neckline of her blouse in his toddler fists. Lana glared at Mack as if he must be dimwitted not to catch her meaning. "I said, 'Yes what?'" he shouted again, not caring which of the curious onlookers gathered on the boardwalks heard him.



Lana furrowed her brows so far down she looked catlike. She flicked her eyes around at the small crowd now staring at them, as if his simple request for a reasonable explanation was some sort of cruel punishment. Lana took three steps toward him, and with something more like a hiss than a whisper, said, "For the seventh time, yes." Having spoken her piece, she turned once again and set off up the boardwalk away from him.



Mack slapped his hat against his thigh, confused and angry. What was that supposed to mean, "the seventh time"? What had he done six times that this now was the seventh…



It struck him like a bolt of lightening, thundering though his chest as if struck by the hammer he'd held moments ago.



She'd said "yes."



As in "Yes, I will marry you."



He'd asked her six times over the last two months, the first time only a week after her Jed's tragic death. Marrying her was the best way to protect her now. After all, he'd lured Jed up here with the promise of fortune and adventure. A promise that ended with Jed buried in snow, alongside dozens of other stampeders who refused to heed their guide's warnings that Sunday. He could have done more to stop Jed, to make his foolhardy buddy see reason and be cautious. But he hadn't, and now Lana was left up here on her own—without Jed and without the fortune he'd made and subsequently lost.



He'd asked her over and over after that, even though she blamed him for Jed's death, knowing she'd rather marry a log than wed the likes of him, well aware of how much she disliked him, but equally aware that it was the only real way to make it up to her and her son. He'd asked her every time she struggled with this thing or that, every time she'd looked weary from keeping up appearances. He asked every time it looked as if the endless struggles of Alaskan living—and the greedy stream of despicable Alaskan men—were about to do her in.



Once, when a drunken "old friend of Jed's" had actually tried to drag her off to Skaguay and marry her by force, he'd even offered to pay her way back to Seattle. She had no family left back there, but he was plumb out of ways to keep her safe when too many stampeders still thought she held Jed's riches. After all, he'd known Jed's lust for gold was growing beyond reason and into desperation. He could have tried harder to protect Jed from the impulsive nature that was always his undoing. The fact that Jed was gone was his fault.



She knew he could have tried harder to save Jed, too. She'd refused every single offer of help. Until now.



So why was his now new fiancee stomping off without an explanation? He'd lived long enough to know that a female could be the most furious of God's creations when provoked, but he would not allow her to stomp off with the last word.



Especially when that last word was "yes."



Grumbling that his keen sense of obligation would likely be the death of him, Mack set off after her. She stalked past the white church—one of the first buildings he and Jed had built when they founded the town—and still didn't look back. Georgie did, though, catching Mack's gaze with troubled brown eyes under that mop of curly dark hair. His mama kept up her furious pace, past the other shops and houses, attracting the stares of the men gathered along the boardwalk. She and Georgie were sulking off to her cabin, from the looks of it. She had to know he'd follow her, even if she kept her back ramrod straight as she turned the corner past the schoolhouse.



The Tucker sisters, a trio of rough-and-tumble gals who'd spent the past month working on that building, stopped their work to look up at the spectacle. Lucy Tucker waved, but Lana stomped on, paying Lucy no mind. Buildings sprung up overnight like mushrooms here in Treasure Creek. Mack felt on display as the sisters gawked among themselves. With his town nearing a thousand residents and ten times that many rushing through in a steady stream toward the Trail, why did all them have time this morning to watch Mack Tanner make a fool of himself?



Lana didn't think she had any tears left to cry. She made her way back through the crowded, muddy main street, past the church Mack and Jed had insisted mark the center of the town they'd founded together just three months ago. Three months that felt like thirty years. She picked her way as fast as she could past the schoolhouse under construction, the bank and several rows of cobbled together shacks where farmers and butchers sold food. She didn't stop until she reached the cabin she and Georgie called home. She hadn't expected to cry, couldn't believe that tears threatened now, and would not, absolutely would not cry in public.



Mack was behind her, she knew it. And he ought to be, if he had an ounce of compassion in that stubborn, domineering head of his. She was sure she heard the thud of his angry boots behind her as she rounded the corner beyond Mavis Goodge's boardinghouse, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him see her turn.



She'd done it. She'd surrendered to the only viable option available to her in Treasure Creek. Some "treasure." It was awful here—cold and crude, muddy and noisy—and this was one of the better towns. It seemed ages ago when Mack and Jed had founded Treasure Creek. They'd been full of big ideas, seeking to create a place of faith and values in the lawless, greedy chaos of the gold rush. Only it hadn't turned out that way. Not for her. Yes, Treasure Creek had become known as a God-fearing town, but what good had faith done in the face of all the rampant swindling of the Chilkoot Trail? Faith hadn't kept Jed off the trail that Sunday, even though the guides warned "the mountain was angry." Faith hadn't squelched Jed's relentless need to chase gold rumors, skipping Sunday services to meet an Indian guide boasting leads to an undiscovered lode. God hid no huge, undiscovered treasures up on that mountain. In her darker moments, Lana believed God sent the deadly wall of snow, stranding her up here and stealing Georgie's father. A vengeful God punished her husband's greed, backing her into so dark a corner that she must accept a marriage of convenience to Mack Tanner.



She laughed at the thought as she pushed open the door of her cabin and stepped into the tiny confines. It wasn't a marriage of convenience. It was a marriage of survival. And survive she would. Here, because here seemed to be the only place there was.



It had struck her last night, after yet another argument over her accounts with Mack, just how bad things had gotten. The point had been pushed home, literally, when she snatched her favorite brooch out of Georgie's hand and pricked herself on the now-bent pinpoint. The toddler had gotten into her jewelry box when she'd left it open after sorting through which jewels she might be able to sell discreetly in Skaguay. Some jewelry box. The rustic chest Jed had built her on her last birthday could barely be called such a thing. Life here was nowhere near what she dreamed it would be. She ought to be thankful that Georgie hadn't speared himself with the brooch before she found him. As it was, Georgie had managed to bend and dent the soft gold by banging it against the hearth until its floral shape was lost forever.



Why did she wear a brooch out here in the first place? Purely ornamental, it wasn't strong enough to hold a shawl or cloak together and it snagged on everything. Still, she wore it daily, a flag of refined defiance. No one would ever know how badly Jed had left their finances. She was and always would be "a lady of means."



Trouble was, she had precious little means left. Lana had realized, as she stared at the broken brooch, that her former self—the delicate Seattle socialite who'd followed her husband on his grand fortune hunt—no longer existed. She couldn't limp back to Seattle and be some man's useless ornament. She craved independence now, but it was a hollow craving without sufficient means.



Women could achieve astounding independence up here. The concept of "female" had been reinvented in Alaska. Transformed into something she wanted very much to be. She couldn't bring herself to turn from that freedom now. Not only that, but to sulk back to Seattle would be to admit that Jed and his adventures had all been nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Lana refused to count herself among the thousands of duped and squandered fortune hunters. Treasure Creek, for all the pain it held, was still the lesser of all available evils. Seattle might be more comfortable, and there were things Georgie could have there that she could never give him here, but Lana had swallowed so much pride over the past three months that she didn't think she could stomach the feast of humility it would take to head south.



I'll do whatever it takes to stay here, she told herself as she pulled the cabin door shut behind her with a declarative slam. Whatever it takes.



She turned and looked at Mack through the cabin's only window. Even if it takes him. The tears she'd held in finally burst out in sobs so great they shook Georgie as he clung to her side.



He stood perhaps a hundred paces from her home, staring at her closed door. The patient, dark expression on his face mirrored the way he looked that awful night Jed died.

About Allie:



An avid knitter, coffee junkie, and devoted chocoholic, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction.  The enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie spends her days writing books, buying yarn, and finding new ways to avoid housework.  Allie hails from Connecticut, moved to the midwest to attend Northwestern University, and currently lives outside Chicago, Illinois.  The "dare from a friend" to begin writing has produced two parenting books, fourteen novels, and various national speaking engagements on faith, women's issues, and writing.  Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com or her knitting blog at www.DestiKNITions.blogspot.com



And now, here's Allie!

I've decided I really like adventures.



Not just treks to exotic places, but the right-under-your-nose kind of adventures.   The inner ones, where you get one of those "ah-ha" moments that shifts your life's direction.  Or the local ones, where you discover places and people that can enrich your life on a daily basis.



Sometimes, when you are very fortunate, you get to write about both.  In Yukon Wedding, Mack and Lana are at the ragged tail of a Yukon adventure, but just at the beginning of their journey toward each other.  It takes a grand landscape like Alaska to host a grand love story, don't you think?  I love to write larger-than-life settings because it shows the common human center of any epic tale.  Mack and Lana could be anywhere when you get right down to it, but their struggles against the Gold Rush's hardships amplify their joys as well as their troubles.



When I think of romances in epic landscapes, I think of movies like Dr. Zhivago, Casablanca, and Titanic.  What love story plays out on your favorite grand setting?



Print book:

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Christianbook.com

Books a Million



Ebook:

Nookbook

Kindle

Excerpt - THE STORY JAR by Robin Lee Hatcher and Deborah Bedford

THE STORY JAR

by

Robin Lee Hatcher and Deborah Bedford



A lovely novel of three women, their stories threaded together through the concept of

The Story Jar…

The jar itself is most unusual—not utilized in the ordinary way for canning or storing food, but as a collection point for memories. Some mementos in the jar—hair ribbons, a ring, a medallion--are sorrowful, others tender, some bittersweet. But all those memories eventually bring their owners to a place of hope and redemption in spite of circumstances that seemingly have no solution.

Fresh, insightful, yet courageous in the face of difficult life issues, this collaboration by two talented writers first profiles a pastor's wife with two young daughters who faces cancer just as her own mother did before her; and then a remarried mother working through a difficult relationship with a rebellious runaway daughter. The third woman, alone with two teenaged boys who no longer pay much attention to her and seem headed for trouble, discovers the long-lost "story jar" and its significance. She comes to realize she can bring her own sorrows and frustrations to the feet of the Good Shepherd, the Great Physician, the Healer of the brokenhearted. She too will have memories for her own story jar. 

"…It captures with surprising sensitivity…communion with God, and some excruciatingly exquisite moments of parental love…" Publishers Weekly 

Included in the book are heart-warming tributes on motherhood fro novelists such as Jerry Jenkins, Francine, Rivers, Karen Ball, and Debbie Macomber.



THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY JAR

by Robin Lee Hatcher



In September 1998, I received a story jar as a thank you gift after speaking at a writers' conference in Nebraska. The small mason jar, the lid covered with a pretty handkerchief, was filled with many odds and ends – a Gerber baby spoon, an empty thread spindle, a colorful pen, several buttons, a tiny American flag, an earring, and more.



The idea behind this gift was a simple one. When a writer can't think of anything to write, she stares at one of the objects in the jar and lets her imagination play. Who did that belong to? How hold was he? What sort of person was he? What does the object represent in his life?



Writers love to play the "what if" game. It's how most stories come into being. Something piques their interest, they start asking questions, and a book is born.



A week after receiving my story jar, I attended a retreat with several writer friends of mine, Deborah Bedford included. On the flight home, I told Deborah about the jar. The next thing you know (after all, what better thing is there for writers to do on a plane than play "what if"?), we began brainstorming what would ultimately become The Story Jar. We decided very quickly that we wanted this to be a book that celebrates motherhood, that encourages mothers, that recognizes how much they should be loved and honored.



The Story Jar was first published by Multnomah in 2000, but eventually went out of print. Thus Deborah and I are delighted that Hendrickson wanted to bring it out in a new, revised version because we believe these stories can inspire others, just as it did this reader back in 2001:



"I am an avid book reader and have read thousands of books––maybe more––since the age of 5. I can honestly say that [The Story Jar] has touched me more than any other I have read. I cried, I laughed, and I relearned things that I had forgotten long ago as well as realizing things I never knew. Thank you for sharing your stories with your readers. They are truly inspiring. I plan on giving it to all the 'mothers' in my life for Mother's Day."



You don't have to be a writer to want a story jar. It can be a family's way of preserving memories. Consider having a family get-together where everybody brings an item to go into the jar, and as it drops in, they tell what it means to them, what it symbolizes. We can learn something new about our loved ones when we hear their memories in their own words. Or do what my church did a number of years ago to create a memory for a retiring pastor. Inspired by The Story Jar, members of the congregation brought items to the retirement dinner to put into a story jar or they simply wrote their memories on a piece of paper to go into the jar. It was our way of saying thanks to a man and wife for all of the years they'd given in God's service.



A story jar can be a tool for remembering all the wonderful things God has done in our own lives. As Mrs. Halley said, not all of God's miracles are in the Bible. He is still performing them today in countless ways today, changing lives, healing hearts.



In the grip of His grace,

Robin Lee Hatcher



Excerpt of chapter one:



Thirty-five Years Later

In the basement of the Pink Garter Plaza, the day finally Arrived-as it arrived every year-for the Nutcracker rehearsals to begin.

Party-scene dancers and clowns crowded into dressing rooms, giggling and jamming on ballet slippers that had grown two sizes tight over the summer. Angels and mice played boisterous tag, weaving in and out among everyone's legs, around the furniture, under the rest room doors. Little girls all, with their hair finger-combed into haphazard buns, wearing tights with knees that hadn't come quite as clean as they ought, running amok the way little girls run in every hallway in every dance studio in every town.

Behind them came their mothers, lugging younger siblings, toting coats and backpacks, handing off crumpled lunch bags that smelled of bologna and greasy potato chips and sharp cheese.

"Angels in studio one."

"Pick up a schedule on your way out."

"Mice over here."

Nobody could hear over the music, shouts, laughter, and One voices in every key. Mothers chattered and waved hello to friends. They dodged one another and hugged in the hallway. Several stopped to watch their daughters warm up through the one-way mirror.

"We need volunteers!" Mary Levy, a dance teacher, dangled a tape measure in the air. "This may be the only time we have them together in one place. Can somebody take measurements?We've got to see if the ears are going to fit."

A small group of mothers got the tape and went about measuring heads. They jotted numbers, recounting as they did so the joys and hassles of other dance performances in other years. But after the hoopla had died down, after the confusion had ended and the dancing had begun, only one mother was left waiting outside the one-way mirror. Only one mother stood alone, savoring her daughter's every glissade, every pirouette and plié, watching as if she couldn't stand to take her eyes away.

It wasn't a difficult dance, this dance of the angels. Theia Harkin McKinnis knew each of the delicate, careful movements by heart. Heidi, her daughter, had danced the role of angel last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

A door opened across the way, and out came Julie Stevens, the Nutcracker director of performance. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I've been on the telephone. You know what it's like when you get stuck talking."

Muted from behind the glass, Tchaikovsky's music swelled to its elegant climax before it ebbed away and began again. "Oh no. I'm not worried about the time." Theia checked the clock above the studio door.

"Come in my office. We'll talk."

Theia took a seat inside. She folded her arms across her chest as if she needed to protect herself from something. She realized at that moment exactly why she'd come. In this one place, she needed to regain control.

"I'm here to talk about Heidi's dancing."

"Her dancing in the Nutcracker? She's been cast in the role of an angel."

"She's danced as an angel for three years."

"Do you see that as a problem?"

In this small town, in another week it would be impossible for anybody not to have heard about Theia's cancer.

"Of course there is time," Dr. Sugden had told her in his office when he'd given them the results of the biopsy. "You have plenty of time to seek out a second opinion, if you'd like. I could even recommend somebody. You have plenty of time to educate yourself. You have plenty of time to develop a survival plan."

Even in the dance studio, Theia had to fight to keep the panic out of her voice, just thinking about it. A survival plan. "Heidi wants to dance something different this year. She wants to do something more difficult, something that shows she's growing up."

The dance director picked up a roll of breath mints and ran her fingernail around one mint, popping it loose before she peeled the foil. "Surely you realize that we can't jostle everyone around once the girls have been cast."

"I know it might be difficult, but-"

"We can't give every child the part that she dreams of, Mrs. McKinnis. If we did that, we'd have thirty girls dancing the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy and thirty more dancing the role of Marie. Heidi is perfect as our lead angel. Heidi looks like an angel."

"She's the oldest one, in the easiest dance."

"She knows the part so well that the younger girls can follow her. That's why we always put her in the front the way we do."

"It is small consolation, standing on the front row in a place where you don't want to be."

"Mrs. McKinnis." Julie Stevens crunched up her breath mint and reached for another. "I promise that I will make note of this. I promise that I will cast your daughter in a different role next year."

There isn't any guarantee that I will be here next year.

Heidi didn't even fit into the angel costume anymore. Every year, some volunteer mom let out and lengthened the burgundy dress with its hoop skirt, its tinsel halo, and its gossamer wings.

Theia laced her fingers together, her hands a perfect plait in her lap that belied the anger rising in her midsection. The only problem was, she didn't know exactly who to be angry with. With herself, for letting time slip past without stopping to notice? With Julie Stevens, for holding Heidi back and not letting her blossom?

With God, for letting cancer slip into her life when she least expected it?

Theia stood from the chair and didn't smile. A crazy motto from some deodorant commercial played in her mind: `Never let them see you sweat.' She clutched her purse in front of her and gave a sad little shake of her head. "Miss Stevens, someday you will realize that a child's heart is more important than the quality of some annual performance."

The teenagers in Jackson Hole, the ones still too young to drive, had gotten their freedom this past summer: a paved bike path that ribboned past meadows and neighborhoods, past the middle school and the new post office, clear up to the northern outskirts of town. Kate McKinnis and her best friend, Jaycee, leaned their Rocket Jazz mountain bikes against the side of the house, hurried inside to get sodas, and tromped upstairs to Kate's room. Jaycee sorted through CDs while Kate put one of her favorites in the disc player.

'N Sync belted out their newest number one hit.

"Turn it up." Jaycee flopped on the bed and buttressed her chin against a plush rabbit that happened to be in her way. "I love that song."

"I can't. Today's Saturday. Dad works on his sermons on Saturdays. I have to keep it quiet."

"That reeks."

"On Saturdays, he waits to hear from the Lord. He doesn't want to hear 'N Sync instead." Kate picked a bottle of chartreuse nail polish and handed it to Jaycee. "I'll do your right hand if you'll do my left."

"Only if I can put it on my toes, too."

"I'm kind of worried about my mom. She hasn't been smiling much lately. And neither has Dad."

"My parents do the same thing. Maybe they had a fight. Can I use purple? Do you think it would look stupid if I used both colors?"

"If it does, you can always take it off."

They bent over each other's splayed fingers and toes, accompanied by the constant murmur of the music. Jaycee finished with the purple and screwed on the lid. "Did you hear about Megan Spence? Her parents are letting her drive the car already. She gets her learner's permit now that she's fourteen."

"I want to drive, too. Just imagine what it'll be like, Jaycee. We can go anywhere we want."

"Megan's getting her hardship license or something."

"Not fair." Kate waved her nails in the air to dry them and then pulled her hair back with one hand.

"Let me do that. You'll get smudges." Jaycee grabbed the brush, made a quick ponytail in her friend's hair, and clipped it with a hair claw so it sprang from Kate's head like a rhododendron. "There."

"How do I look?" Kate surveyed both her hair and her upheld green fingernails in the mirror.

"Like a hottie. Same as me." Jaycee surveyed her reflection, too. "I bet your parents will be okay. Just wait a few days."

"Do you think Sam Hastings is cute?"

"He rocks. But he's got a girlfriend."

"Well, you know, I just like him as a friend."

"When I get my license, I'm going to get in the car and just start driving. Just take any road I think looks good." Jaycee started brushing her own hair, too. "Maybe I'll drive all the way to Canada. Or Alaska. Or Mars."

"You can't drive to Mars, silly. There aren't any roads."

"I'll make my own roads. Really, I'll just start out somewhere and take any road I want, without a map or anything. Just to drive forever and see where I'd end up."

"You'd end up lost."

"You can't end up lost, can you, if you don't need to know where you're going?"

It occurred to Joe McKinnis, as he watched the blanket flutter to the grass, that perhaps he hadn't chosen the best spot for a picnic.

Theia stood at the edge of Flat Creek, protective arms crossed over her bosom, counting swallows as they swooped and dipped under the bridge and over the water. Her hair, the same color as the cured autumn grasses in the meadow, had gone webby and golden in the sunlight. As she stood at water's edge, she belonged to the countryside around her, the standing pines, the weeds, the wind.

I wonder if chemo's going to make her lose her hair?

As soon as he asked himself that question, he wished he could take it back. This isn't what she needs from you, Joe. She needs you to stand beside her. She needs you to tell her to believe in miracles. She needs you to counsel her the way you counsel every parishioner who comes to your office seeking answers.

But this was his own wife he was talking about. For her, he could give no answers.

Joe settled on his knees. "Theia? You ready for lunch?"

"Not quite." She didn't turn when she answered him. "It's such a beautiful place."

"It is pretty, isn't it?"

When she started toward him, her steps rustled like crinoline in the grass. "Thank you. A picnic was a good idea."

"We needed to talk."

Theia stopped beside a little makeshift cross resting against a pile of rocks. Kate and Heidi had made it last year, lashing together sticks with string to mark their dog's grave. Even now he heard the girls' voices, their sad pointed questions:

"Do you think dogs go to heaven when they die, Daddy?"

"Maybe dogs don't have to ask Jesus in their heart because they aren't people."

"This was a good place to bury Maggie," Theia said now. "She loved it here."

"Maybe not such a good place to come today." He began to set out their food. Two sandwiches with ham and mustard. Apples. The clear plastic container of brownies.

Theia knelt beside him, unwrapped a sandwich. "Why? Why wouldn't it be a good place?"

"Because this is where we buried the dog."

She took her first bite, but after a moment her chewing slowed. "I guess we should pray," she said, her mouth full. But they didn't. She kept right on eating. Joe chomped into his apple, as crisp as the air.

For two people who had so much to say to each other, it seemed strange-all the silence between them.

At last when they spoke, they spoke together.

He said, "Kate knows something is wrong."

And she said, "Heidi's going to be an angel again."

"Theodore? What are we going to do?"

His pet name for her. Theodore. Always when he said it, she laughed and poked him in the ribs and said, "Joe, this isn't Alvin and the Chipmunks."

But not today. Today she said, "We're going to do what the doctors tell us to do, I guess."

Joe picked a piece of grass and threaded it between his two thumbs. When he blew to make it whistle, nothing happened.

"Of course, this is your chance, Joe. If you ever wanted a different woman-" He looked up, horrified, before he realized what she meant. "I could get big bosoms. Have them remade any size. And I could change my hair."

"You're nuts."

"I could get a brunette wig or even go platinum; no more of this boring, dishwater blonde. We could put me back together exactly the way you want me to be."

"I don't want you any other way except the way that you are right now."

"Well." Her eyes measured his with great care. "That's one choice that you don't have."

"You know what I meant. I meant it the nice way. That I

(Continues...)

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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.

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



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Ebook:

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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.

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!

Excerpt - Bathsheba by Jill Eileen Smith

Bathsheba

by

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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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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Don't Rain on My Parade

I'm blogging (okay, so I'm actually ranting) on the Love Inspired Authors blog today:

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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