Camy Tang's Blog, page 158
February 16, 2011
Excerpt - Body of Evidence by Lenora Worth
Body of Evidenceby
Lenora Worth
When Texas Ranger Anderson Michaels goes undercover at an animal rescue farm in Texas Hill Country, he lands right in owner Jennifer Rodgers's path. Before long, he realizes that tracking down his target—a deadly drug-trafficking ring that was responsible for the murder of his captain—may be easier than winning this jaded woman's trust. Experience has taught Jennifer to keep her distance from adventure seekers. But her life will depend on her ability to push aside her fears—and trust Anderson to keep her safe.
Excerpt of chapter one:
She was caught between a hungry alligator named Boudreaux and a tall drink of water named Anderson. And they both had way too much attitude.
Jennifer Rodgers had had better days.
And worse ones, too, come to think of it. Someone didn't want her to build her alligators a fancy new pen. Maybe that was why the handsome Ranger, who'd discreetly flashed his badge for her eyes only, was here.
Deciding to do things in the order of greatest urgency, she ignored Mr. Tall, Blond and Texas while she finished feeding chunks of raw chicken to cranky old Boudreaux. It didn't take long for the younger alligator sharing this temporary pen with Boudreaux to slide toward the evening meal.
"C'mon, Bobby Wayne," Jennifer called. Tossing some of the meat toward shy Bobby Wayne, she smiled. "Don't worry, Boudreaux will save you a bite or two. I hope."
Boudreaux didn't seem worried about his buddy. He was too busy tearing at the meal. Jennifer threw the last of the bucket of stinky meat into the water hole then turned on the nearby spigot and pulled the big water hose toward the bucket to give it a good rinse. Then she pulled off the heavy rubber gloves she always wore to feed her animals and tossed them in the bucket. She'd soap the whole thing down later.
After she got rid of the Texas Ranger waiting a little too impatiently to talk to her.
Ranger Anderson Michaels used the time waiting at the Rodgers Exotic Animal Rescue Farm to analyze both the place and the woman running the big compound.
Jennifer Rodgers was cute and just about as exotic as some of her animals. Her long curly dark brown hair was caught up in a haphazard ponytail that kept shifting around to her face each time she leaned over. She was fit, her figure almost boyish, but Anderson could tell she was all woman even if she did have on grungy khaki pants and an old brown work shirt. Her brown eyes gave away her feminine charm. So did the way she grinned at that nasty-looking alligator lunging toward the meat she held down over the rickety old fence.
Surprised to see yet another gator opening his snout to snap at the raw chicken, Anderson strolled closer to the chain links surrounding the makeshift pond.
"Do they stay in there?" he asked, wondering if he could outrun old Boudreaux. He'd always heard an alligator could get up to forty miles per hour in speed. Anderson didn't want to test that theory.
Jennifer laughed, then turned to wipe her wet hands on a towel draped over a post. After pulling a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of the deep pocket of her baggy pants, she squirted some on her hands and rubbed them together. The fruity scent of the sanitizer filled the crisp October air while her laughter filled Anderson's head.
"Boudreaux is too old and lazy to even try and get out, but Bobby Wayne…well, let's just say he doesn't like surprises. Even though he's shy and reclusive at times, he's been known to turn aggressive if you look at him the wrong way."
Her expression challenged Anderson to do just that. And suggested she might do the same thing as the gator.
"I'll keep that in mind," Anderson said, grinning at her. "But right now, I need to talk to you."
Jennifer nodded, then started up the dirt lane toward the long square log cabin where, according to his notes, she worked and lived. "Is this about the incident with the fence on the back end of my property?"
Anderson's radar went up. "Has something happened back there already?"
She frowned. "Yes. I thought maybe that was why you were here. The local authorities said there wasn't much I could do but fix the fence."
Anderson's gut tightened. Had the cartel and the Lions already made her a target?
He glanced around, then pushed at his tan cowboy hat. A teenaged boy and a middle-age woman were working down a hill inside the goat pen and a few curious visitors milled around watching and asking questions about the "Closed for Renovations" sign. No one was paying him much attention. He'd purposely changed out of his official uniform into a sportscoat and jeans and his own hat. "Could we talk somewhere private?"
"Sure. I was just finishing up for the day, anyway." She nodded toward where the two other workers were busy with the goats. "That's Jacob—he's my part-timer and the woman with him is a volunteer. They'll close up and leave when they finish up with the goats." Giving him another bold stare, she said, "C'mon in and I'll pour you a cup of coffee."
Anderson looked toward the approaching orange-red sunset. "Sounds good. Now that the sun is setting, it's kind of nippy out here."
She pushed at the double screen doors on the long back porch, then guided him up a hall past the big open oak door that had a sign saying "Office". "Yep, after that rain earlier in the week, it's a little cool for October. Those two fellows out there will go into a kind of hibernation if it gets any colder. We've just started building them a new pond, so I hope to get them moved before winter sets in. That is, if I can stop whoever it is that keeps damaging what we've already built."
She motioned toward another open door. "This way. Coffee's in the kitchen. Oh, and I have a very old dog in here, but he probably won't move a muscle to bark at you." Pointing to the sand-colored dog on a plaid bed by the fireplace, she said, "Roscoe, this is Anderson. Say hi."
Roscoe opened his doleful brown eyes and grunted. "Some watchdog."
"He used to be the best. But he's arthritic and ornery now. My dad gave him to me when I was a teenager. He keeps me company."
After offering Roscoe his knuckles to sniff, Anderson noted that the place wasn't all that secure. No alarm system that he could see. And standard windows and doors that creaked and groaned each time the wind hit them. Everything looked a little frayed and run-down, but the place was clean. Looking through the big open door toward the front, he noticed long shelves of supplies along with pamphlets about various animal causes lining the wall behind the battered desk. A standing sign gave the cost of daily tours, stating that all students got in free.
His advance research on her website mentioned an aviary, a turtle house and pond and several other outbuildings and animal shelters, including a barn and stables. And as she'd mentioned, he had discovered she was building a bigger, better pond for the alligators. Obviously, Jennifer Rodgers was as dedicated to protecting animals as her famous late father Martin had been.
But even though her site indicated donations were always needed and welcome, it looked like she was struggling to keep things going on this remote compound.
Anderson hated to add to her troubles, but she had to know she might be in danger, especially if someone had already messed with a fence. Her rescue farm was located in an isolated spot just off I-10, about twenty miles from San Antonio. A perfect location for a drop site in drug trafficking, just like the suspect they had in custody had claimed. And he wondered now if that new alligator compound was being built too close to the alleged drop site.
Jennifer poured two cups of coffee, then motioned to the rectangular dining table on one side of the big den behind the office room. "Take a load off. And start talking, Ranger."
Anderson watched as she turned her own chair around so she could straddle it, her hands dropping over the high back, her dark eyes centered on him.
Her fingernails were painted a brilliant candy-apple red.
Interesting. And distracting.
Taking off his hat, he ran a hand over his hair and pulled out a chair. "Ah, well, I'm here because we have reason to believe some suspicious activity has been transpiring on the south end of your property, Miss Rodgers."
She nodded. "Yes. The brand-new fence around the pond we're building back there was cut. It needs to be redone before we can get on with the construction. We just started last week, so I'm not happy about being set back already. I saw a man with a mustache running away, but I didn't get a good look at him."
"I'm not here about that, specifically," he said. "But this could be connected to my reasons for being here, Miss Rodgers. Did the man see you?"
"He glanced back at me, then ran." Her expression went still. "Call me Jennifer. And talk in plain English—not Ranger-speak, if you don't mind. What kind of suspicious activity?"
Anderson didn't need to tell her everything but he had to make her see this was important. And urgent. He only knew how to do that in Ranger-speak. But he tried to use layman's terms. "Our captain was murdered last month. You might have heard about it—Gregory Pike?"
"I read about it in the paper and saw the story on the news. His daughter found him, right?"
"Right. Corinna interrupted the murder and found another man unconscious beside her father. That man is still in a coma in the hospital but we've released his photo to the media, hoping to get a lead on his identity."
Pulling a copy of the picture out, he showed it to Jennifer. "Have you ever seen this man?"
She squinted toward the grainy picture of the unconscious dark-haired man with a scar on his face. "No. He looks rough. Hard to say. I don't think that's the man I saw the other day."
Anderson decided to go on that for now. Maybe she'd remember something once they got into the particulars.
Jennifer took a drink of her black coffee. "I'm sorry about your captain and that man in the picture. But I don't think it has anything to do with whoever cut my fence."
Anderson saw the impatience in her expression. He'd have to talk fast, he reckoned. "We managed to bring in a suspect, Eddie Jimenez, who was captured after breaking into Corinna Pike's house. He gave us information regarding a drop site—a designated meeting place where, allegedly, some Texas citizens are conspiring with a Mexican drug cartel. But he couldn't identify anybody. Or so he said."
Jennifer held out her hand. "Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you're saying? Do you believe this drop site is on my property? That these drug runners are the ones trespassing back there? Are they the ones who messed up my fence?"
Anderson tried to answer all of her questions with one statement. "If someone's tampered with your fence, you can bet it's probably these criminals, yes, ma'am. And if that man thinks you saw him, he might come back."
She hit a palm on the table, causing Roscoe to open one eye. "And that's why you're here? Do you think I have something to do with all of this? I'm the one who called the local authorities but the deputy sheriff didn't seem all that concerned. Now you show up—obviously very concerned."
Anderson didn't think she was a suspect, but that couldn't be ruled out. "No, we don't think you're involved, but your property could be part of some illegal activity, and that activity could lead us to the man who murdered my captain. We need to keep tabs on your land, see who's coming and going. And that means I need to be on site for a few days. I'll call the sheriff and compare notes. I'll need a list of everyone who works with you and volunteers for you or any returning visitors who might seem suspicious."
Her eyebrows lifted like dark velvet butterfly wings. "As in—you want to hang around and…spy?"
Anderson wasn't one to mince words. "As in—I need to work here with you—undercover—until I can find out what's going on in the back forty."
She held so tight to her chair, Anderson thought she might snap the wood. "Say that again?"
"I need to go undercover, here on your compound, twenty-four-seven, for the next few days. I've been assigned to find out anything I can, based on the information the suspect taken into custody gave us. Which wasn't a whole lot, by the way. But if we couple that with your recent vandalism, I'd say something's going on here and we're on the right track."
She put one hand on the table then moved the other over her tousled ponytail. "So when you say go undercover, you mean you want to stay here and pretend to work for me while you're watching this property?"
Hadn't he just told her that? "That's it, yes, ma'am."
"Stop with the ma'am stuff, okay?"
"Okay, ma—" He smiled. "Okay, Jennifer. I noticed you have a bunkhouse for volunteers. I can stay there."
"We aren't using it right now, but yeah, you'd better believe you'll stay there. I don't like people underfoot."
Anderson could tell that. Her whole stance practically shouted for him to go away. "Are you here alone after hours?"
"I have the part-time helper you saw earlier—the kid who comes in after school. And a rotating list of volunteers. And we have a local vet who comes by about twice a week. Our work hours vary according to the animals' needs, of course." She shrugged. "But yes, for the most part, I'm here alone after hours. Just me and Roscoe there."
He noted the sadness and the resolve tracing through her eyes. "I'm sorry about what happened to your daddy in the Amazon. My mom used to watch his local show on one of the cable channels."
"Thank you." Jennifer looked down at the wooden table. "My father loved what he did and he taught me to feel the same way. I'm planning to honor his dream of making this place into a full-fledged exotic animal haven, with lots of hands-on teaching. You know, children touring the place, volunteers being able to educate people on endangered animals and how to protect them. We can learn a lot from nature and that was my dad's greatest hope.
"He wanted people to respect nature and abide by the laws set up to protect animals and he was well on his way to becoming known the world over for his work, but.now it's up to me. He left me a little money and I used part of it to buy up the acreage behind this place. Like I said earlier, I've already started clearing that area so we can build a better-equipped pen for the gators. I guess the drug runners beat me to it, but that—and a little vandalism—won't stop me from building my alligator preserve."
Anderson saw the passion and the sincerity in her eyes. She would work hard to complete her father's dream. And she might even do that at the risk of everything else, including her own safety.
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February 7, 2011
I'm done with my book!
Captain's Log, Stardate 02.07.2011
DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE!
DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE!
February 2, 2011
Street Team book list excerpt - WORDS by Ginny Yttrup
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:
Ginny Yttrup
and the book:
Words
B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, Trade Book Marketing, B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginny L. Yttrup is an accomplished freelance writer, speaker, and life coach who also ministers to women wounded by sexual trauma. Her blogs include Fiction Creator, My Daily Light, and Crossings Life Coaching. She has two grown sons and lives in California. Words is her first novel.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
"I collect words. I keep them in a box in my mind. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box. But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them."
Ten-year old Kaylee Wren doesn't speak. Not since her drug-addled mother walked away, leaving her in a remote cabin nestled in the towering redwoods-in the care of a man who is as dangerous as he is evil. With silence her only refuge, Kaylee collects words she might never speak from the only memento her mother left behind: a dictionary.
Sierra Dawn is thirty-four, an artist, and alone. She has allowed the shame of her past to silence her present hopes and chooses to bury her pain by trying to control her circumstances. But on the twelfth anniversary of her daughter's death, Sierra's control begins to crumble as the God of her childhood woos her back to Himself.
Brought together by Divine design, Kaylee and Sierra will discover together the healing mercy of the Word—Jesus Christ.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1433671700
ISBN-13: 978-1433671708
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
"In the beginning was the Word."
John 1:1
"All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world's work. With these we try to save our very lives."
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I'd like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I'd write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I'm on page 1,908. I'm reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I'll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don't need. It's super. But you don't need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn't really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn't mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. "Stick straight and dark as soot." That's what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. "Kaylee, stop squirming," she'd tell me. "It'll pull more if you move."
Sometimes I'd cry when the comb caught in a knot and she'd get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That's what he says. He tells me she didn't love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don't believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That's when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don't remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that's what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she'll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won't leave. If I leave, she won't know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I'll be good. I won't whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I'm ten. I'll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it's near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It's not near my birthday yet. It's still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn't pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won't hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. "Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I'm not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I'd ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she'd say, "Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we'll look it up." Then she'd show me how to find the word, and we'd read the definition. Most of the time she'd make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she's gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don't let him notice it. Please don't let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she'd found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
"Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones."
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We'd move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us "settled" which meant she'd move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She'd rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it "homey."
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we'd collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she'd done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we'd lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we'd stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I'm the one arranging the shelf and I'm careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I'm sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it's too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That's how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don't leave the cabin. I'm afraid he'll come back after work and find me gone. He's told me not to leave because he'd find me and I'd be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don't sleep. Sleep isn't safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
"She's gone for good, Kaylee. She ain't comin back." He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I'd slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn't noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn't put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn't be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I'd found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don't think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
"Kay—leeee?" He slurs. "You up? Lemme in."
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn't locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he'll drown in it.
But he won't die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I've been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? "He's lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He'll need a few days to recoup." Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
"Sorry pal, it's the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it." His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that's already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it's too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede "Okay, I'll love you—but just a little." He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
"Hi, Margaret." No need to answer with a questioning "Hello?" There's only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. "Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?"
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
"Well, as I've told you, I'll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven't been Shannon in over a decade?"
"Oh, right. Let's see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?"
I play along. "Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?"
"Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you'll always be Shannon Diane to me."
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. "Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret." I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
"Sierra, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Of course not. What is it you say, 'You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.'"
"That's my girl. Your daddy's been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I'd share a cup of tea with you."
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it's 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
"You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, darling, I'm simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged."
"Well, good for you. I'm glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl."
"I'm not drinking Earl."
A startling confession. "You're not? What are you drinking?"
"Sierra, I'm drinking Lemon Zinger!" Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she's worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, "Shannon—" there's such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— "are you going to the cemetery today?"
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won't allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. "Yes, Mother. You know I will." My tone is tight, closed. But I can't seem to help it.
"Darling, it's time to let go—it's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on."
The fringe of the afghan I've played with as we've talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. "What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can't do that."
"Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It's time."
"Mother, you know I don't want to talk about this."
"Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what's true."
I sigh at my mother's oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or "ring off" as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I'd "find myself." On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver's door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he'd readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own "Great Commission." In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
"Honey, do you know why I farm?"
At eighteen I'd never considered the "why" of what my parents did. "No, Daddy. Why?"
"Farming's not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it's the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him."
He'd stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. "Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do."
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy's commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy's friends couldn't understand why they'd let me "run off" to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we'd see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. "Look beyond a person's actions and see their heart. Look for what's causing them to act the way they act, then you'll understand them better."
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, "What do you see?"
"The ocean?" I asked it more than stated.
"Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there Shan, someday you'll see it. But, I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."
I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy's description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
"There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.
Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?
Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Ginny Yttrup
and the book:
Words
B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, Trade Book Marketing, B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginny L. Yttrup is an accomplished freelance writer, speaker, and life coach who also ministers to women wounded by sexual trauma. Her blogs include Fiction Creator, My Daily Light, and Crossings Life Coaching. She has two grown sons and lives in California. Words is her first novel.Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
"I collect words. I keep them in a box in my mind. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box. But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them."Ten-year old Kaylee Wren doesn't speak. Not since her drug-addled mother walked away, leaving her in a remote cabin nestled in the towering redwoods-in the care of a man who is as dangerous as he is evil. With silence her only refuge, Kaylee collects words she might never speak from the only memento her mother left behind: a dictionary.
Sierra Dawn is thirty-four, an artist, and alone. She has allowed the shame of her past to silence her present hopes and chooses to bury her pain by trying to control her circumstances. But on the twelfth anniversary of her daughter's death, Sierra's control begins to crumble as the God of her childhood woos her back to Himself.
Brought together by Divine design, Kaylee and Sierra will discover together the healing mercy of the Word—Jesus Christ.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1433671700
ISBN-13: 978-1433671708
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
"In the beginning was the Word."
John 1:1
"All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world's work. With these we try to save our very lives."
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I'd like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I'd write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I'm on page 1,908. I'm reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I'll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don't need. It's super. But you don't need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn't really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn't mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. "Stick straight and dark as soot." That's what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. "Kaylee, stop squirming," she'd tell me. "It'll pull more if you move."
Sometimes I'd cry when the comb caught in a knot and she'd get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That's what he says. He tells me she didn't love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don't believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That's when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don't remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that's what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she'll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won't leave. If I leave, she won't know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I'll be good. I won't whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I'm ten. I'll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it's near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It's not near my birthday yet. It's still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn't pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won't hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. "Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I'm not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I'd ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she'd say, "Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we'll look it up." Then she'd show me how to find the word, and we'd read the definition. Most of the time she'd make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she's gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don't let him notice it. Please don't let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she'd found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
"Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones."
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We'd move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us "settled" which meant she'd move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She'd rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it "homey."
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we'd collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she'd done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we'd lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we'd stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I'm the one arranging the shelf and I'm careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I'm sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it's too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That's how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don't leave the cabin. I'm afraid he'll come back after work and find me gone. He's told me not to leave because he'd find me and I'd be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don't sleep. Sleep isn't safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
"She's gone for good, Kaylee. She ain't comin back." He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I'd slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn't noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn't put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn't be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I'd found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don't think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
"Kay—leeee?" He slurs. "You up? Lemme in."
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn't locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he'll drown in it.
But he won't die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I've been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? "He's lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He'll need a few days to recoup." Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
"Sorry pal, it's the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it." His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that's already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it's too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede "Okay, I'll love you—but just a little." He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
"Hi, Margaret." No need to answer with a questioning "Hello?" There's only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. "Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?"
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
"Well, as I've told you, I'll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven't been Shannon in over a decade?"
"Oh, right. Let's see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?"
I play along. "Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?"
"Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you'll always be Shannon Diane to me."
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. "Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret." I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
"Sierra, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Of course not. What is it you say, 'You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.'"
"That's my girl. Your daddy's been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I'd share a cup of tea with you."
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it's 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
"You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, darling, I'm simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged."
"Well, good for you. I'm glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl."
"I'm not drinking Earl."
A startling confession. "You're not? What are you drinking?"
"Sierra, I'm drinking Lemon Zinger!" Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she's worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, "Shannon—" there's such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— "are you going to the cemetery today?"
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won't allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. "Yes, Mother. You know I will." My tone is tight, closed. But I can't seem to help it.
"Darling, it's time to let go—it's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on."
The fringe of the afghan I've played with as we've talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. "What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can't do that."
"Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It's time."
"Mother, you know I don't want to talk about this."
"Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what's true."
I sigh at my mother's oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or "ring off" as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I'd "find myself." On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver's door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he'd readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own "Great Commission." In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
"Honey, do you know why I farm?"
At eighteen I'd never considered the "why" of what my parents did. "No, Daddy. Why?"
"Farming's not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it's the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him."
He'd stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. "Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do."
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy's commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy's friends couldn't understand why they'd let me "run off" to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we'd see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. "Look beyond a person's actions and see their heart. Look for what's causing them to act the way they act, then you'll understand them better."
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, "What do you see?"
"The ocean?" I asked it more than stated.
"Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there Shan, someday you'll see it. But, I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."
I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy's description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
"There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.
Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?
Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.
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!
February 1, 2011
Excerpt - High-Stakes Inheritance by Susan Sleeman
His touch shot a frisson of alarm through her far greater than the letter had. She searched for a reply, but gaped instead. He directed a counseling program that leased cabins at Pine-tree in the off-season so she'd expected them to cross paths. However, she didn't count on freezing in place when she saw him again.
"I remember that look." His trademark crooked grin lit his face. "Got it every time I messed up."
This was too much. He was here…in front of her. The guy who'd hurt her like every man in her life except Uncle Wally. And she wasn't ready with the quick, witty comebacks she'd often visualized in her mind.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Fine? She wasn't fine. How was she going to get out of this situation?
She took a step back and focused on the waffle pattern in his T-shirt. This wasn't any better than peering into his eyes. The material stretched taut across his chest. A chest where she'd rested and received comfort after battles with her father.
"I'm sorry to hear about Wally," he said, filling the awkward space and bringing her gaze to his face. "I remember as a kid how I'd count down the days until he left Atlanta and came up here for the summer." A soft smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "All the kids around here loved his camp. Takes a special person to give so much time and money to help underprivileged kids like he did. I'm gonna miss him."
"Me, too," she managed.
Who was this woman taking over her body? Since their tumultuous breakup, she'd often visualized the strong woman she'd become, standing up to Ryan and releasing pent-up anger from the wounds he'd inflicted. Never did she see herself shying away like a terrified mouse.
So what? Even if she pulled herself together, this wasn't the time or place to get into their botched romance. Small towns had big ears and the last thing she needed was gossip about her served as the entrée on dinner tables tonight. She'd had enough of that in high school when she'd sparked the local gossip by rebelling against her father's rigid control, skipping school and partying all hours of the night.
Her best option was to cut this short. "If you'll excuse me, I really need to get out to Pinetree and unpack."
In search of car keys, she used her hip to shift her leather purse closer as she transferred the threatening letter to the other hand already bulging with envelopes. Shaking fingers fumbled and upset the pile, sending it crashing to the floor.
"Let me help." He dropped down and reached for the alarming letter.
No. He didn't need to see the warning.
She lunged toward the page, but his hand whispered softly over hers and snatched up the paper. While he scanned the message, she slid the avalanche of envelopes into a stack.
"What's this?" His head lifted and deep crevices of concern burrowed into his face. "You can't seriously be thinking about going out there after receiving such a threat? We have to report this to the police, and you need to stay somewhere safe until they figure out who sent the letter."
How dare he express concern for her after the trauma he'd caused in her life!
She snatched the page from his hands. "Don't worry. Someone is just playing a practical joke."
Ignoring his confused expression, she bolted past him and into the crisp October morning. She didn't need Ryan worrying about or trying to take care of her. She'd been self-sufficient for years, and she didn't need a man—especially not this man—telling her what to do. She'd be fine.
"Mia, wait," he called after her. "You could be in danger."
Danger, ha! Talking to him was more dangerous than a vague warning. He'd hurt her once. She wasn't going to give him the chance to do it again.
Ryan watched as Mia charged away. After her reaction, his first instinct was to run in the other direction. Why bring up their past? Why not let things lie as they had for the last ten years?
Because her eyes seared him, that's why. Not with the guilt he deserved but with a vulnerability that tugged at his need to help a woman in distress. Now she was charging away from him into danger. He couldn't let that happen.
He rushed after the click-clack of the skyscraper shoes she wore echoing down the street and into the sweet, tantalizing fragrance lingering behind.
Had his tomboy taken to wearing perfume?
She'd definitely given up the ratty jeans and slogan- boasting T-shirts she used to favor. Today, tailored blue jeans and a leather blazer emphasized her long, lanky body. Perfect on the current Mia who'd traded her mass of red curls for a sleek style that gleamed in the brilliant sunlight. Her hands shook as she inserted a key into the door of a sweet, red Mustang, but she still managed to climb into the car in record speed.
A car that would take her straight to Pinetree. She may not want anything to do with him, but he wouldn't let her race into danger just to spite him. He breathed deep to control rising emotions and stopped next to the car. She ignored him and lowered the convertible roof.
When the top cleared, he planted his hands on the door frame. "I get that you're still mad at me, Mia, but don't do something foolish just to get away from me."
She sat, rigid and unresponsive.
He leaned into her space. "Just give me a minute and then if you still want to go, I'll back off."
Her head slowly rose, and a shimmering strand of hair blew into her face. It would take some time for him to get used to her new look. Not that he didn't like it. Layered hair curved softly around her face, giving her a sophisticated appearance that was all too appealing.
He reached up to tuck the stray strand behind her ear, but she beat him to it and fixed tired eyes on his face.
"You have exactly one minute." She tapped her jeweled watch with a brightly painted nail.
The anguish in her gaze almost stopped his words. Almost. But he had to keep her safe. "It's crazy to go to Pinetree, sw—, Mia." She didn't seem to notice his near use of sweetheart, or maybe she didn't remember or even care that he'd always called her that in high school. "You never know what the sender of this letter intends to do."
"I'm pretty sure it's from my father. You know how melodramatic he can get. If I leave town during the year, Pinetree defaults to David. So—"
"Wait. David gets Pinetree if you leave?" Ryan's tone pierced through the air. "It's got to be worth a bundle for the lakefront location. Seems like David is the logical person to want you to leave."
"I didn't say I was certain about my father. David is a possibility, but I doubt it." She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment as if she was humoring him. "David's firm handles Pinetree's finances so I've talked to him about the transition a couple of times in the last week. He said even though he was the older sibling, I deserved Pinetree because I was so much closer to Uncle Wally."
"How can you be sure he meant what he said? Maybe he was covering up his true feelings."
"His tone was sincere. Plus, he's never done anything in the past to hurt me, but Dad…" She released another sigh. "He's a different story. He always thought David was more deserving of everything, so why not this?" Her words were strong, but her voice trembled at the mention of her father and brother.
Ryan wanted to stroke her hair in comfort as he used to do after one of her father's many rampages, but he had no right. He'd seen to that.
He fisted his hands and searched for the words that would keep her away from Pinetree. But what could he say to make her see the danger she could be in?
Perhaps he had to paint a dire picture. "You may be right about the letter coming from your dad, but are you willing to risk your life on it?"
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. "Your minute is up."
She fired up the car, and he reluctantly stepped back. He didn't know why she'd reacted so strongly but he did know he'd failed her again. Was he destined to fail her at every turn? He shook his head and watched her back out of the space.
At least this time he had God to turn to. He never disappointed anyone.
Ryan focused on the impressive stand of Douglas firs in the distance.
Lord, please keep Mia safe. And if it is your will, let her see my sincere desire to apologize for how I hurt her and help her to forgive me for what I did.
At the screech of tires, his head snapped back, and he watched the car shoot down the street. Despite the ache her resentment left behind, the familiar sight brought a brief smile. Mia might dress all prissy and girly now, but she remembered how to drive like a guy.
Oh, yeah, she'd always been a little spitfire. Rebelling against her father. Getting into trouble left and right. Calming down some the year they were together. Taking up again when they split up to show everyone she didn't need him.
And she didn't need him. Not now, anyway. He'd hurt her by how he'd handled the breakup, that was for sure, and he wanted to fix it. Now more than ever. Seeing her dredged up the horrible day they'd parted, and he needed to explain why he had to end things as he had. To seek her forgiveness so he could put this to rest.
Instincts and the desire to do the right thing with Mia told him to jump in his truck and follow her to Pinetree, but the threatening message urged him to go see Russ, his brother and chief of police. He could talk with Mia later, but not if the person behind the letter made good on his threat and harmed her in the process.
Leave Logan Lake now or you will pay…
The barn, dry from a typical rainless summer, flared in oranges and reds as if a meteor had streaked from the sky and plunged into the building.
Had he done this? Had he really made good on the threat?
Dense smoke clung to Pinetree's sign and surrounding treetops like cotton candy on a stick. The air was laden with fumes, not the sort of pleasant scents drifting from a campfire, but serious gusts of blackness settling into the open car and irritating her breathing.
Heart beating erratically, Mia remembered the advice of the 911 operator she'd just called. She should move to a safe location and wait for the fire department to arrive. But what if Uncle Wally still kept horses in the barn? If they were trapped she couldn't sit here and listen to them cry out. She had to try to rescue them. She kicked off her heels and scrambled from the car.
Listening for cries of distress, she ran the length of the barn and circled the backside. Embers shot into the air. Explosions—bullet-like pings—struck the walls. The heat and caustic air seared her lungs. Howling screams from the consuming fire eased and the heat receded a bit, allowing her to inch closer to the acrid smoke seeping through cracks in the walls.
What was that? A whimper. Quiet. Muffled. Her imagination?
She stopped and leaned closer to a window, panting from exertion and the thickened air.
There it was again. A terrified mewl. A kitten or maybe a small child.
With a large rock, she shattered the window. Blistering heat whooshed out sending her lurching back. She ripped off her jacket and held it in front of her face.
"Is someone there?" she called, and swiped thick sweat from her forehead.
"Help!" The voice was tiny and high, fragile like a porcelain doll.
Who in the world was in there?
Jacket over her fingers, Mia cleared the largest shards of glass and plunged her head through the opening. Her eyes instantly watered, her nose stung.
"Where are you?" she barked through drying lips, and squinted against the bitter smoke.
A petite tear-stained face peeked from a cave of hay bales. Mia guessed the innocent child to be under ten and terrified.
"Don't be afraid." Ignoring the abrasive air and drawing in labored breaths, Mia lowered her jacket and offered a comforting smile as she scanned the space.
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January 30, 2011
Excerpt - Out on a Limb by Rachelle McCalla
Out on a Limbby
Rachelle McCalla
When Elise McAlister's hang glider is shot down, she survives the fall to find her troubles have followed her to the ground. There's a gunman chasing her and, worst of all, he runs her right into Henry "Cutch" McCutcheon's arms. With the generations-old feud between their families, depending on any McCutcheon is difficult. And depending on Cutch, the man who loved her but left her, seems disastrous. But Cutch won't lose this chance to win Elise back—and keep her safe. Together, they take to the skies again to find the source of the deadly secret, little knowing someone's already setting them up for a fall….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Elise McAlister wouldn't have paid any attention to the sound echoing up from the hills below her if she hadn't felt a sharp sting as something grazed her leg. Even then, putting two and two together took her a moment, because the situation went so far beyond anything she'd experienced flying before—or even heard of anyone experiencing. Nobody would really attempt to shoot down a hang glider, would they?
Pop! There it was again.
A spray of shot punched through the fabric of her right wing. The powered glider listed heavily.
"Lord, help me," Elise began to pray as she looked down, frantically trying to assess her situation. Only mo ments before, she'd been enjoying her Saturday morning flight, soaring peacefully above the scenic Loess Hills of southwestern Iowa, lost in thought and equally detached from any navigational landmarks. Now she was going down and didn't even know where she was.
Pop!
Elise braced herself for this hit, almost relieved to hear the spray take out her motor instead of what remained of her wings. She could glide without a motor. She couldn't stay aloft without wings.
Her hang glider sagged in the air, and the wind messed with the damaged wing, creating drag. Elise spotted a gravel road in the distance. At the rate she was going, there was no way she'd make it—not with all the treetops she'd have to pass over. She was losing altitude fast enough as it was.
Without the steady purr of the motor behind her, she could hear the wind flapping through the torn fabric of her right wing—and below her, the distinctive chinking of metal on metal as a gunman racked the slide on his shotgun. In her mind's eye, she could picture the empty shell kicking out and falling to the ground as a fresh shell was loaded into place, ready to be shot. Sure, she'd taken her dad's twelve gauge out plenty of times, but she hadn't been shooting at anyone.
A dust cloud rose where the gravel road topped a nearby hill. A vehicle was headed this way. If they saw her go down, maybe they could help her—unless they were with whoever was trying to shoot her down.
Blam!
They were getting closer. Elise heard the shots rattle through the thick canopy of leaves below her before ripping through her Dacron again, this time tearing through her left wing. Grateful she'd at least begun to level out, Elise felt her stomach dip as the glider sank toward the treetops.
The jagged hills lunged up to meet her. Below, she could hear shouting, scrambling noises as her pursuers crashed through the underbrush. The gentle breeze, which had clocked in at a pristine six miles per hour when she'd checked it that morning, stilled to almost nothing.
The gun cocked again.
"Please, God, please," Elise begged, knowing that, as low in the air as she was now, those shots were going to penetrate deeper. If she was hit again, it would do a lot more than sting a little.
Blam!
The shots tore through her wings again, and a couple balls slammed into the soles of her feet. Maybe her heavy steel-toe hiking boots hadn't been such a bad choice for her morning flight, after all. She didn't usually wear them for flying, but—
Whap! Trees leaves slapped her toes as she skirted the top of a high hill, causing her body to tilt and her wounded craft to tip unsteadily in the air.
Not good. The drag on her wings increased, sapping her momentum, pulling her down. With her pursuers clambering up the hill behind her, she didn't dare go down in this valley. She'd be a sitting duck. They'd be on her before she ever got unstrapped from her harness.
"Lord, I really need your help now," she whispered, her shoulders tensing as she tried to angle upward for maximum lift. She had nothing. No wind. No updraft. She was going down in this valley, and she could hear the gunmen crashing through the woods on the backside of the hill behind her. They'd be on her in a moment.
The next hill careened toward her, its tree-covered sides a mess of fingerlike branches, ready to grab her out of the air and hold her captive until the gunmen caught up to her. Praying hard, she tried to guide her damaged wings upward.
The trees moved closer. She could see each branch. She could see each leaf. She braced herself.
The updraft hit her face at the same second it caught her wings, lifting her clear from the hilltop. "Thank you, God," she prayed, almost-sobbing, instinctively running through the air as the treetops slapped her feet. Though she knew sudden thermal updrafts often occurred on hillsides, between the timing and her desperation, she felt as though God had reached down from heaven and pulled her up the side of the hill just in time.
A dead branch jutted into the sky, and for a moment she was sure she'd hit it straight on. Lifting her legs, she pulled up her whole body, bracing herself against her speed bar. The sole of her boot made contact with the branch, and she pushed off, effectively propelling herself another ten feet through the air.
After clearing the trees on the hilltop, her wounded glider seemed to crumple right out of the sky as the updraft that had filled her wings dissipated. At least with one more hillside between her and the gunmen, she'd have some chance of escaping, however small.
She went down in the treetops of the next valley in a tangle, her lines, wires and splayed-open fabric wrapping in branches, squeezing her in an unfriendly embrace. She struggled to unhook her harness, but it wouldn't even budge against the overwhelming tension as she dangled from the snarled mess in the treetop.
Elise slapped the side pocket of her parachute pants. Yes, she'd dutifully remembered to bring her hook knife, though she'd never had to use it before. Now she whipped it out and slashed through the nylon restraints, not even regretting destroying the expensive equipment—not if it meant saving her life.
With one arm tightly gripping the wedged speed bar, she tossed the knife uphill where it would be out of her way, looked down and said another quick prayer before dropping the last ten feet to the ground. The soft soil of the Loess Hills felt hard enough when she hit it, meeting the earth with as much of a roll as she could muster, and half sliding, half running down the rest of the hill. She could hear her pursuers shouting as they crashed through the valley behind the hill she'd just crossed over.
She didn't have much time.
Ducking to avoid the jutting branches that jabbed at her from all sides, Elise ran the length of the valley, hoping to skirt the hill and save herself the effort of climbing up the steep, rugged hillside, while at the same time, hopefully, losing her pursuers in the undergrowth.
She ran blindly, fear pushing her as she leaped over fallen logs, swung around saplings and tried to pick her way as quickly as possible over the uneven ground. It would never do to turn an ankle now.
At the side of the hill, the evenly spaced trees gave way to thick bushes, and their sharp briars snagged her as she ran headlong into their midst. About to recoil, she nearly missed seeing the aging fence line that ran through the windbreak. Windbreaks and fence lines didn't just occur randomly. They followed property lines, which usually followed roads.
Elise remembered the road she'd seen from the air. Had she really made it that far? Or would forcing herself into the thick bushes only trap her for the pursuers she could hear topping the last hill behind her?
She threw one arm up in front of her face before ducking headfirst into the briars.
The thorns grabbed relentlessly at her windsuit, tearing through her clothes and snagging her skin. She made it to the barbed-wire fence in one lunge and grabbed the line between the barbs, grateful when it sagged enough to permit her to scramble over. A barb tore at her pants, but she was beyond caring. She could hear the gunmen closing in behind her as she tried to press forward through the unrelenting bramble. She was stuck.
Terror filled her, reminiscent of the nightmares in which she tried to run but couldn't and awoke to find her self tangled in her bedsheets. But this was no dream. She was stuck in the bushes, and the bad guys were clos ing in.
Twisting, turning, pushing, she snapped through branches with desperate force, her eyes stinging with tears as thorns bit through her arms and stiff sticks jabbed her ribs. "Please, God. You didn't bring me this far to let me down now."
Scrambling frantically forward, she fell free of the trees and stumbled out onto the chalky, white gravel road.
Right into the path of an oncoming truck.
Brakes squealed as the vehicle threw up a cloud of dust that powdered her face in the same dirty white as the road. Her outstretched hands slapped against the warm hood as the truck's brakes locked, and it slid another couple feet on the loose gravel, roaring to a stop nose-to nose with her. The instant it came to a stop, she ran around to the passenger side of the vehicle, peeling off her flying goggles as the dust began to settle.
The passenger door opened just as Elise recognized the shade of indigo-blue paint underneath the dust-covered sides of the older Dodge Ram. For a second, she thought about diving back into the bushes.
"Need a lift?"
"No," Elise answered instinctively. No way was she getting into a truck with Henry McCutcheon IV. McCutch-eons were trouble, and Cutch was the worst kind of trouble. He'd broken her heart eight years ago, and she'd never fully recovered. She certainly didn't need a run-in with him today. His blue eyes twinkled at her from underneath a shock of thick black hair as he leaned across the front seat to address her.
"Elise?" Recognition crossed his perfect features. "Were you flying that glider that just crashed?"
"Uh—"
Before she could fully answer, another gunshot rang through the woods, spitting gravel and shot around her feet and peppering the sides of the truck.
Cutch's blue eyes widened. "Get in!" he shouted.
Elise dived into the cab, pulling the door shut after her as Cutch took off in a cloud of flying gravel. She ducked down as another shot rang out behind them.
"Is somebody shooting at you?" Cutch asked as he gunned the engine, quickly shifting gears as he accelerated.
"Yes," Elise admitted, keeping her head low and wishing her flying helmet was insulated with more than a shock-absorbing layer of Styrofoam. It wasn't made to block a bullet.
"Why?"
"I don't know." Her trembling fingers fumbled with the seatbelt as she attempted to strap herself in. She'd had just about enough after what was supposed to have been a peaceful morning flight through the hills. Her panting stilled as she began to catch her breath.
Cutch quickly put a few more hills between them and their pursuers. "Those guys on foot?" he asked.
"I think so."
"Anybody else after you?"
"I don't know."
The truck slowed as they reached the top of Rink's Mound, the highest hill in the area. Cutch pulled into the parking area near the Loess Hills scenic viewing tower and the old Dodge rumbled to a stop.
It wasn't until the truck had completely stopped moving that Elise realized she was shaking.
Cutch killed the engine and looked over at her.
She shrank against the door and pinched her eyes shut. It was one thing to be shot out of the clear blue sky. It was another thing entirely to be sitting in a truck with Henry McCutcheon IV. Elise wasn't sure which was worse, exactly, but she sure wished she could stop trembling long enough to get the truck door open. They'd dated for a couple of months eight years ago, and he'd only kissed her once, but ever since he'd purposely humiliated her in front of half of Holyoake, she'd steered plenty clear of him.
"Hey." Cutch reached toward her.
She instantly recoiled. "Stay back," she snapped.
He slumped against his seat. "You're the one who jumped into my truck."
"I wouldn't have if there hadn't been somebody shooting at me."
"You're welcome," he said with sarcasm cutting through his voice. "Who was shooting at you, and why?"
"I told you I don't know."
"They shot you out of the sky?" Cutch clarified.
Elise nodded, her shoulders sagging forward as the rush of fear she'd felt was replaced with exhaustion. She pinched the clasp on her chin strap and let her helmet sink into her hands. Then she ran her fingers back through her short, cropped hair, freeing her loose brown curls before tucking the ends behind her ears with trembling fingers.
"That doesn't make any sense. Why would somebody shoot you out of the sky?"
"I don't know." She sucked in a deep breath and tried to think. Why would somebody shoot her out of the sky?
"Do you think it was some teenagers playing around?"
"They acted pretty serious." Elise inspected the scratches on her hands and arms from her tangle with the thorn bushes. Drying blood wept from the more serious cuts, but that was the worst of it. She stuck a finger through the hole in her pants where she'd been shot and fingered the spot on her calf where the steel ball had grazed her. It had already stopped bleeding.
Thoughtfully, she prodded the fabric where it gathered at the elastic band near her ankle and felt a ball hiding inside. She leaned down, cautiously peeled back the cuff of her pants and plucked it out.
"What were they shooting?" Cutch continued questioning her. "Birdshot? Do you think they were trying to scare you or something?"
Elise held up the hard metal ball. "Not birdshot. Buckshot," she held the steel ball—over a half centimeter in diameter—in the palm of her hand so he could see. Shot that size was meant to deeply penetrate flesh. "They weren't trying to scare me. They were trying to kill me."
Cutch looked into the warm brown eyes of the woman he'd once loved, and the eight years since their romance seemed to melt away. Elise. She was still so attractive, even covered in dust and perched like a frightened bird in the corner of the cab of his truck. So attractive and in spite of the long separation of time, still so familiar to him. What had happened?
"Why would somebody try to kill you?"
"I don't know," she told him again, and he could see from the fear in her eyes that she meant it.
He just couldn't accept it.
"Okay. Help me figure this out. What would you be doing to cause someone to take a shot at you?"
"I was just out flying." Her usually strong voice sounded weak.
"In your powered hang glider?"
She nodded and bit her lower lip.
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January 29, 2011
Excerpt - Hidden in Shadows by Hope White
Hidden in Shadowsby
Hope White
An intruder in her house? But why? Tea shop owner Krista Yates has nothing worth stealing, and Wentworth, Michigan, is hardly a danger zone…or is it? DEA agent Luke McIntyre warns Krista that the prowler has some dangerous connections, and that she needs around-the-clock protection. Luke's presence in her life is a bit too easy to get used to—and his growing presence in her heart makes her dread saying goodbye. But her nonstop defender can't hide Krista away forever. And there's more than her safety—or her love—at risk when the threat steps out of the shadows again.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Okay, so Krista didn't expect a welcoming party when she returned home from her mission trip, but she didn't expect the house to be trashed either.
As she stepped inside the front hallway of her bungalow, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the mess in her living room. Sofa cushions were strewn across the shag rug, the end table was tipped over and mail littered the floor.
Anastasia was not happy. Who would have thought a ten-pound cat could actually do so much damage? That she could tip over furniture?
Krista dropped her purse, went to the oak bureau and pulled the chain on the vintage lamp.
Nothing.
"Anastasia," Krista scolded. The cat had probably chewed through the cord again. You'd think one shocking experience would be enough for kitty to keep her fangs off the electrical wire.
"Come on, Natalie took care of you." Krista edged her way through the living room, hoping to find a lamp with an unchewed cord, and hoping she got some light before her attack cat decided to pounce.
She tried a second lamp, with no luck. Being stalked by a crazy cat in broad daylight is one thing, but in pitch black it could be its own kind of shocking experience.
"Kitty, kitty, kitty," she cooed.
Krista was so not in the mood for surprises. Exhaustion filled every cell of her body after spending fourteen hours traveling from Mexico to Michigan. It was bad enough she'd missed her connection, but then they'd lost her luggage. She waited an hour and gave up, asking them to send it home when they found it.
At least she had the important stuff: her Bible, book of inspirational quotes and digital card with the hundreds of pictures she'd taken on the mission trip. She couldn't wait to upload the shots to her Faithgirl blog.
"Ana-sta-sia," she called out. The cat was sure to be in attack mode. After all, Krista had abandoned her for nearly two weeks. How dare she!
"Kitty, kitty, kitty," Krista said, feeling her way down the hall to the kitchen.
It wasn't like Krista had completely abandoned her. Her best friend, Natalie Brown, stopped by to check on the feline.
The wall phone rang, making Krista yelp.
She snatched the receiver. "Hello?"
"Welcome home!" Natalie said.
"Thanks, I'm glad to be home. Just wish I had some light." She ran her hand across the wall in search of the switch.
"What do you mean?"
"The cat ate through my lamp cords." She flicked the switch but the ceiling light didn't come on. "Did I forget to pay my bill? No, I set it up on bill pay before I left."
"They wouldn't turn off your lights if you missed one payment, silly girl."
"I'm a tired girl and I can't see what I'm doing and any second now Anastasia is going to strike."
"But it was a good trip, right?" Natalie asked.
"It was amazing." Her heart filled with pride at the memory of helping the children in the small Mexican village. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Fred Skripps won the fishing contest, the new condo complex on Fourth got approved and they're bringing in a busload of tourists Friday. Be ready, tea mistress."
"Ready is my middle name."
"Bad, Krista, really bad."
"Sorry. Long flight, they lost my luggage and I'm hungry."
"Check your refrigerator."
Krista made her way to the fridge and pulled it open. Unfortunately the fridge light wasn't working either, but moonlight lit the kitchen enough for Krista to see her friend had left her some goodies.
"You're wonderful," Krista said.
"Says the woman who just spent ten days on a mission trip. You're welcome. There's chicken casserole, fresh fruit and takeout from Pekadill's."
"My mouth is watering. But if my power's out I can't heat it in the micro."
"Did you check the fuse box in the garage?" Nat offered.
"That's next. If I don't fall asleep on my way out there."
"Anastasia would have a field day with that."
"Did you see her at all?" Krista fumbled in the kitchen junk drawer.
"Once, the first time I stopped by. She thought I was you."
"How'd that go?" Krista pulled out a red mini flashlight.
"She ran, hid and never came out again."
"Except to trash my living room," Krista said.
"You want me to send Timothy over?"
"No, thanks. I'll be fine."
"He wouldn't mind."
"I'm good, really." Krista liked being able to take care of herself. Natalie had done plenty, and Krista didn't like taking advantage of Natalie's boyfriend's good nature. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"I'll stop by the tea shop."
"Sounds good."
She hung up and pointed the flashlight into the living room. "Kitty, kitty." She aimed in all the corners, above the bookshelf, then got down on her knees and held her breath as she flashed the light beneath the sofas.
"This is ridiculous." She stood. "I'm not going to let you punk me, kitty."
Pointing the flashlight ahead of her, she marched into the kitchen and flung open the back door. The smell of winter floated through the yard, wrapping around her shoulders like a soft blanket.
Home. There was nothing like it.
She marched outside to the detached garage. Shoving the flashlight into her sweater pocket, she heaved open the garage door and reached for her flashlight. A crashing sound made her jump back.
"Anastasia, how did you get in here?" Krista aimed the flashlight into the garage—
And screamed at the sight of a large man rummaging through her toolbox.
Instinct demanded she run, but for a second she couldn't move. Then the intruder turned to reveal a skeleton-masked face. He was holding a weapon in his hand.
Panic shot her out of the garage, her heart pounding against her chest. She raced for the house, focusing on the open door…
The man shoved her from behind and she went down against the cobblestone walk, the breath knocked from her lungs. It couldn't end like this. Who would run the tea shop?
Oh, of all the things to be worried about.
Eyes pinched shut, she braced herself.
But nothing happened.
She heard crunching of footsteps through the dormant garden as the man raced off. Could he be some homeless guy trying to stay warm?
"Hey!" a male voice called out behind her.
Followed by a pop. Then another.
She swallowed back the panic that threatened to make her sick.
* * *Special Agent Luke McIntyre hit the ground when he saw the weapon aimed in his direction. Taking cover behind the house, he slipped his Glock from his belt and waited. He didn't want a shoot-out in this small town, but he had to defend himself.
And the woman.
Luke counted to three and poked his head out. The guy was out of sight.
A car's engine sputtered and cracked. Luke raced around the house in time to spot a dark green minivan peeling away from the curb. On the ground lay a nail gun.
Neighbors' lights popped on with interest and he quickly holstered his gun.
There was no doubt Krista Yates was in trouble.
Luke busted tail to get to Wentworth after the tip came in about Victor Garcia. The drug lord was sending men to the quiet Michigan town to finish some business with the Peace Church mission group. Garcia was a bold one to be using a church group to move drugs, but it didn't surprise Luke.
Garcia had been on the DEA's watch list for months and just when they thought they had enough to bring him in, the drug lord fled, probably to Mexico. Luke's office thought they'd lost him for good.
But Luke hadn't given up. Not on this one. There was too much history, too much at stake.
Luke slipped into town and touched base with the police chief, asking that Luke's position as DEA agent be confidential so as not to alert Garcia's men and chase them off. Luke knew that gossip in a small town traveled like wildfire.
Luke wanted to catch Garcia's men in the act of retrieving the drugs so he could hurt Victor Garcia where he'd feel it most: in his business.
No, Luke didn't just want to hurt Garcia. He wanted to destroy him.
The chief explained that Krista Yates coordinated the mission trip, and had somehow missed her connection, so she was arriving later than the rest of the group.
The question was, what was Garcia's connection to Krista Yates?
Luke started around back, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. He pulled out his shield and clipped it to his jacket pocket. Didn't want Barney Fife thinking he was the perp.
He turned the corner.
The woman was gone.
"Miss Yates?" he called out.
"Who are you and what did you do with my cat?"
He turned toward the house. She was aiming a fire extinguisher at him.
He raised his hands and bit back a smile at her aggressive stance. "I'm a federal agent, ma'am." He nodded toward his shield.
"Oh." She put down the extinguisher. "Wait, how did you get here so fast? Did you say federal agent?"
He took a step toward her and stopped. She looked shaken, petrified. He couldn't blame her.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm with the DEA."
Her green eyes were innocent, yet weary, and a bruise was starting to form on her cheek.
"You'd better ice your cheek or you're gonna look like Rocky Balboa after ten rounds in the ring." Lowering his hands, he started for the house.
She reached for the fire extinguisher.
"I'm on your side, remember?" he said.
"Then fix my lights."
"Excuse me?"
"There's no light in my house. I went to the garage to check the fuse box and that guy jumped me, I mean jumped over me." She shook her head in confusion.
"Go on inside and I'll check the fuse box."
"It's dark inside."
"Okay, then wait on the porch. The cops should be pulling up any second now."
She hugged her midsection with one hand and clutched a
charm at the base of her neck with the other. Although she acted strong, she looked broken and terrified.
And way too fragile.
Luke went into the garage, pulled out his pen flashlight and inspected the fuse box. As he expected, all switches were in the Off position. Luke snapped them on and light beamed from the house onto the back porch.
"Want me to close the garage door?" he called.
No answer.
Luke peered out from the garage. The woman was gone. What the heck? Did the guy come back? Send an accomplice? He started for the house.
"Police! Freeze!" a female shouted from behind him.
Luke raised his hands. "I'm a federal officer."
"Yeah and I'm Judge Judy. Get down on the ground."
"If you'd let me turn around—"
"Do it!" The woman sounded too young and green to be holding a firearm.
The guys in Luke's division would have a field day if the pipsqueak cop shot him in the back due to lack of experience.
"I'm going, I'm going." Luke dropped to his knees, interlacing his hands behind his head.
"All the way down!"
He hesitated, bitter memories tearing through his chest. Being forced down…
Held there while his partner, Karl, fought for his life.
"I said get down!" she ordered.
"Deanna, what are you doing?" the Yates woman said, coming out of the house.
"Stay in the house, Krista," the cop ordered.
"No, he's a good guy."
Good? Hardly.
Krista walked up to Luke, removed his shield and flashed it at the cop.
He doubted the rookie could see past her adrenaline rush.
Luke heard another car pull up.
"How do you know that's real?" the female cop said.
"It's real," a man offered.
Luke recognized Chief Cunningham's voice. Luke had spent a good hour with him earlier tonight going over the case.
"Lower your weapon, Officer West," the chief said.
From the concerned look on Krista's face, Luke sensed the female cop didn't follow the order. This was probably the most action she'd seen in her entire year on the force. If she'd even been on the force a year.
"West!" the chief threatened.
Krista sighed with relief and touched Luke's shoulder. "You need help getting up?"
Right, he still hadn't moved, paralyzed by the dark memories that he couldn't bury deep enough. Guilt had a way of rising to the surface to mess with your head at the worst possible moments.
Krista gripped his arm to help him stand. As if he needed help from this fragile thing.
Fragile. Innocent. Dangerous.
"I'm fine." Luke stood and turned to the cop. She looked barely twenty.
"Sorry about that," the chief offered.
"No problem," Luke said.
"Yes problem," Krista countered.
They all looked at her.
"Anastasia is missing." With a shake of her head, she went into the house.
Luke glanced at the chief. "Who's Anastasia?"
"Her cat," Officer West said.
Luke glanced at the house. Krista had nearly been taken out by a member of Garcia's gang and all she could think about was a silly cat?
"Officer West, continue your patrol and don't tell anyone about Agent McIntyre's presence in town," Chief Cunningham said. "I'll handle things here."
"The guy who jumped Miss Yates was driving a dark green minivan," Luke said.
"Okay, thanks." Officer West walked to her cruiser.
"These are not teenage pranksters, West. Radio in if you spot the van. That's an order," the chief said.
"Yes, sir."
The chief turned to Luke. "Ready?"
"For what?"
The chief started for the house. "I have a feeling Krista isn't going to be in a talking mood until we find her cat."
"You're kidding."
"Welcome to Wentworth, son." Chief Cunningham climbed the steps and disappeared into the house.
"Fantastic," Luke muttered.
He was allergic to cats, and even more allergic to small towns. He grew up in one and hightailed it out of there before he hit his seventeenth birthday. There was too much gossip in a small town, too much imagined drama.
He climbed the steps and glanced across the yard. Imagined? Most of the time. In Krista Yates's case he was pretty sure she'd brought it home with her from Mexico, probably in her luggage, or in something she saw or said.
He shook his head. She was a talker, for sure, but he couldn't imagine the sweet-faced blonde saying anything offensive or rude. This wasn't about manners, it was about one of Mexico's biggest drug cartels moving product into the country via innocents.
The Yates woman defined innocent.
Luke stepped into the house and found the chief and Krista in the living room. "So the house was like this when you got home?" the chief said, eyeing the mess.
"I thought it was the cat."
"You thought the cat tipped over your end table?" Luke asked.
"She's a really big cat and she's rather upset with me right now."
"The sooner we can get a description of the man you saw in the garage, the more accurate it will be," the chief said.
"You don't think he killed her, do you?" Krista asked, her eyes rounding with fear. Wide, green, helpless eyes.
"Now, why would he kill your cat, Krista?" the chief said.
Krista narrowed her eyes. "You, of all people, should not be asking me that. Gladys still has scars from the quilting open house."
"Point taken."
"Anastasia? Here, kitty, kitty." She glanced at Luke. "Get the Whiskas. On top of the microwave." She disappeared upstairs.
Luke glanced at the chief.
"The sooner we find the cat…" the chief said with a shrug.
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January 28, 2011
Excerpt - Running Blind by Shirlee McCoy
Running Blindby
Shirlee McCoy
The mission trip to Mexico was supposed to be an adventure. But the thrill turns sour when Jenna Dougherty and her roommate Magdalena are kidnapped. A head injury leaves Jenna temporarily blind, with no hope of escaping or helping her friend…until Nick Jansen arrives. The ex-marine brings Jenna safely home to doctors who restore her sight—but she opens her eyes too late to save her friend. Nick helped her before—can he help her find Magdalena's killer? Or will chasing this trail have Jenna running blindly again into danger?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Jenna Dougherty woke to darkness, the pulsing agony in her head drowning out sound, wiping away thoughts and memories. For a moment she knew nothing but darkness, nothing but pain, and then she knew it all.
Three men breaking down the door to the hotel room, dragging Magdalena Romero away. Jenna following, screaming for help as she tried to save her friend. Both of them being shoved into a van and driven for hours before being dumped into a basement room.
Had they been there days or hours before the men had returned? Jenna wasn't sure, she only knew that she and Magdalena had fought for freedom.
Fought and lost.
For Jenna, there had been a moment of agony, and then nothing.
Until now.
Jenna tried to move her arms and legs, tried to call out, but the bonds were too tight, the rag over her mouth oily and old. She gagged, her heart racing with terror, her fingers scratching against dirt-covered cement as she tried to gain leverage and mobility. She twisted onto her side, trying to shimmy closer to the area where she'd last seen Magdalena. Was she still there? Or had she been taken?
Please, God, let her still be here.
A sound drifted through the darkness. Fabric rustling as someone moved. Soft footfalls on cement.
Jenna tensed, her eyes straining in the darkness. She saw nothing, not even a hint of light or movement, but the blackness seemed to pulse with energy. Someone was there. She felt what she could not see, and she braced for the attack she knew was coming.
A humid breeze tickled her cheeks, carrying a hint of rain and the dusty, thick scent of sun-baked earth. Was a door open? A window?
She needed to get her numb hands moving, try to undo the heavy rope that bound her. Only then would she have a chance at survival. She shifted, hoping to ease the pressure on her arms, get some blood flowing to her fingers. She could do this. She would.
The sound came again. Closer. Maybe only feet away, then right beside her. The air alive with it. Someone touched her neck—warm, dry fingers probing the pulse point there—and Jenna jerked back.
Or tried to.
Her movements were sluggish, the retreat nothing more than a subtle recoiling of muscle.
"It's okay. I'm here to help." The voice was as deep and velvety as the darkness, but Jenna didn't believe the lie. She wanted to kick and punch and claw her way to freedom, but her body would not respond, and she could do nothing but lie still as hands slid down her arms, felt the rope around her wrists.
"I'm going to use a knife to cut you free, Jenna. Hold still. Your brother will have my hide if I hurt you."
Her brother?
Kane? Had their folks called him when she hadn't made her Monday evening phone call?
She tried to ask, but the gag kept her from speaking, and she choked on the oily cloth.
A hand smoothed her hair, the cold blade of a knife pressing close to her head for just a second before the gag fell away.
"I—" she started, but her mouth was dry, her throat tight, and she could do nothing but suck in great gulps of humid air until she thought she would drown in it.
"Shhhhh. Whatever needs to be said can be said when we're out of here." He spoke quietly, his hand gentle on her cheek. There and gone as he bent over her wrists, sliced through the ropes. Her ankles were next, and then she was free but not free, her body still numb from hours spent tied up.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes." If it meant escaping, she could do anything. She pushed against the floor, struggled to her knees.
His arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her upright. "Come on. We may be on borrowed time."
"I can't leave my friend," Jenna rasped out. "Magdalena?"
"There's no one here. Just us."
"She was here. She has to still be here." Jenna took a step away, her legs trembling, sharp pain shooting up from her feet as the blood began flowing there again.
"There's no one here. Let's go before that changes."
"It's dark. Maybe if we find a light…"
"What did you say?" He put a hand on her shoulder, holding her still.
"We need to turn on the light."
Fabric rustled and hands cupped her cheeks.
"What can you see, Jenna?"
She wanted to shove his hands away, tell him that they had more to worry about than what she could or couldn't see, but something in his tone held her motionless. "Nothing."
"No shadows? No light?"
"No."
"It's broad daylight. There's light spilling in from the window I climbed in through. You can't see it?"
She went cold at his words, everything within her stilling.
And then she reached up, touched her eyes, not sure what she expected to feel. What she hoped to feel. Maybe a blindfold. Something that would be blocking the light. But there was nothing.
"I can't see anything."
"You've got a deep bruise on your forehead. Maybe that has something to do with it." His fingers traced a line from the bridge of her nose to her hairline, probing the tender flesh there.
"It doesn't matter how it happened. I'm blind!" She could feel herself panicking, feel the breath catching in her throat, her mind spinning away.
"Hey, it's okay. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly." He laid his palm against her cheek again, let it rest there as she tried to catch her breath.
"No. It's not."
"Yeah. It is. You're alive, and you're going to stay that way. We'll worry about the rest after we're out of here."
He was right.
She needed to calm down, get a handle on her emotions the same way she had the day she'd been told she had cancer and had less than a year to live. She'd fought that diagnosis, and she'd won. This was simply another battle, another challenge.
"Okay. I'm okay," she managed to say, even though she wasn't sure it was true.
"I knew you were. Now, let's get out of here and get you to a hospital." There was a hint of an accent to his voice, but Jenna couldn't place it.
"We have to find Magdalena first." She pulled away, turning around in a circle, the darkness suddenly deeper, more oppressive. She was blind, and that was something she couldn't think about. Not if she was going to help her friend and herself.
"I told you, she's not here."
"Then they took her. We have to figure out where they brought her." She took a step, her arms out in front of her as she tried to navigate her way through the blackness.
"How? Who would we ask? The men who beat you? We don't know what happened to your friend. Maybe she's alive. Maybe she's not. What we know is that you are alive, and if you're going to stay that way, we've got to get out of here."
Maybe she's alive.
Maybe she's not.
The words slammed into Jenna's already pounding head. She and Magdalena had met in college and become good friends. Jenna had been Magdalena's maid of honor when she'd gotten married and had been on hand for the birth of her son three years ago. When Jenna was diagnosed with leukemia, Magdalena had left her busy Houston medical practice and flown to New York to be by her side.
They weren't just friends; they were sisters.
And there was no way Jenna was going to leave Mexico without her.
She yanked away from her rescuer's hold and ran, arms stretched out, feeling through the darkness. Her feet tangled in something, and she tripped, momentum carrying her forward too quickly for her sluggish body to compensate. She went down hard, her hands and knees sliding across concrete, pain stabbing up her arms.
Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she didn't have the strength to wipe them away. Didn't have the strength to get up and run again.
She caught a whiff of leather and mint, felt a warm palm brush the moisture from her cheeks, the touch so tender and light, so filled with compassion that more tears burned behind her eyes.
"You're in no condition to hunt for your friend. Do you see that now?" His voice rumbled through the darkness, steely and hard, much different from the gentleness of his touch.
Jenna stiffened, struggled to her feet, wishing she had the strength to prove him wrong. "You've made your point."
"I don't have a point. I have a goal, and that's to get you back home alive."
"What about Magdalena? She's got a little boy." All Jenna had was a black cat named Dante who came and went as he pleased.
"I know."
"Then leave me here and go find her. I'll be safe enough until—"
"Shh. Someone is upstairs." He pressed a finger to her lips, and she froze, listening as a floorboard creaked above her head.
"We need to get out of here. Come on." He swooped her up, carrying her across the room and setting her down again almost before she realized what he was doing.
"There's a window high up on the wall. I'll climb out, make sure the area is secure and then pull you through. Okay? " He whispered against her ear, his breath ruffling her hair.
There was a whisper of noise, and she knew she was alone again.
A minute ticked by. Then another.
Or maybe just seconds had passed, the darkness and ominous silence stretching each second into minutes, each minute into hours.
Floorboards creaked again, the sound reverberating through the tomblike basement.
Would the door fly open?
Would men pound down the stairs and haul Jenna away, just as they had Magdalena?
She reached forward and touched cement blocks, ran her palms up the rough surface, unwilling to wait another second for her rescuer to pull her through the window. Splintered wood dug into the palm of her hand, but she didn't pull back.
The windowframe. It had to be.
It was high. Maybe two feet above her head, but not so high that she couldn't manage to pull herself up and out. She felt along the wood with both hands, running her palms to the edge of the frame and as high as she could on either side. It was large enough to escape through, and she boosted herself up, ignoring the pain as slivers of wood pierced her skin.
If there was broken glass, she didn't feel it as she maneuvered her shoulders through the opening, felt hot sun bathe her face and realized her mistake. Was she at ground level? Or higher? Was anyone watching her escape? Was her rescuer standing nearby, or had he run?
She didn't know, but she was fully committed to her escape, and she wasn't going to back down now. She reached forward, trying to feel the ground, and shrieked as someone grabbed her hand.
"Shh. Do you want whoever's hanging out in that house to come after us?" her rescuer hissed.
"You could have warned me you were there."
"I was trying to maintain silence for the safety of both of us." He grabbed her other hand, tugged gently. "The ground is two inches below you. Come on. Let's get moving."
He gave another tug and Jenna maneuvered the rest of the way out the window. Humid air enveloped her, filling her nose with the scent of sun-baked earth and rotting garbage. Somewhere in the distance, people were talking or arguing, their rapid-fire Spanish beyond what Jenna was able to understand. Aside from that, the day was silent. No hum of traffic. No roar of buses. Nothing like the bustling Mexican border town where Jenna and Magdalena had been working with Team Hope.
"Where are we?" she whispered, as her rescuer urged her forward.
"Santo Trista. It's twenty miles from the border. Now, how about we stay quiet until we're in my car and out of here? I don't like the feel of things."
Neither did Jenna.
As a matter of fact, every hair on the back of her neck was standing on end.
Somewhere behind them, a voice called out, the Spanish words faint and unintelligible.
Her rescuer tensed, his hand tightening on Jenna's. She could feel him shifting position. Was he looking for the source, searching for some sign of what was to come?
A loud crack split the silence, and Jenna screamed, the sound cut off as she was lifted, thrown over a shoulder. Her head bounced against warm leather, the jarring motion only adding to the throbbing agony in her head.
They were moving fast, and she could hear her rescuer's steady, deep breaths as he covered ground. He was in shape, she'd give him that, but Jenna doubted that was going to be enough to save them. Another sharp crack, and something whizzed by so close that Jenna felt it slice through the air.
She wanted to scream. Would have screamed, but her throat was too tight with fear.
Please, God, please.
The prayer was only half-formed when her rescuer skidded to a stop, shifted her weight. "In. Quick."
He slid her down in front of him, and she reached out blindly, her hands sliding against warm leather seats as her rescuer urged her to move.
And she did. Crawling onto the leather seat, barely managing to move aside as he climbed in after her. The engine roared to life, and the vehicle jerked forward, picking up speed at an alarming rate.
"Get down!" He shouted the order as he pressed a hand against her back, forcing her to lean forward, her head slamming into something as she went. Pain wiped away all thought, and for a moment she floated in darkness, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. Glass shattered, dragging her from the edge of unconsciousness, pulling her back into reality.
She tried to sit up but was pressed back down as the car continued to accelerate, the tires spinning as her rescuer took another sharp turn. Jenna flew sideways, banging into the door and bouncing back again. She gripped the seat, her fingers digging into soft leather.
Had she escaped the basement so that she could die in a fiery crash?
Please, God, get me out of this alive.
The prayer filled her mind as the car took another sharp turn. She lost her grip on the seat, flew into the door again, her shoulder hitting first, her head following. Pain exploded through her and she felt a brief moment of panic, and then she felt nothing at all.
Nikolai Jansen had survived enemy fire in Afghanistan and a roadside bomb in Iraq. He didn't plan to die twenty miles from the U.S. border during what should have been an easy assignment.
He took a sharp left, smiling grimly as the squeal of tires and the sound of shattering glass filled the car. The old truck that had been following hadn't been able to make the turn.
Good.
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January 27, 2011
Excerp - Betrayal in the Badlands by Dana Mentink
Betrayal in the Badlandsby
Dana Mentink
Isabel Ling returned to the barren Badlands of South Dakota to bury her sister—but she stayed to find answers no one wants to give. Cassie's death was no accident, and Isabel will find the killer, no matter what she has to do. And no matter who stands in her way.
The one thing former pararescue soldier Logan Price wants is to avoid the kind of trouble Isabel brings. Yet he can't deny his attraction to her. In this desolate, treacherous land, Isabel needs all the protection she can get—and all the love that Logan can give.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The dead quiet made Isabel Ling's skin prickle. In less than an hour the sun would set and she'd be all alone on this road, a good forty minutes from town and another half hour from Mountain Cloud Ranch. She couldn't stop the thought that rose in her mind as she wrestled with the flat tire. Was it a spot like this where her sister died not three weeks ago? A lizard darted under her truck, causing her to drop the lug nuts.
She chided herself as she retrieved them from the dust. "You're thirty-two years old, Is. Not some scared teenager. No one is going to hurt you here." Gritting her teeth she heaved the new tire from the trunk and began to wrestle it onto the axle, ignoring the ache in her head. It was not the time for another attack. She had nothing else with her, not so much as one piece of hard candy, so going unconscious from her hypoglycemia was not an option.
"Need a hand?"
Isabel yelped and whirled around, losing her grip on the tire. She found herself staring into the tanned face of a stranger. He wore a baseball cap with the Air Force logo embroidered on it. His hair was crew-cut style and his chin shadowed in stubble. Perspiration glistened on his forehead and darkened his tank top. Isabel saw her own scared face mirrored back at her in his sunglasses, until he removed them.
She closed her mouth and lifted her chin, willing her knees to stop shaking. "I didn't hear your car."
He shrugged, breathing hard. "I'm out for a run."
She tried not to gape. "In this heat?"
The green of his eyes were a startling burst of color in his browned face. "Good for the soul. Where are you headed?"
Something about his voice was familiar. She wiped a hand across her brow to buy time. "Mountain Cloud Ranch."
His smile wavered. "Cassie Reynolds's ranch? Are you related?"
"We are—were sisters. I'm Isabel Ling."
"Logan Price." He rested his hands on his hips. "I knew Cassie."
The tension in her stomach grew as the pieces fell into place. "Oh, yes. You called to see if you should finish the work on the ranch."
He looked down for a moment. "I hope that was okay. I didn't mean to bother you. I hate leaving a job unfinished."
He had sounded kind on the phone, with a voice that was uncannily familiar, but she'd suspected that his call was motivated by the desire to be paid for his work. Now here he was, and he probably knew more about Cassie than she did.
Since Isabel had run away from home at sixteen, she had only exchanged six letters with her sister. Six ridiculously small pieces of paper, instead of the volumes they should have shared. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look him in the eye, feeling again a stab of familiarity she could not explain.
He raised an eyebrow. "Are you taking care of Mountain Cloud?"
Isabel shot him a tight smile. "Looks that way. I think I'd better get this tire on."
"Let me help you." He bent to take the lug wrench from her hand, muscled shoulders gleaming in the sunlight.
"No, thanks. I can do it."
"I'm sure you can. I'd be happy to help. You look tired."
Isabel stepped between him and the tire. "I appreciate it, but I don't need help."
He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. "Okay. Do you have a phone?"
She pulled the new satellite phone from her pocket. He took it.
"Nice phone."
"Thanks." She was still smarting over having to buy it at the airport after she lost track of her other one. She wished her checking account total was as hefty as the balance on her credit card.
He punched a few buttons and handed it back, long fingers brushing hers.
"I programmed in my cell number, just in case you need it. I really am sorry about your sister." After another searching look, he turned and ran back down the road, long legs moving easily over the scorched ground.
Isabel watched until he was out of sight. She finished fixing the flat, wondering if Logan knew more than he was telling about things. The suspicious look on his face had been evident in spite of his warm smile.
She brushed the gravel off the knees of her jeans. Maybe he was simply a kind-hearted guy, on a Good Samaritan mission. He could be just what he seemed, her wariness only a product of her past and guilt over not knowing her own sister.
Remember Rawley, Isabel. Remember what happened with him.
She shivered at the thought, the tiny throb in her hand reminding her of the kind of pain misplaced trust can bring. She repeated her hard-earned wisdom again, to cement it more firmly into her brain.
Never trust a stranger.
She recalled the flash of Logan's green eyes. Especially a handsome one.
Logan ran faster, the sweat pouring off him in a tide of heat. So Isabel was Cassie's sister. He should have known, in spite of the different last names. They both had the same dark hair and delicate Asian features.
His earlier conversation on the phone with Isabel had stuck with him for an inexplicable reason. The honest emotion in her voice when she talked of her sister awakened something in him. He didn't think honesty and emotion went together, in view of his past experiences. He had a divorce certificate to prove it.
While Cassie had been exuberant and impulsive, Isabel seemed different. Maybe it was grief over her sister's accident, but his gut told him it was more. She was scared of something or someone.
He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice the strange play of light until the pain in his ankle forced him to a walk. He froze. A glint, the barest moment of light that shone from the cover of a cluster of spruce trees in the distance. He knew it instinctively. It was the gleam of sunlight bouncing off binocular lenses.
His pulse accelerated a notch, and he had to force himself not to seek cover and get a bead on the enemy.
You're not on a mission anymore, Logan.
When the odd glint did not repeat, he decided it was probably a kid playing, enjoying the last few days of August before school started up again. Still, the tingle of unease remained with him down the mountain, all the way to his truck and during the drive to his condo.
The ungainly pounding of Tank's approach brought a smile to Logan's face when he entered the gated yard. How had this nutty dog twined itself around his heart so completely?
In a way, it was a good thing that Bill couldn't keep him anymore. It was the only positive thing about his friend's extended absence, as far as he could see. The broad-shouldered rottweiler galloped up and threw himself on his back for a belly rub, as if he hadn't seen Logan in months. He tossed the rubber ball for his eager pet. When they lay tired out on the grass, his mind returned to the lonely mountain road.
The standoffish Isabel Ling had arrived as suddenly as a mountain storm. She was wary, reserved, as she had been on the phone, but his unease began before, when he had first arrived on Cassie's property with his backhoe. It was nothing he could point to directly, no outward sign of danger. A feeling had crept up on him as he'd started work, as if someone was watching from behind the trees. Watching and waiting.
His instincts shouted the same message when he'd seen the glint of binoculars earlier.
It must be a by-product of his training, a remnant of the dire situations he'd found himself in during his six years in pararescue. Was it simple paranoia?
He'd learned long ago, on the bloody sands of Takur Ghar, to trust his instincts.
But women were an entirely different breed of danger.
What were his instincts telling him about Isabel Ling? He could sum it up in one word.
Trouble.
Isabel finally rounded the last turn as the sun set, plunging the ranch into eerie darkness. In the distance, towers of rock jutted out like clawed fingers against the sky. She hadn't realized her sister's property was so close to the fabled Badlands. Isabel hadn't ever seen Mountain Cloud, the place Cassie bought after their father's death four years before. She hoped it had been a healing place for Cassie. She deserved it after caring for their father, who had shredded the family into unmendable tatters with his drinking and rage, the horrible depression that gripped him when his business had failed along with his wife's health.
Not completely unmendable, Isabel reminded herself, thinking of the letters. The thought made her throat thicken with tears.
She'd made a stumbling step toward reconciliation after far too many years and Cassie had been receptive, or so Isabel thought. The hope that Cassie had forgiven her desertion lifted Isabel out of the despair that had seemed inescapable. Though Isabel had never forgiven her father, refusing to even keep his last name, maybe she and Cassie could have put the past behind and started fresh.
A tear trickled down her cheek. Too late. Why had she waited until it was too late? The quickening wind drew her back to the present, bringing with it a wall of clouds that seemed to press the air down around her in a hot blanket. Though she should have been exhausted from her flight and the seemingly endless drive, her nerves tingled.
Living in Los Angeles meant being surrounded by people, noise and unending business.
Here there was only the wind rattling the dry leaves and the lonely hum of some hidden insect.
The wood-sided cabin beckoned, and Isabel wanted nothing more than to run inside and lock the door. Instead she dropped her bag on the steps and headed for the corral and adjacent barn. Six horses stood quietly, watching her approach, whinnying softly.
"Hey, fellas. Glad to finally meet you." She let herself into the corral and kept a respectful distance. Her horsemanship skills were rusty, leftover from summers spent at her uncle's place. One thing she did remember was that horses didn't like surprises, especially horses rescued from abuse and neglect, as these had been. Keeping up a steady stream of conversation, she checked to see that the water trough was filled as she made her way to the barn.
She was pleased and surprised to find the barn clean, stalls mucked out and fresh bedding on the floor. It must be the work of Cassie's hired hand, John. A soft snuffle made her start. Off in the corner, almost lost in the shadows, was a horse unlike the others. He was smoke-black with a streak of white between his eyes. A thick mane flowed over his wide shoulders. He danced nervously when she took a step toward him, but did not back away.
"Hello there." She could not take her eyes from the powerful lines of the horse. "You must be Blue Boy. Cassie sent me your picture." She felt instinctively that he must be the one that had thrown Cassie to her death. She should despise the animal, but she couldn't, not when she knew how much her sister had loved the beautiful creature.
The horse continued to shift around, the straw crackling under his well-tended hoofs. Blue Boy's coat was glossy and smooth, marred only by the scar that circled his front leg. "It looks like someone has been taking good care of you." She held out her hand, fingers outstretched, and Blue Boy allowed a quick stroke to his muzzle. "We'll be getting to know each other better," she whispered as she backed out of the stall, Blue Boy's dark eyes fixed on hers.
The first drops of rain splattered on her face as she exited the corral and hurried toward the house. She wasn't sure how she would get in if the door was locked, but fortunately it swung open under her hand. The interior was dark and stifling, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.
Isabel grabbed her bag and started into the house.
Before she made it over the threshold, a loud flap of wings erupted from the nearby trees as an owl shot out of the canopy with an alarmed cry.
She froze in terror.
It's just an owl.
The thought comforted her for only a moment. But what was hidden in the silent woods that had startled it into flight?"
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January 26, 2011
Excerpt - Into the Deep by Virginia Smith
Into the DeepBy
Virginia Smith
When Ben Dearinger got hold of a flash drive carrying deadly secrets, the scuba diver did the only thing he could. He buried it—fathoms deep. Now a drug cartel wants the evidence back, and they're willing to threaten Ben's ex-girlfriend Nikki Hoffman to get it. Although Nikki caused him no end of heartache, forgetting her has been impossible, and Ben would risk anything to protect her. But what will he do when he discovers her secret—that he's the father of her child?"
Excerpt of chapter one:
March 22
Key West, Florida
Double rows of razor-sharp teeth gleamed wickedly beneath a dead black eye. Nikki Hoffman could almost feel the chilly waters around her, the current pushing her toward powerful jaws.…
"You wanna get up close and personal with a shark?"
Startled, Nikki tore her attention from the collage of photos tacked to a bulletin board and whirled around. A swimsuit-clad surfer dude, tanned and bare chested, had appeared from a back room of the small shop she'd just entered, apparently alerted to her presence by the jangle of bells on the front door. He flashed a blinding white grin that contained more teeth than the sharks in the underwater pictures she'd been studying.
"For a hundred bucks, I can teach you how to scuba dive and take you to a wreck where the sharks hang out." The grin became a leer. "Private lesson. You'd get my personal attention."
Nikki suppressed a shudder. Sharks gave her the creeps. Especially the ones with two legs and an agenda that had nothing to do with salt water. She'd met plenty like this guy when she had lived in Cozumel.
With an effort, she pushed the thought from her mind. She'd made a promise to herself to look forward during this vacation, not backward. That was one promise she intended to keep.
"Thanks, but I gave up diving a couple of years ago." She unzipped the fanny pack that undoubtedly marked her as the tourist she was and fished through the contents. "I have a coupon here for a free sailing excursion."
"Free?" The guy's shoulders heaved with a laugh. "I don't think so. The bosses don't give anything away for free."
"This is Key West Water Adventures, isn't it?" Nikki glanced around the shop, looking for a sign. "This coupon is for a free excursion of my choice, up to a $100 value."
She pulled out the coupon and placed it on the counter. He examined it without picking it up.
Now that she looked at it again, this coupon didn't resemble the others in the welcome packet she'd received when she checked in to the time-share condo a few hours ago. It was just a black-and-white sheet of paper that might have been printed on a laser printer. But the logo at the top was identical to the one that adorned the sign hanging above the store's front door.
"Yeah, that's us, but I've never—" His gaze fixed on something over Nikki's shoulder and the confusion cleared from his face. "There's the boss now. You can ask him."
Nikki turned and looked through the window. The shop lay midway down an L-shaped pier that stretched like a wooden finger into the bay. Beyond it, the mouth of the bay opened out into the blue Atlantic. Sunlight sparkled off the water's surface, momentarily blinding her. She blinked and caught sight of a boat moving slowly toward the end of the pier. A flag on top waved in the breeze, red with a white diagonal slash. The sight of the rippling silk sent a surprising wave of longing through her, so strong it halted her breath for a few heartbeats. A scuba flag.
Those days are long gone. And he's gone with them.
Swallowing back the surge of emotion, she snatched the coupon off the counter. "Thanks, I will."
Outside, the humid heat slapped at her with an open palm. The breeze carried a distinctive odor, a blend of salt and fish as familiar to Nikki as the smell of cookies baking in her mother's kitchen in Portland. She paused outside the shop and filled her lungs with the scent of the ocean. Many of the slips on the dock were empty, the boat owners probably enjoying this beautiful Friday afternoon. The wooden pier creaked as the remaining boats bobbed gently in the water, rocked by the gentle motion of this inlet. The scuba boat glided to a halt some distance away. She lowered the sunglasses from their resting place on top of her head and made her way toward the pier's end.
When the boat had been secured, two couples climbed onto the dock lugging scuba equipment and beach towels. They laughed and chattered as they shouldered bulky bags and headed in her direction. Music blasted from speakers on the boat. Jimmy Buffett, appropriately enough.
"Good dive?" she asked when they approached.
"Great dive," answered one guy with a wide grin. "We saw an eight-foot moray eel."
The girl walking beside him shoved his shoulder. "What a fish story. It was not eight feet long. But what about that school of yellow-striped fish? Does anybody know what kind they were?"
Then they were past, their voices carrying to Nikki as she neared the boat. The two men inside had their backs to her as they tidied up the deck. One picked up a weight belt and ducked into the cabin as the song ended. A few seconds later, Jimmy began singing about grapefruit and Juicy Fruit.
The second guy straightened and caught sight of her. "Hey, how's it going?"
"Fine." She spared him a smile. "Are you the owner?"
"I'm one of them." He shielded his eyes with a hand. "What can I do for you?"
Nikki extended the coupon toward him. "I dropped by to make a reservation for a sailing excursion with this coupon, but the guy in the shop didn't seem to know anything about it."
He glanced at it. "You're staying at the Pelican Resort, right?"
"That's right."
He unhooked a dive tank from its holder, nodding as he spoke. "Someone called and bought a gift certificate over the phone yesterday and had us deliver it to the Pelican. My partner took the call and told me about it. We don't sell many gift certificates."
Allison. A smile stole across Nikki's lips at the thought of her generous friend. As if letting Nikki use her family's time-share at no charge wasn't a generous enough birthday present.
The second man emerged from the cabin carrying a pair of fins. Nikki caught a glimpse of his profile as he crossed the deck in two long strides, then bent to store them beneath the bench.
"That must have been my friend," Nikki told the first man. "So, when can I—"
Shock snatched the rest of her question out of her mouth. For a second that lasted a lifetime, her world skidded to a halt.
She knew that profile.
Ben? Here?
Panic slammed her in the stomach, robbing her breath. A single, frenzied thought pulsed in her brain and catapulted her feet into action.
I can't let him see me.
She whirled and ran.
Even before his mind could fully register her presence, Ben jerked upright, his body reacting to the oh-so-familiar timbre of her voice.
Nikki.
It had been over two years, but he would recognize the woman running down the dock even if it had been forty. Her long legs, the familiar curve where her shoulders met her slender neck, even the way she ran with her hands pumping at her sides.
He dropped the fins, leaped from the boat to the dock and sprinted after her.
"Nikki, stop!"
She kept running. Ben kicked up his speed, ignoring the startled looks he collected from two men cleaning the morning's catch on the dock beside their boat. Pain raked his bare feet as they pounded the rough wood. She reached the edge of the pier and hesitated before turning toward town. Just a moment's hesitation, but it was enough. Ben overtook her before she'd gone five steps in that direction.
"Hold up a minute, will you?" He grabbed her arm and jerked them both to a stop, then stood panting and looking down into her face.
She'd changed. The smile lines at the corners of her mouth had deepened, and he saw the beginning of creases at the edges of the eyes she kept averted from him. She was a few pounds heavier, but the extra weight only softened the sharp angles he remembered. In Mexico, he'd fallen in love with a carefree girl, but the girl had grown up. Matured. She was a woman now.
A beautiful woman.
Her shoulders drooped with a nearly imperceptible sigh, and she raised her eyes to meet his. "Hello, Ben."
"Hello?" He vented a sudden surge of anger with a bitter laugh. "That's all you have to say after two-and-a-half years?"
A pause, and then her lips tightened. "I could say let go of me, instead." Her voice snapped with the spunk he remembered so well.
She jerked her arm away, and he realized he'd been gripping her so hard his fingers left red splotches. He started to apologize, but couldn't force the words out. If anybody owed anyone an apology here, it wasn't him. She'd packed up and left Cozumel while he was out on a dive. He had come home in the evening to find her clothes gone, the apartment somehow hollow and empty even though all the furniture remained. Her note gave no explanation, just two words—Goodbye. Nikki.
He tried to shove his hands in his pockets, realized he was wearing swim trunks, and folded them across his chest instead. "What are you doing in Key West, Nikki?"
Her eyes darted around as though searching for an appropriate answer. Then she lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. "I'm on vacation. Just got in a couple of hours ago. I'm, uh, sorry for running like that. It was a shock. I wasn't expecting to see anyone I know." The brief smile she turned on him didn't reach her eyes. The polite smile of a stranger. She gestured toward his shirt, which bore the logo for Key West Water Adventures. "So, you live here now?"
The disappointment that surged through him at her impersonal conversation surprised him. So that's the way she was going to play out this awkward meeting. Polite. A chance encounter between two former friends.
Okay. Fine with him.
"Yeah, I moved here a few months ago."
"Still diving, I see." Was that a reference to their last argument, the one about settling down and becoming responsible? Though the afternoon air was warm, it seemed to Ben he was caught in a bubble of frigid air, one that surrounded him and this stranger he once knew so well.
He flipped his hands out, palms up. "Of course. You know me. I can't give it up."
She tilted her head and the sun glinted off her sunglasses. "I didn't think you'd ever leave Mexico."
A shudder threatened at the memory of his last fearful days in Cozumel. Ben pushed it away and awarded Nikki a tight smile. He certainly wasn't going into his reasons for leaving. Not here. Not with her.
"The pay's better here," he said briefly, then changed the subject. "What about you? Where do you live now?"
"I moved back home to Oregon." Her gaze drifted sideways, as though planning her escape route. "I work for a finance company there."
"Sounds interesting." Actually, it sounded unutterably boring and normal. But that's what she said she wanted over two years ago during that last, heated argument. A normal life. He caught a flash of gold from a cross hanging around her neck. So, she hadn't gotten over her religious phase yet. He hesitated before asking the question that had plagued him periodically over the years. "Are you married? Have kids?"
She wrapped her arms around her middle, a clear signal that the question was unwelcome. The muscles in her slender throat moved as she swallowed. "I'm not married, no."
The wave of triumph that surged through him took him by surprise. She hadn't found everything she'd been looking for when she left, then. His heart suddenly and inexplicably lighter, Ben combed a hand through his hair. "Look, I've got to get back and help unload the boat. But how about if I take you to dinner?"
For a minute he thought she would agree. She hesitated, her lips parting. Then she closed them again and shook her head. "I, uh, have plans."
"Lunch, then. I'll get someone to cover the morning dive." He cocked his head and pasted on the smile that used to melt her resolve. "It'll give us a chance to catch up. I want to know what's happening in your life."
For a moment, something darkened her eyes, like a shadow of the feelings they'd once shared. But in the next instant, a door slammed shut in her face. The polite stranger's smile returned.
"Thanks, but I don't think that's a good idea." She took a backward step. "It was good to see you, though, Ben. Goodbye."
He was still trying to come up with some way to counter her obvious dismissal when she turned and walked away. Quickly, as though she couldn't wait to get away from him.
At least she'd said goodbye in person this time.
Nikki's back burned. She could feel his eyes on her as she hurried away. The clip-clop of her sandals changed tone as she stepped off the wooden dock and onto the street. She didn't dare glance backward, but her ears strained to hear footsteps coming after her. Would he follow?
Please, God, don't let him follow me.
Pain throbbed in her chest, a dull ache that she'd thought was long gone. Just like she thought her feelings for Ben had finally faded. Oh, she'd never forget him, that was a given. How could she, when his face loomed in her mind every day? But she'd really thought she'd gotten over her feelings for him. Or at least, wrapped them up and stored them in the deep recesses of her heart, where they couldn't hurt her anymore. One look at him, and she knew she'd been lying to herself.
Which made it even more important that she get away from him. Her heart was no longer her own. It belonged to Joshua now.
And she would never tell Ben about the son he didn't know existed.
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January 25, 2011
Excerpt - Critical Impact by Linda Hall
Critical Impact by
Linda Hall
The bomb wasn't supposed to be real. But the mock-disaster explosion to test emergency procedures killed two people in a small Maine town. And all evidence points to shy makeup artist Anna Barker as the prime suspect. When Deputy Sheriff Stu McCabe is assigned to investigate the case, Anna hopes he'll prove her innocent. But with a harrowing past of his own, Stu seems to trust no one. Something that might save both their lives when the real killer plans to make critical impact—again.
Excerpt of chapter one:
When Anna Barker reached out to open the heavy wooden door of City Hall, she was hurled backward in a blinding flash and a crush of ear-rupturing noise.
It happened fast. One second she was carrying her grande latte, her large stage makeup bag and several books of photographs, and trying to avoid the leering glances of the mayor, the next she was flattened on the ground beside the building, nose pressed into the grass.
She lay there, stunned. She didn't move, couldn't. At first nothing hurt. And then everything did. Her left arm was sprawled next to her body and her other hand was up next to her face. She felt a burning on her neck and shoulders. She raised her hand to check the liquid. Blood? No. Hot coffee. She could tell by the smell of it. She had spilled her coffee.
A spasm of coughs rattled her chest. She spat out some dirt. That small exertion sent coils of pain through her core. She took tiny breaths—deep ones hurt—and tried to steady herself. Everything around her was noiseless, still and surreal. It was like she had been cast into some deep, suffocating cave. She opened her eyes and was filled with a horrid sense of terror. She couldn't hear herself cough. She felt, but didn't hear, the groans that welled up from inside her. She blinked and the movement hurt. She was confused. Where was she? What had just happened?
Gingerly, she tried to take stock of her surroundings. She was lying on a patch of lawn in front of the City Hall building in Shawnigan, Maine. Anna's brain told her to rise, to get up, to run, but the rest of her body would not respond.
She tried to remember. First, she had been walking up toward City Hall, then the mayor had come, accosted her and finally gone in ahead of her. Next thing she knew there had been that thunderous sound and bursting light. And she had ended up here. Could it have been the bomb? It had to be the bomb. But no, the bomb for the mock disaster wasn't scheduled until tomorrow. And it wasn't going to be a real bomb, anyway. Just smoke and noise. A simulation.
Maybe something about the bomb had gone terribly wrong.
Her throat was raw and she forced herself to move her head, cast a backward glance toward the building she had almost entered. All she saw was bricks, gray stones and rubble. Where was Mayor Johnny Seeley? He'd been just ahead of her. And earlier two of her esthetics students, Hilary and Claire, had gone inside. She had come early to talk with Hilary. Were they somewhere in all that rubble? Were they okay?
Her eyes felt scratchy. Why was everything blurry? She guessed that her contact lenses must have come out in the blast. She raised her head.
People were running toward her, climbing over shattered pieces of the fountain that used to be in front of City Hall. Splashing through the water that gushed from its broken facade. Through hazy eyes she saw the lights of police cars. She shifted her gaze and saw the back of a broad-shouldered man in a red shirt leaning over and gesturing to a woman. Her hand was raised and she appeared to be holding something. Were they looking at her? She wished she could see better.
Was that…? No. It couldn't be! Was it Peter? Had he followed her to Maine? No! She squinted and tried to clear her gritty vision. She turned away, lest he see her, come for her…
She needed to get up, scramble away from this place. Away from him. But she couldn't move her body.
Help me! God, help me!
In the opposite direction from where Peter was, she saw a man running toward her, his hands cupped around his mouth. He was calling to her, but she couldn't hear a thing.
She looked up in time to see a wall of stone plummet toward her, gray rocks tumbling into each other as they fell, surrounding her, entombing her.
Stu McCabe had been standing beside the hospital auxiliary tent and squirting a line of mustard on his free hot dog when he heard the explosion. Ahead of him, he watched in horror as the entire front of City Hall seemed to fold in on itself.
An earthquake? No. He would have felt an earthquake. People were screaming now and running in all directions. He ran toward the building because he had seen a woman fall. He needed to get to her!
Anna regained consciousness slowly. When she finally did, all she felt was pain. It seared white-hot down her arm and it intensified in her wrist. She was lying flat, the right side of her face pressed against something hard and jagged. Her right arm was pinned.
She groaned, heard nothing but the pounding of her heart and a roaring in her ears. When she opened her eyes, she saw only blurred darkness. She tried to move her head a bit to see where she was, but she trembled with pain, and shook with cold and shock.
She knew she was under rocks and debris, yet somehow, the cascading stones hadn't crushed her. Her torso was being protected by something flat and square. A door? Maybe. She worried that if she moved, even slightly, it would come down and crush her completely. Already she was finding it difficult to breathe. She had to concentrate. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.
She closed her eyes against the pain and inhaled the acrid smell of fire and sulfur. She coughed, and each raspy cough sent hot pain into her chest and across her arm and into her wrist. She felt pain right down to the tips of her fingers. She tried making any small sound she could, but didn't know if she was heard by anyone. She heard only the roaring in her ears.
The thought came to her that she might actually die in here. This was what it was like to be buried alive. She coughed again and finally she prayed.
God, help me to get out of here, but if not, help me not to be afraid.
She prayed this over and over and over. Slowly, she realized that despite everything, she was somehow still breathing. Clean air was getting to her from somewhere. She felt a tiny waft of cool air on the very top of her head. With great effort she moved her eyes to where she could almost see the pinhole between the rocks and rubble. It might be enough to survive. She tried to ignore the grinding pain in her right arm as she turned her face, moved it toward that gap in the rubble and gulped in pure air.
Quietly, she began to sing the new hymn she had learned last week in church about God's protection.
She sensed movement above her and prayed that whatever it was it wouldn't send the piece of flat rock into her chest.
Time passed, but she couldn't tell how much. She kept breathing, and kept thanking God for the gift of air. She drifted in and out of consciousness.
She came awake again when she felt a warm touch on the fingers of her left hand. She opened her eyes and stared up into the face of a man. He was talking to her, but she couldn't hear him. She closed her eyes.
Slowly, one by one, pieces of rock and debris were moved away from her head and then her body. The pain was unbearable when they moved the slab away from her wrist. Tears filled her eyes. She moaned and she blacked out again from the pain.
Every once in a while she would open her eyes. And when she did, she looked up into the man's face. His smile gave her hope.
The trapped woman looked so helpless. When all of the rubble had been painstakingly removed piece by piece, he gently reached down and cupped his hands around her dusty head.
He recognized her. He didn't know her, had never officially met her, but she'd been to some of the planning meetings. If he was not mistaken, she was the one in charge of making the victims of the mock disaster look as real as possible. He winced when one of the EMTs moved the piece of cement from on top of her right hand. It looked crushed. No wonder she was drifting in and out of consciousness with the pain.
Two EMTs placed the stretcher as close as they could to her twisted form. The main thing was to keep her back and neck immobilized. Her eyes were closed, but she was saying something. He bent his head close to her face.
"Yes?" he said.
She wasn't talking. She was humming something.
"You're going to be all right," he told her as he smoothed bits of dust and debris from her hair.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He couldn't help himself. He smiled down at her. As they carried her stretcher past the crowds of people who were beginning to mill about, he kept his eyes on her face. And as he did so, he thought about another woman, a woman he was not able to save from another bomb in another time and place.
He vowed that this time would be different.
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