Camy Tang's Blog, page 159

Excerpt - Digitalis by Ronie Kendig

This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Digitalis Barbour Publishing, Inc.(January 1, 2011) by Ronie Kendig



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ronie has been married since 1990 to a man who can easily be defined in classic terms as a hero. She has four beautiful children. Her eldest daughter is 16 this year, her second daughter will be 13, and her twin boys are 10. After having four children, she finally finished her degree in December 2006. She now has a B.S. in Psychology through Liberty University in Lynchburg, VA. Getting her degree is a huge triumph for both her and her family--they survived!!



This degree has also given her a fabulous perspective on her characters and how to not only make them deeper, stronger, but to make them realistic and know how they'll respond to each situation. Her debut novel, Dead Reckoning released March 2010 from Abingdon Press. And her Discarded Heroes series began in July 2010 from Barbour with the first book entitled Nightshade.



This is the second book in the series.



ABOUT THE BOOK





Step into the boots of a former Marine in this heart-pounding adventure in life and love. Colton "Cowboy" Neeley is a Marine trying to find his footing as he battles flashbacks now that he's back home. Piper Blum is a woman in hiding—from life and the assassins bent on destroying her family. When their hearts collide, more than their lives are at stake. Will Colton find a way to forgive Piper's lies? Can Piper find a way to rescue her father, trapped in Israel? Is there any way their love, founded on her lies, can survive?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Invitation



Invaluable skills came with bloody faces and dead objectives that left Colton Neeley wishing he could rub his eyes raw. Those same skills were the reason Uncle Sam had denied his request for an early exit from his commitment with the Marine Special Operations Command/Team. And the same reason he couldn't muster enthusiasm for his friend who'd been granted his freedom.



"Never thought you'd get out." Colton slumped back against the wood slats of the lawn chair, watching his four-year-old daughter, McKenna. She sat on the fifty-foot dock that stretched over the private pond. She tossed a pink lure-tipped line into the water as his dad helped.



"You and me both." Beside him, his partner and MARSOC buddy Griffin Riddell sat with his elbows propped on his knees. "What about you? Thought you wanted out."



"Denied." The word felt like a weight around his gut. Colton shifted his gaze to the water rippling around Mickey's bobber. "Eleven years wasn't enough for Uncle Sam. Said my sniping and recon skills were too invaluable."



Griffin whistled. "Man, after what you went through in Fallujah, I half expected them to toss you without so much as a thank-you-verymuch." His grunted. "How you doing with that?"



Colton picked up his soda and took a swig. "S'pose I'll be all right." He glanced over at the grill. Probably should get up and flip the meat in a few.



"Two months as a hostage. That don't just disappear, know what I'm saying?"



Oh he knew all right. More than knew. Though Colton didn't want to remember, the mention of that city and what happened snapped faces into his mind like a flickering silent movie, bringing with it phantom pains in his spine and legs.



"What about the flashbacks?"



"Daddy, look!" McKenna's mouse-like voice squeaked as she giggled. With his father next to her, she held up the end of her fishing line. "I caught a seaweed." Another giggle.



"Save it, Mickey," he called toward the pond, where his daughter sat between his mom and dad on the short pier. "We'll grill it."



She batted white-blond hair from her face as her papa took the rod. "Daddy." The cutest scowl tugged at her fair features and blue eyes as she planted her hands on her hips and turned to him. "You can't eat it, silly. It's a weed."



He chuckled as she and his mother baited the line, while his father pointed out that if they'd use real worms, they'd catch something besides weeds. Naturally, Mickey and his mom ewwed out the option.



Though Colton's attention never left his family, the patient, waiting gaze of his buddy burned through Colton's resolve. He shook his head, knowing he wouldn't get out of answering that question. About the flashbacks. Fallujah. The girl. . . "I see that kid's face every day and every time I look at Mickey." The brown eyes. The misinterpreted trust.



Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter. "Started therapy last week." He shrugged, scrounging for hope that this would be over soon. "Like the counselor. Joined an experimental group for a new med—seems to be working."



"Going all the way, huh?"



"I want to be whole. Get out there and play with Mickey and forget that two months of captivity almost paralyzed me, that the hum of a light isn't my brain getting fried." He roughed a hand over his face. "Forget it, man. This is the Fourth. We have a barbecue."



Colton pushed out of his chair and strode to the covered patio, where plumes of heat rose from the gas grill. As he worked the steaks and burgers over the cast-iron grate, he let the tendrils of smoke carry off the depression and haunting images. As the meat finished cooking, he stood in silence, soaking up the laughter of his family and guests, Griffin and his ten-year-old nephew.



Ten minutes later, they gathered under the covered porch to munch on the cooked-to-perfection corn on the cob and meat. Once their bellies were full, they leaned back and sighed as the fans circled lazily overhead.



"Now, that was a meal," Griffin said as he clamped a hand on Dante's shoulder. "You need to learn to cook like that."



Dante grinned. "Yes, sir. Grandpapa would love it."



Gathering plates and dishes, Colton's mother waved them off. "Y'all go on and enjoy your time. Colton, get the sparklers for McKenna and Dante while I clean up."



The blond wonder jumped up and down, squealing. "Yes, Daddy! I love them! Please—please—please?" She threaded her hands in mock prayer.



"All right, darlin'." He rustled her hair. "I'll be right back." He stepped into the dark night and headed to his truck, where he'd left the small bag of sparklers. Reaching behind the front seat, he cocked his head and groped for the fireworks. As his fingers grazed the bag, which scooted farther out of reach, he spotted his Remington 700.



Regret choked him. He paused and leaned against the seat. Hung his head. God. . .please. I just want a clear mind. With a final grunt, he snatched the bag and slammed the door shut on the truck and on his shaky thoughts. "All right, Mickey, here we go."



Bouncing from the back porch toward him, she squealed. "Dante, look, look! Daddy got sparklers and poppers—my favorite."



A noise screeched through the night.



His heart jack-hammered at the familiar sound.



Crack! Boom!



He dove to the side. Hearing hollowed out, he blinked. A dusty road spread before him. Shouts pervaded the Iraqi street. Men darted for cover. Colton scrambled, feeling the weight of his gear on his back.



"Take cover," he shouted to his team as he rushed up against a building. Spine pressed to the wood, he reached for his radio. Gone. He cursed. Under attack and no backup, no airstrike. He searched the street, his mind pinging.



Movement to the side flared into his awareness. Instincts blazed. He grabbed his weapon—but it wasn't there. Oh God, no! He patted the ground, his hearing still muffled by the first IED detonation. Where's my rifle? Where'd it go?



"Cowboy?"



"What?" he shouted, searching for his weapon.



"What're—"



Kaboom! Pop-pop-pop. Multi-colored flashes lit the bloody day. Colton scrambled for cover beside the Humvee. He scoured the dust and smoke for his team. Where were they? He glanced over his shoulder—then remembered the Remington.



As he rushed to the back door of the Humvee, another blast shoved him against the steel. Oof!



"Cowboy!"



Yanking open the door, he noted civilians on the other side of the Humvee and hoped they stayed clear of the violence erupting around them. He didn't need to find another foot—or any other body part— during cleanup. He lifted his weapon and only then realized it was empty.



Sound from behind yanked him around.



A white-haired man rushed toward him.



"Get back!" Without his weapon ready, it'd be hand-to-hand. But he wasn't letting his weapon go. No way would someone find him with his pants down. Not here. He wasn't going to die in Iraq because he didn't have his gun. They did that to the civilian contractors. But not to him, not to a MARSOC sniper.



"What are you doing? Don't do this."



When the haggard man rushed him again, Colton drove a hard right into his face. The old man flew back and slid across the hardpacked earth. Colton quickly eased a slug in and chambered the round.



Crack! Boom! Pop-pop!



He ducked, and when he came up, a girl with wide brown eyes appeared out of the dust. His heart rapid-fired. No. Couldn't be. He'd killed her already. The villagers had used her as a suicide bomber—then captured him and nearly killed him. No way, no how was he going back there so they could drive a thousand volts through his body.



He dropped to a knee and lined up the sights.



The girl drew back and yelped. "I'm scared."



Why was she speaking English? He shrugged. They'd trained the children to gain confidence and intelligence. He'd fallen prey once. Won't happen again.



"Maa-i-khussni, not my problem," he said, all too familiar with the way the radicals worked the American soldiers. Soldiers who were here trying to help.



"Cowboy, it's"—Boom! Crack-crack-pop!—"girl."



"Don't care, man. I'm not letting them take me again." Sweat slid down his temple into his eye. He blinked—



Wait! Her eyes. How had they changed from brown to blue? He shook his head to dislodge the disparity. The heat. Had to be the heat. Using his upper arm, he swiped away the sweat. Realigned the sights. His heart rate ratcheted when more civilians emerged around the girl.



"Ambush!" He lowered his head and peered through the scope. Focused on nailing the shot, holding his position. Considered the elements.



"Colton! No!" a familiar voice shouted.



But they didn't know. Hadn't been there.



"Marine, stand down! Stand down!"



His finger slid into the trigger well.



It's a girl. A little girl.



And they'd used her to get to him, to extract information and kill him. Never again.



Target acquired.



Why are her eyes blue? No, not blue. He was seeing things. They were brown, and he wasn't letting this happen again. No remorse. Gently, he let his finger ease back on the trigger.



Forgive me, Father, he prayed silently, as he did with every kill.



A tremendous weight slammed into him and knocked him sideways. Crack! As the weapon's recoil registered, so did the fact that he'd lost his gun. He went flying. Hit the ground—hard. Thud! Stars sprinkled through his eyes. The edges of his vision ghosted. His ears popped. He howled at the pain. Blinked.



Night? Why was it night?



"Colton!"



Again, he blinked. A man almost as dark as the sky behind him loomed over him. "Legend?" Aches radiated through Colton's body, leaving him disoriented. "What. . . ?"



Screams and cries suffused the night.



Something ominous clouded Legend's face. He straddled Colton, pinning his arms to the sides. "You with me, Cowboy? You here?"



"What are—get off!"



"Where are we?"



"What do you mean?"



"Where are we? Answer me, Marine!"



Qualms squelched by Legend's drill sergeant voice, Colton paused. "My ranch." A horrible, horrible feeling slithered into his gut. The events crashed in on him. The screaming. The little girl in Fallujah. Blue eyes. "No!" Everything in him went cold. For a split second, he locked gazes with Griffin, then jerked his head to the side. Strained to see.



A half-dozen feet away lay his Remington 700. Beyond, his mother and father huddled over—



"McKenna!" The pounding roar of his pulse deafened him.



The small huddle shifted. His parents parted, and Mickey sat up. Colton squirmed, but Griffin held him down. "Get off me now, or so help me God—"



His buddy shoved off and cleared the path. Scrabbling over the dirt drive, Colton pushed the weapon out of reach and dove toward his daughter. When she saw him coming, Mickey screamed—and lunged for his mother.



Her rejection punched him in the gut. He sat, stunned. "Mickey." His voice cracked. He reached for his beautiful, precious four-year-old with a trembling hand.



Liquid blue eyes came to his as his mother let out a sob again, pushed to her feet, and rushed up the steps into the house with McKenna.



Colton dropped back, numb. I almost killed my daughter. A half moan trapped the air in his throat.



"Son?" Blood dribbled down his father's chin.



Did I. . .punch him? Appalled at himself, Colton pushed his father away. Stumbled to his feet. Staggered to the barn. I almost killed my daughter. Arms and legs felt as heavy as cannons. He couldn't tell between reality and the nightmare of captivity. Couldn't tell the difference—he gasped for air—between his own daughter and an insurgent's pawn.



He swayed. The heady scent of the barn lured him inside. How. . . how could he do that? Lose grasp on reality like that? He gripped the half wall of a stall. Gripped it tight. Wood dug into his hands. What's wrong with me? He shook the wall. Shuffled back—and drove his heel through the wood. It splintered and swung inward.



A horse shifted aside and nickered in protest.



Colton spun around and grabbed his head. Anger burned to rage. Seeing Mickey's stricken face. Knowing what he'd almost done. Almost put a sniper bullet through his daughter's tiny frame. The impact alone would have ruptured every major organ in her body.



Colton wobbled. Hot tears streaked down his face. His knees grew weak, and he stumbled. Fell and dragged himself to the wall. With his back against the steel of the barn, he again held his head. A demoniclike growl clawed through his chest. Tears slid over his cheeks.



"God, where are You?" He rammed his elbows into the steel. "Why? Why. . . ?" His fingernails dug into his scalp, wishing he could gouge the memories from his mind. He growled—sobbed. Banged his head. He let out a loud, stuttering moan, still shrouded in disbelief and pure agony.



A hand clamped on his shoulder. Griffin. He'd been the voice in the flashback, ordering him to stand down.



Humiliation cloaked Colton in a suffocating fabric. "I told them. . . ." He groaned. "I told the Brass I had to get out." He smeared the tears away, then wiped his hand down his jeans. "I need time. . . ." The memory of Mickey's terrified expression strangled his words. His chin quivered. "To heal up."



Shoes shuffled and crunched against the dirt and hay.



Colton rubbed his face and shuddered as he looked up. When he saw his partner crouched in front of him, he wanted to say something—anything that would explain how he'd become some monster who couldn't tell the difference between pure innocence and a girl with a bomb strapped to her chest.



Fingers threaded, Griffin took a deep breath, then pointed his fingers at Colton. "I met a man not long ago who can get you out."



Wariness wedged into Colton's ability to believe his partner. "No way. I'm locked in."



"Not only get you out but give you the time you want."



Colton shook his head. "Stop messing with me. I can't take jokes right now."



"No joke." White teeth shone against Griffin's ebony skin as he smiled. "I tell this guy I need you, he'll get you out."



"Need me? For what?"



"I'll give you all the time you need to get your mind back where it should be." Griffin straightened and towered over him. "But then you're going to be part of a very special team.

Excerpt - Under the Marshal's Protection by Kathleen Tailer

Under the Marshal's Protection

by

Kathleen Tailer



Entrap her own brother for a U.S. Marshal? Jessica Blake can't bear the thought, but what choice does she have? It isn't just the marshals who are after Michael. If his co-conspirators in the counterfeiting ring find him first, he won't live long enough to clear his name. And both the U.S. Marshals and the counterfeiters think the best way to get to Michael…is through Jessica. With danger on every side—for herself and for the only family she has left—Jessica has to make a choice. Can she trust U.S. Marshal Dominic Sullivan with her safety, her brother's life…and her heart?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Dominic knocked on the white screen door and took a step back. His eyes swept back and forth between the wide front porch of the aging country home and the spacious yard that surrounded it. An enormous live oak tree dominated the yard, and a wooden swing suspended from the lowest branch swung softly in the breeze. It was summertime in Tallahassee, Florida, and the grass was deep green and fragrant due to all of the recent afternoon rains. Dragonflies darted around the bushes, and a group of yellow butterflies congregated on the ground near the driveway. The setting was picturesque and almost looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.



It would have been a great place to sit and relax, if he wasn't on such an important mission.



Dominic turned and knocked again, bending slightly to see if he could catch a glimpse of anyone at home through the large open window. He didn't hear anything except his own feet making the porch floorboards creak and the soft squeak of the screen door as it moved slightly on its old rusted hinges.



He saw the barrel of the rifle out of the corner of his eye just a split second before he heard the woman's threatening voice coming from the side of the wraparound porch.



"Freeze, buddy."



He turned and raised his hands slowly. A woman dressed in faded jeans, an old burgundy T-shirt and a Florida State baseball cap approached him pointing a rifle straight at his heart. Her eyes were an electrifying blue that seemed to drill right through him. They were angry yet fearful at the same time, and her gaze swept over him very carefully, taking stock of him from head to toe. Her blond hair was pulled back and lay in a long braid down her back, and her lips were set in a thin line of determination. When she spoke, her voice was low and threatening. "You want to explain what you're doing on my front porch?"



Dominic kept his hands up, hoping his passive stance would put the lady at ease. "U.S. Deputy Marshal, ma'am. I just want to ask you a few questions."



The woman's eyes narrowed. "Prove it."



"Okay. I have my badge and ID in my back pocket. Can I reach for it without you shooting me?"



She eyed him warily but finally nodded, keeping the rifle trained on his chest. Dominic could tell she had noticed the 9 mm pistol strapped to his hip and was keeping a close eye on his hands. He slowly reached his right hand behind him and pulled out his ID wallet. He flipped it open and held it up to her.



"Drop it and step back."



Dominic obeyed, considering whether or not it was worth it to try to make a grab for the rifle when she picked up the wallet. Although he was sure he could overpower her and wrench the rifle out of her hands, from the way her eyes were filled with hard, gritty determination, he wasn't entirely certain he could do it without hurting her. He made his decision and took a step back, keeping his hands held high. At this point, it wasn't worth the risk. After all, she wasn't the fugitive he was searching for. She was just the missing man's sister.



He let her get the wallet without incident and watched as she examined his credentials. She looked back and forth between the photo on the ID and his face, her suspicious blue eyes carefully studying his features.



"I think you can get a badge like this on eBay for about five bucks."



Dominic shook his head and smiled, hoping to pacify her. "No, ma'am, you can't. It's a real badge, and I'm a real U.S. Deputy Marshal. Look, lady, if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. I'm just here to ask some questions. That's it."



The rifle never wavered in her hands. "Just take your fake ID and get off my property. I don't want to answer any of your questions no matter who you are."



"Actually, you don't have a choice. Please put the rifle down, ma'am. You're threatening a law enforcement officer with a deadly weapon. That's a felony, you know."



He watched her eyes carefully and could see her actually considering his words and weighing out the truth of them. There was wariness in those blue depths, as well as a strength of purpose that he actually found himself admiring.



A moment passed, then another. Finally his words seemed to sink in, and she made her decision and took a step back. "I don't want any trouble. I just want you to leave. Like I said before, you need to just take your questions and get out of here." She motioned with the barrel. "Get off my porch. Now."



The balance of power seemed to shift ever so slightly with her small retreat. Dominic took advantage of it and took a step forward, then another. He was a large man, nearly a foot taller than the woman's five foot six inches, and he used his height to tower over her with an intimidating stance. He was focused on one thing and one thing only at the moment, and that was getting that rifle away from her before someone got shot.



"You can answer my questions here or you can answer them downtown. Either way, you're going to put that rifle down." He took another step. "You must be Jessica Blake. You're a schoolteacher, right? Well, Ms. Blake, like I said, you're assaulting a federal officer with a deadly weapon. All I want to do is ask you a few questions. Put the gun down." He paused, his hands still up in a sign of surrender. "Please, Ms. Blake. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."



He watched her carefully, but her aim still didn't waver, despite his plea. What had her so spooked? The whole scenario didn't make sense. He could tell she was scared of him, but he couldn't figure out why. If she didn't think he was a legitimate marshal, who did she think he worked for?



"Ms. Blake, please give me a chance. I only need a few minutes of your time, and then I'll be out of here."



Jessica gritted her teeth and finally raised the barrel so it was no longer pointing at his chest. Her anger was evident in her stance, as was her fear. "You'd better not be lying."



Dominic swiftly eliminated the remaining space between them with two large steps and pulled the rifle from her hands, then flipped on the safety and ejected the cartridges. It was a Winchester .38 with plenty of kill-power, and he wasn't about to take any chances. When he was sure the gun was empty and safe, he handed it back to her but pocketed the bullets.



"Is that how you greet all of your visitors?" he couldn't help asking.



Jessica bit her bottom lip, suddenly appearing vulnerable for the first time in their encounter. She leaned the rifle against the wall and took a step back, then looked nervously around her as if seeking a route off the porch and into the trees if she needed one. She definitely didn't trust him, that was for sure, and Dominic wanted to know why. This was not the normal reaction he received when he was just out asking questions.



He took a deep breath, then slowly put his hands on his hips, trying to make his movements as nonthreat-ening as possible as he considered Jessica Blake. The woman before him was an enigma. He'd read all the information they had on her before coming. He knew her middle name, her date of birth, her social security number and all about the speeding tickets she'd gotten when she was sixteen. But nothing in her file mentioned just how striking her eyes were. He'd never seen anyone with eyes like that, and he felt a surge of attraction, even though she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and was wearing faded and shapeless work clothes. Still, he couldn't help but notice the fine sheen of perspiration that covered her skin, in spite of the cool breeze.



Dominic studied her carefully from a law enforcement officer's perspective, trying to figure her out. She kept moving her hands in a nervous gesture, and her eyes were darting around as if she was expecting someone or something to jump out on the porch with them. There was clearly something going on here that was way out of the ordinary. He'd had guns pointed at him before, but certainly not by country schoolteachers with long blond hair and pretty blue eyes. The way she held herself and her expressions made it look as if she were hiding something, but Dominic had absolutely no idea what it could be. He had come expecting to ask a few questions and leave, but now he was intrigued, and couldn't leave until the puzzle of Jessica Blake was investigated and solved.



"Okay," she said roughly, breaking his train of thought. "You've got my bullets now. Ask your questions and be on your way, Mr. U.S. Deputy Marshal."



Dominic motioned toward the door, enjoying the way the words "U.S. Deputy Marshal" rolled off her tongue. She had the local Southern drawl, and without her threatening tone, her voice was now sweet and melodious, despite the slight tremor it still contained. He took a step toward her front door. "Could we sit down for a minute?"



Jessica shook her head and quickly blocked the doorway, nearly tripping as she hurried to keep him away from the door. What was inside that she didn't want him to see? Dominic raised an eyebrow.



"What's going on, Ms. Blake?"



Jessica shrugged, trying to appear carefree but failing miserably in the attempt. She was evidently not very good at subterfuge. "You said you only needed a few minutes. Just ask your questions out here."



Dominic sniffed. "Is that gas I smell? I think you might have a leak. That can be really dangerous, you know. I'd better take a look before the house explodes."



"Wait…" She grabbed his arm and pulled, but she was no match for his strength, and he moved effortlessly by her. He stopped just inside the door and froze, taking in the scene.



The place had been ransacked. The couch had been ripped to shreds, and foam stuffing was strewn throughout the living room. Glass dishes and knickknacks were smashed in little pieces all over, and books and a myriad of other items littered the floor.



He turned to Jessica, his eyes filled with concern. "Is there anybody else in the house?"



She shook her head. "Not anymore. I live alone, and whoever did this is long gone."



Dominic stepped over a broken radio and headed toward the kitchen. It too had been destroyed. The table and chairs were broken, and damaged appliances and kitchen utensils had been dumped on the light blue linoleum floor. The cabinet doors were open, and canned goods and staples had all been swept from their shelves. He left the kitchen and slowly checked the rest of the house. Each room had a similar level of destruction. It looked as if a tornado had blown through and left nothing but devastation in its wake.



He blew out a breath and shook his head. No wonder she was scared. Someone had definitely sent her a message, and he had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly who that someone had been. This case was getting more complicated by the minute.



Jessica had followed him into the kitchen but didn't follow him through the rest of the house. She went back on the porch and waited patiently for him to come back outside. She couldn't look at the inside of the house anymore without crying anyway. Everything she owned, with few exceptions, was now in pieces and totally destroyed. What made it even worse was that there was a law enforcement officer in there right now surveying the damage, and she couldn't explain the mess without putting her brother's life in danger.



She sank down on the steps, frightened and unsure. It was all she could do not to grab her keys and drive away as fast as her truck could carry her. But. There was always a but. In this case, running wouldn't solve anything. She knew that. She closed her eyes and leaned against the front porch rail, rallying her strength for the battle ahead and trying to figure a way out of her predicament.



A few minutes later she heard the screen door open and close and the creaks of the porch as he crossed to sit down beside her. Several moments passed before he spoke. "That's quite a scene in there."



Jessica nodded without looking at him. It was hard to meet his eyes now that he'd seen the damage and would undoubtedly want an explanation. "That's why I didn't want you to go in there."



"Yeah, I guessed that." He paused. "Do you know who did it?"



"No."



"Do you know why they did it?"



Jessica took a deep breath. She didn't have any proof, but she had her suspicions. She didn't want to lie to the man, but until she knew more, she couldn't tell him the truth either. She chose to evade the issue. "Don't worry about it. It's my problem, okay?"



"No, it's not okay. Would you like for me to call in the crime tech guys and have them search for fingerprints? They might not find anything, but I'll make the call if you want me to."



For the first time, she met his eyes, deep gray and so gentle and concerned that she almost cried. But she couldn't trust him. She couldn't trust anyone when there was so much at stake. "No. I'm not filing a report or pressing charges. I'll deal with it myself. Like I said, it's my problem."



"Is that why you pointed your gun at me?"



She looked away again, embarrassed. She was a schoolteacher, after all. She didn't usually go around threatening people with a high-powered rifle, especially law enforcement officers. Deputy Dominic Sullivan was no small man either, and had broad shoulders and a muscular build that testified to his strength. His closely-cropped blond hair and chiseled features gave him a tough, military appearance, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized how foolhardy her actions had actually been. This man was a formidable foe. "Yes. I'm sorry about that." She could tell he wouldn't leave without a better explanation, but she also knew she'd have to keep it vague. "I was working out in the barn earlier when somebody hit me over the head and knocked me out. When I woke up, I came up to the house and found it like it is now. Then I heard you out on the porch, and I didn't know what to think."



Dominic gave her a friendly smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He paused, as if considering his options, then pushed forward. "I came here today because I'm looking for your brother Michael Blake. I need you to help me find him."



Jessica looked up quickly, her eyes filled with suspicion. "Why?"



Dominic drew his lips into a thin line. "Well, that's actually rather difficult to explain."



Jessica crossed her arms, undaunted. Why was a U.S. Marshal looking for her brother? She had to find out and make some sense out of everything that was happening to her today. "Why don't you try and simplify it for me?"



Dominic paused a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I can give you the basics. Michael Blake has been working at a company called Coastal up in Atlanta."

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Excerpt - Missing by Lynette Eason

Missing

by

Lynette Eason



Her daughter is the most important person in Lacey Gibson's world. So when the girl disappears, Lacey will do anything to find her. Even track down a man she hasn't seen in sixteen years—U.S. Marshall Mason Stone, the father of her child.



Mason was perfectly content with his life until Lacey arrived. Her confession that their daughter—the daughter he didn't know they had—is missing shakes his carefully controlled world. But there's no time to adjust as they race to find their child, catch the kidnappers…and learn whether they can have a second chance at happily-ever-after.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"My daughter's missing and I need your help."



Mason stared down at the distraught redheaded woman standing on his front porch, tears swimming in her eyes, fists clenched at her side.



Shock immobilized him for a brief moment, then with an effort, he found his voice.



"Lacey Gibson." Just saying her name transported him to the past. His first love. His first romantic heartbreak. She hadn't changed a bit.



At least on the outside.



If her heart was as traitorous as he remembered, he was in deep trouble.



The fact that his own heart did its best to leap from his chest in joyous welcome surprised him so much he almost swallowed his tongue.



What was she doing here? And what had she said? His brain had ceased to function the minute he realized who'd knocked on his door.



Stepping toward him, she placed her hands on his chest, tears threatening to spill from those green eyes that had captivated him at first glance. She pleaded, "I need your help. Bethany's missing and no one seems to know why, or who she may have disappeared with—and no one seems to even care or want to listen to what I have to say or—"



A finger over her lips effectively cut off her monologue—and sent fire shooting along his nerve endings. He remembered covering those sweet lips with his, kissing her until they were both breathless and…



First things first. "What are you doing here and who is Bethany?"



She seemed oblivious to the fact that she still had her hands on his chest. He wasn't in any hurry for her to remove them.



Much to his disgust.



Was he still so besotted with her that he'd forgotten what she'd done to him sixteen years ago?



No way. He'd gotten over her a long time ago.



Or so he tried to convince himself.



And yet somehow he found himself standing in his foyer with Lacey Gibson practically wrapped in his arms—and liking it.



Clearing his throat, he stepped back, took her hand—a soft hand, he noted—and pulled her into the den. There, he deposited her on the couch and asked, "Do you need a drink of water? Some coffee?" He looked at the tears that had now spilled over to track their way down her pale cheeks. "A tissue?"



"Yes to the tissue, no to the drink."



Mason reached around her and, with only a twinge of pain in his left shoulder, snatched a tissue from the end table and handed it to her. The only reason Lacey had found him at home at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning was because he'd been forbidden to go back to work for another two weeks.



Being shot in the line of duty had been a real pain. Both physically and mentally. As a Deputy U.S. Marshal, he was used to action and staying busy. Being out on medical leave was definitely not on his top-one-hundred-favorite-things-to-do list. But he was almost finished with that.



And he had a feeling his days of boredom had just come to an end. She had a daughter? His gut tightened. "Why do you think she's missing, and what do you think I can do to find her?" What he wanted to ask was why she'd chosen to come to him about it. Instead, he leaned back against the couch and studied the woman before him.



Her fiery red curls were pulled up into some kind of scrunchy thing women seemed to like. Her normally sparkling green eyes were set in an oval-shaped face that looked pale and drawn, stressed and tired. Light gray bags under her eyes attested to some lost sleep.



But she was still beautiful, and his heart warmed.



Which meant she could still be dangerous, his head argued.



His heart agreed, but from the way it threatened to beat out of his chest, Mason didn't think it cared.



She raised the tissue and swiped a few tears then took a deep breath. "Bethany is my fifteen-year-old daughter. She's been gone for two days now." She looked at the ceiling. "Today's Tuesday. I last saw her Sunday morning when I went to wake her up for church. She mumbled that she didn't feel good so I let her sleep. When I got home, she wasn't there. I called her cell phone and she didn't answer."



"Does she usually answer when you call?"



Lacey blinked and took another swipe at the tears. "Yes, usually. So, I waited awhile, then tried again. And kept trying. When I still didn't hear anything, I called a few of her friends. The ones that I managed to get on the line didn't know where she was. When she wasn't home and hadn't called by dark, I went looking for her. I couldn't find her, so I started calling all of her friends again. Not one of them knew…" Her breath hitched and more tears leaked. She turned wet emerald-green eyes on him, pleading. "She's not answering her cell phone and she missed school yesterday…" She lifted her hands and swallowed. "I went to the police and they're treating her as a runaway. No one else will do anything and I just don't know what else to do. Please help me, Mason."



Lacey bit her lip and stared up at the man as if he were her last hope. He still wore his reddish-blond hair in a military buzz cut. A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. Why had she even noticed that?



Focusing on his startling blue eyes, the same eyes she'd looked into every day for the past fifteen years, she decided that while she hated to come begging for his help, she'd do it for Bethany.



Where Bethany was concerned, the only thing that mattered was finding her. And if working with the man who'd broken her heart sixteen years ago meant she could bring her daughter home safely, she'd do it without a second thought.



What she hadn't told Mason was that it wasn't just Bethany that she needed help with. Since her daughter's disappearance, she had felt watched. Like eyes followed her wherever she went. It was creepy and unsettling.



But nothing else had happened. So she'd started to wonder if it was all her imagination.



Bethany's disappearance confirmed it wasn't.



Even as she walked up the steps to Mason's front porch, she had to resist looking back over her shoulder. She shuddered.



And just last night, she'd paced the house, praying, calling out to God and thought she heard someone at the door.



Thinking it was Bethany, she'd flung it open and found a page from her old high school yearbook tacked to her door.



Confused, she'd pulled it down and stared out into the night. The hair on the nape of her neck had prickled, and a sense of foreboding had nearly overcome her.



One thing she knew for sure: someone was watching her. But who? Bethany's possible kidnapper?



"Give me back my daughter!" she'd screamed. "Where is she?"



No one had answered.



But she'd felt the lingering eyes on her, watching from beyond, the malice, the—evil? Gulping, she'd shut the door and leaned against it, a hand to her throat. What was she going to do?



The answer had come to her—and not one she'd liked. She knew without a doubt that she had to go to Mason Stone. A man she'd vowed never to see again.



The man who'd broken her heart sixteen years ago.



Now looking into Mason's expressionless face, she realized she might have made a mistake. She was surprised he'd let her in the door. How she found herself on his couch was anyone's guess. But that didn't matter. Her main focus was Bethany. She had to save her child.



No matter what their past contained. They'd simply have to deal with that later.



Mason stood, shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and paced to the other end of the room, then back. "Why should I help you, Lacey?"



The question, while asked in a voice so low she had to strain to hear it, seemed to echo off the walls of the house and ricochet inside her brain.



"Because…because."



"Because of our past? Just because we once meant something to each other doesn't mean anything. When you decided to cheat on me with my best friend, you made it clear what you thought of our relationship."



Shock bolted Lacey to her feet. "How dare you? How dare you? I never cheated on you! But just like now, you wouldn't stop throwing around accusations long enough to listen!" She snatched another tissue from the box and headed for the door. "Well, I'm not the scared, intimidated little girl I was at eighteen years old. So, never mind. I was wrong. I can't believe how wrong I was."



"I saw you—Daniel said…" Mason sucked in a deep breath and turned away from her as she stomped for the exit. His low "Stop. Don't go yet" froze her in her tracks.



Without facing him, she asked, "Why shouldn't I?"



"Because you came to me for a reason," he said, then sighed. "It seems the past isn't as dead as I thought it was. I didn't mean to."



Keeping her voice frigid, she muttered, "Never mind. It doesn't matter. All that matters is finding Bethany. Will you help me or not? "



Fingers wrapped around her upper arm and he swung her around to face him. "I don't know yet. Sit back down. Please. Tell me about Bethany and why you think I can help you."



Clamping down on the desire to hurtle her own accusations, she seated herself on the couch once more and took a deep breath. For Bethany, remember? You can do this for Bethany.



So, how much should she tell him?



All of it.



"I thought you could help me because being a marshal…isn't that what you do for a living? Find people?"



He nodded. "Fugitives mostly."



"But you have connections, you can—" She stopped, closed her eyes and sucked in a calming breath. She needed to keep her cool. "Bethany is a good kid." Should she show him the picture? No, as soon as she did, he would know…. "She's had an emotional and rocky couple of years as all teens do, but things had been getting better since we moved back here."



He nodded, listening.



"Bethany wouldn't just disappear like this. Not at this point in our lives. Not at all." Her daughter might do a lot of things, but running away from home was definitely not one of them. "And not when I've just promised…" She bit her lip and looked away.



"Promised what?"



She straightened her shoulders. "Since I've promised to let her meet her father."



His lips tightened and suspicion narrowed his eyes. "And who is her father?"



"He's…" She sucked in a deep breath. She couldn't just blurt it out. "I'll get to that in a minute." Oh Lord, I need your help and guidance on this. Right now, please.



Twisting the tissue between her fingers, she drew in another breath and looked him in the eye. "Some strange things have been happening lately. To Bethany. And I think they're related to the car wreck that happened a couple of months ago."



"What wreck?"



"It was during spring break back in April. Bethany's best friend, Kayla Mahoney, was driving and she ran off the road, hit a tree and—" she pressed shaking fingers to her lips "—died."



Mason's sharply indrawn breath stabilized her. "Wait a minute, I think I heard about that."



Lacey swiped a tear away. "Anyway, after the accident, Bethany was having trouble dealing with it. So, I looked into getting her some help. She started counseling with our pastor and seemed to be improving. And now this." Through clenched teeth she gritted, "But no one seems to be interested in helping me!"



She fought the wave of tears as she looked at Mason.



He rubbed a hand over his face then caught her eye. "And you said weird things started happening after the wreck?"



"Yes."



"Like what?"



"Bethany started acting very strange. She jumped at the slightest noise, refused to go out by herself, became my shadow if we went out together. It seemed she was constantly watching her back, but she adamantly refused to talk about it. She started losing weight, having nightmares. I thought she might be suffering from depression after everything that happened."



"It would certainly be understandable."



Lacey nodded. "Then someone tried to break into our house one night. Bethany came screaming into my room in the middle of the night that someone was climbing in her window. I called the police and they came out, but found nothing that indicated someone tried to get in. But there are bushes and mulch and—" She waved a hand. "It would be impossible to say if there was or wasn't someone out there. The police blamed it on youthful pranks." She rolled her eyes and shook her head.



"What else?" he probed.



"About a week later, she said she thought someone had followed her home from school. We live near the high school, so she walks to and from school. Only in the last few weeks I've had to start taking her and picking her up. She's gotten so frightened that she's refused to go to school unless I drive her."



Mason started pacing again. "Did you report it?"



"Yes."



He frowned. "And that's it?"



Exasperated, Lacey stood and paced to the fireplace then back to her seat. "Yes—and no."



"Meaning?"



"Meaning I think there's more to it."



"Such as?"



"I don't know!" Lacey threw her hands up in frustration. "But I think there was someone else with Kayla that night. I think her friend Georgia Boyles and—" she swallowed hard "—Bethany were in that car that night."



Mason's brows shot up. "Why do you say that?"



"Because Georgia's mother came to my house to ask Bethany if Georgia had been with Kayla that night."



"Why did she suspect that?"



"Because Georgia came home around three in morning, scratched up and with bruises she couldn't explain. The police also found her cell phone in the car. When they returned it to her she said she'd left it in there earlier that day."



"Could be." Mason shrugged with his good shoulder.



"Is that it?"



Frustrated at his apparent lack of concern, she clenched her fists. "Yes! That's basically it! But come on, Mason, there's got to be more. Bethany wouldn't just disappear like this. I'm really afraid she's in trouble, hurt…or worse." Just saying the words nearly brought her to her knees. "And then, there was the thing taped to my door last night," she whispered.



His eyes sharpened. "What thing?"



Rummaging in her purse, she pulled out the yearbook page. "This."



He took it from her and his brows shot up as he studied it. "And it was taped to your door?"



She nodded. "I was up pacing and praying and just…I couldn't sleep. Mom and Dad were upstairs sleeping and I didn't want to disturb them so I went downstairs. I heard something at the door and thought it was Bethany. When I opened it, that was there."



"This is a picture of us."

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Excerpt - Point of No Return by Susan Warren

Point of No Return

by

Susan Warren



An American boy and a warlord's engaged daughter have disappeared—together—in an Eastern European border country. Only one man can find them in time to prevent an international meltdown—Chet Stryker. But Chet is taken aback when he realizes the boy is the nephew of Mae Lund, Chet's former flame. When Mae insists on rescuing her relative herself, Chet knows he has to protect her from the enemy on their trail. Yet can he protect himself from falling for Mae again?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Times like this, Mae Lund thought she might actually hate Chet Stryker.



Mae stared at herself in the dingy mirror of the one-stall hangar bathroom, grimacing at the splotch of vomit-scented wetness that stained her jumpsuit. How she loved it when her scenic air tour passengers didn't follow instructions.



She should be flying C-130s for Chet Stryker's international security team. His voice still rang in her head. I just don't want you to get hurt Mae—



A pounding at the bathroom door made her jump. "Mae?" It was Darrin, her new, grumpy boss, annoyance in his tone that she'd stalked away from her nauseous tourists.



"Just a second!" She chucked another handful of paper towels into the trash and stripped off the jumpsuit. Still, her skin reeked of sickly-sweet, soap-imbued vomit. If her boss wanted her to go up again—



"Mae, get out here!"



"Hold your horses, I'll be right there!" She tugged on a pair of clean overalls over her tank top and pulled them up over her shoulders, then slipped on flip-flops. Scraping the edge off her voice, she reached for the door.



"I just had to change. I can't believe that kid urped all over me. Can't his mother read the direc—" Uh-oh.



Darrin stood before her, flanked by the dangerous urper and his mother. She gripped the kid around the waist as he sagged against her.



"They need to use the bathroom," Darrin said tightly.



They moved past her, the mother uttering a word that Mae would have edited for the kid's sake. The door clicked shut behind them, and Mae winced as she heard the splatter of another round of lunch.



"I'm not cleaning that up." Mae stared at Darrin—or, rather, stared down at Darrin and his bald spot. His furious little beady eyes made him appear more angry mole than former bush pilot.



"Rough ride?" Darrin took her by the elbow, pulling her away from the door. Mae glanced down at his hand and shot him a dark look.



"Not especially."



"She said that he wouldn't have gotten sick if you hadn't descended so quickly. And apparently there was also a steep climb—"



"Are you serious? It's a small plane, Darrin, not a jumbo jet. Airsickness is a probability, not just a remote possibility. You can't climb—or descend, for that matter—without feeling a little queasy. Why not ask them about the stop-off at McDonald's on the way to the airstrip? And, by the way, I didn't hear any complaints when I was buzzing them around the south crater."



So maybe…well, okay, she had been a little quick on the stick as they'd slid in and out of Olympic National Park, a favorite on the Seattle Air Scenic Tours schedule. But she'd wanted to give them a great view of the Carbon Glacier. Some people paid extra for that kind of flying.



Some people considered that kind of flying a talent. A work of art.



"This is the third complaint this month, Mae." Darrin pulled out a well-worn gimme cap from his back pocket and shoved it over his bald spot. He looked up at her and pursed his lips. "You're a good pilot, but you take too many risks—"



"What?" Risks? A risk was liberating a learjet from a serial killer and abandoning ship a second before it turned into fire and ash. Or hijacking a clunker chopper and flying under the radar into the icy winds of Siberia to save a buddy from execution. Okay, that one had cost her a thriving career with the military. "But really, I didn't risk anything—"



"You're risking my business. My livelihood." Darrin nodded to the mechanic wheeling the mop bucket out to the plane. "And I'm not the only one. Shall we count how many companies you've flown for in the past couple years?"



She looked over his head, through the hangar, out to where the sky was just purpling with the end of the day. She refused to wince as he listed them, one after another, in the nastiest tone he could muster. "You're out of options, lady. You either start flying smart, or you stop flying."



Stop flying. That was what it had come down to, hadn't it? Get a job serving coffee, or perhaps teaching—although she doubted any flight school would take her on, thanks to the closed ranks of the air charter services in Seattle.



She swallowed past the dread in her throat. "Sorry, Darrin."



"Now I gotta write up a refund. Go help clean up the plane." He turned and stalked back to his office.



Perfect. She'd gone from decorated rescue pilot to cleaning crew.



That was what she got for putting her dreams into the hands of Chet Stryker.



She met the mechanic rolling his mop bucket back inside. "All cleaned, Mae."



"Thanks." Time for a quick escape. She jogged out to her ten-year-old Montero, which felt like a sauna after sitting in the summer sun all day, and rolled down the windows. The stereo came on full blast, and she twisted the knob to Off before Darrin could hear her fleeing.



Pulling out, she spotted him emerging from the hangar and ignored his frantic waving. She angled her elbow out the window as she exited the airfield, noticing a beautiful Piper Cub from the local aviation school touching down. And beyond that a gleaming helicopter sat on the pad. Most pilots weren't rated on both aircraft and helicopters, but she'd taken her chopper exam for her stint in ocean rescue.



Frankly, she didn't care what she flew. Just as long as she could escape into the heavens. She slammed her hand on the steering wheel, then turned on the radio. Screamer music. Loud. Pulsing. Perfectly impossible to think at this decibel.



Nearly impossible, also, to hear her cell phone nestled in the cup holder between her seats. Had she not glanced down at the stoplight and seen it vibrating inside its silver skin, she would have missed the call altogether.



She turned the radio down and grabbed the cell, flipping it open. "Mae here."



Oh, why hadn't she checked the display? "Mae Lund, you turn your car around this second or don't bother showing up here again." Mae shut her phone. Nope, no job tomorrow.



The phone vibrated again in her grip, and this time she checked the display.



Lissa.



What now? She flipped the phone open and didn't bother to check her tone. "What, Lissa?"



"Mae?" The voice on the other end wobbled.



Mae bit back a "Whose phone do you think you're calling? " and opted for something softer. After all, her kid half-sister didn't mean to be Mae's polar opposite—timid, pliable, fragile. That blame Mae reserved for their mother.



"It's me, Lis."



Mae heard silence, or perhaps a gasp of breath—still, the hiccupping sound was enough for Mae to pull over. She turned into a Dunkin' Donuts and switched ears. "What's up, honey?"



Sometimes—well, most of the time—it was hard to believe that Lissa, only two years younger than Mae, had a college-age son, given the way Lissa so often resembled a thirteen-year-old in the throes of a temper tantrum. Then again, she'd been just a little more than thirteen when she had little Joshy.



Little Joshy. Perhaps Mae should stop thinking of the nineteen-year-old by the nickname she'd given him when he'd run through their trailer in a saggy, wet diaper.



"What is it, Lis?" Mae pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair and wrapped it around her wrist, running her fingers through her sweaty mane.



"It's…it's Josh."



Mae switched ears again with the phone, rolling up the window to cut out street noise. "What's wrong with Josh?"



"He's…missing, Mae."



Huh? "Wasn't he going camping or something?" Josh had called earlier in the summer, right after his freshman year at Arizona State, excited because he'd hooked up a summer internship with some medical group. "No, he was going to work for Ambassadors of Health, right?"



"Yeah, and they sent him to Georgia."



Mae had been to Georgia few times. "Maybe he and few friends just took off, went camping somewhere along the Appalachian Trail. He said he was bringing that backpack I got him for graduation—"



"No! No, Mae, listen. Not Georgia. Georgia. The country"



Mae's gaze focused on a woman and a young boy emerging from the doughnut shop as she tried to process Lissa's words in her head. In the heat of the closed car, her own odor watered her eyes. "Georgia, as in former-satellite-of-the-Soviet-Union Georgia?"



"Yes." Her word caught on a sob.



"Georgia? North of Iraq, next to Pakistan, Georgia? The one that recently got invaded by Russia?" Mae opened the door and got out, gulping in fresh air. "Why is he in Georgia?"



"That's where the aid group sent him. They went over to work in a clinic. Give vaccinations and checkups or something. He was supposed to be there for a month—the rest of his team came home last week—but he wanted to stay. I thought it would be okay, but I just got a call from his leaders, and yesterday he vanished. Maybe he ran off, or maybe…maybe."



"Kidnapped." Mae pushed her sweaty hair away from her face as she turned toward the road. Cars clogged at the stoplight, the rhythmic beat of a radio spilling into the chaos. Pedestrians hurried across the crosswalk, most with cell phones pressed to their ears. A dog barked at her from the cracked window of a banged-up caravan.



But for Mae, everything had gone still. "Kidnapped," she whispered again.



Lissa's communication had been reduced to muffled crying.



Mae knew the price of an American teenager in a foreign land—for any American, really, but a kid, now that amounted to a jackpot for any terrorist group looking to cash in. Only this time, they'd picked the wrong kid. A poor kid. A kid without rich parents.



Her kid.



"Find him, Mae. I know you…you have friends in the military—what about those friends from Russia? Or your old roommate? Didn't she marry someone from Russia? Or maybe that American soldier—what was his name—?"



"David."



"Yeah, him." Hope quickened Lissa's voice. "He might know something. Or maybe you could ask that boyfriend in Europe?"



"Chet." Mae's throat burned even as she dredged out his name. "Chet runs an international security company."



"Yes, Chet! Aren't you two dating?"



"We were dating, a long time ago, Lis. Good grief, don't you listen to anything I say?"



Silence on the other end, followed by an indrawn, even shaky breath, made Mae cringe. "We broke up a year ago but that doesn't matter." She opened her car door and slid back in. "I'll find him, Lis. I'll find Joshy."



When Lissa spoke again, Mae heard the confidence, the trust that she'd always found so painfully suffocat-ing—and today, terrifying. "I know you will, Mae."



Mae hung up. Stared at the phone. Shoot. She hated this part.



I love you, Mae. But I don't want you to work for me.



You mean you don't want me in your life, she'd said.



She would never forget his steady, dark-eyed stare, or the rawness in his expression.



Nor the hurt on his face when she'd dumped her drink over his head and walked away.



She only gave herself another moment's debate before breaking all her promises to herself and dialing the man who'd nose-dived her life.



Her heart.



Chet Stryker.



As with every mission Chet Stryker had ever accepted, he did his homework, armed himself with the latest technology, contemplated every strategy and embraced whatever character his assignment demanded.



"I really hate tulle," he said, as he exited through the security gates of Hans Brumegaarden's expansive estate in his Snow White costume. The sun had long ago abandoned the day, and a sprinkling of stars barely outshone the lights of Berlin.



"It does tend to snag on your ankle holster," Brody "Wick" Wickham said, hoisting his overnight bag of supplies—ammunition, a Heckler and Koch submachine gun, a couple of Glocks and various high-tech surveillance equipment—over his shoulder, his bad mood etched on his craggy face. "I could use a night at the Hyatt."



Chet didn't blame him. His elite security team had spent five hours in the late summer sun dressed as Grumpy, Sleepy and Sneezy. Lucky him, as the team leader, Chet had landed the role of Snow White.



He had to be the laughingstock of the international-security community. Apparently, if anyone needed a decorated, former Delta Force operative with ten years of undercover experience and his team of highly trained specialists to impersonate fairy-tale characters, Chet Stryker was their man.



He'd wanted to run Stryker International on his terms. With his choice of assignments.



But clearly pride wouldn't pay the bills. And they had accomplished their mission—to protect six-year-old Gretchen Brumegaarden and one hundred of her closest friends and family members from a terrorist threat. Still, it felt like a compromise. He needed to do everything he could to make his little company a success, hoping to convince himself that he hadn't blown everything when he'd retired early from the military.



Since the day he'd kicked Mae out of his life, it seemed he'd made one glaring mistake after another.



"We're taking the midnight train back to Prague," Chet said, pressing the automatic unlock on their economy rental car.



"No airplane?" Artyom, his computer techie from Russia, ran to catch up, toting his own provisions, most of them contained in his laptop case. He'd been recruited by Wick, a former Green Beret whom Chet had enticed to leave special ops after a particularly brutal tour. Chet's business partner Vicktor—a former FSB agent—had closed the deal, talking Artyom into joining Stryker International. Luke Dekker, former Navy SEAL, acted as medic and team explosives expert. Now all Chet needed was a profiler, perhaps a negotiator, and, yes, a pilot.



He still hadn't found someone as skilled as Mae. Not even close. He'd been setting his sights lower and lower, until he was looking at recruits fresh out of a bush pilot school in Alaska. He needed Mae. But every time he opened his phone to call her, his chest would burn, old wounds stirring to life, and he'd shut his phone and the image of her from his mind.



He wouldn't—couldn't—put someone he loved in the line of fire. Been there, done that.



Chet opened the trunk and threw in the gear. "No airplane. This check barely covers our expenses and salaries for the next month. An airplane means another dwarf suit in your near future."



Chet needed a break, something to put his business on the map. Something big, international and newsworthy.



Maybe even something to make him feel like a soldier, a patriot, again. Anything but a cartoon character playing a charade.



The wind blew against the ancient elm trees ringing the property, picking up his rather un-Snow-White scent. "Let's get out of here."



His cell phone vibrated as he opened the car door. Fishing it out of his pocket, he looked at the number—and stilled.



"You drive, Wick." Chet tossed him the keys, walked over to the passenger side and opened the phone. "Chet here."



"It's…me."

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Excerpt - Winter Reunion (Aspen Creek Crossroads series) by Roxanne Rustand

Winter Reunion

(Aspen Creek Crossroads series)

by

Roxanne Rustand



Home to heal...and reconcile?



When wounded Marine Devlin Sloan comes back to Aspen Creek, he's surprised by his late mother's will. His new business partner for the next six months will be Beth Carrigan. His ex-wife.



This might prove to be Dev's most difficult mission yet. He never stopped loving the sweet bookstore owner, but his military career broke them apart. Now, as they work together at helping others get a new start in life, he hopes he can break down the walls between them....and explore the possibilities of renewing the life they had with each other.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Beth Carrigan took a last glance at her cell phone, shoved it into her pocket and heaved a sigh.



A crisp, sunny October weekend in Aspen Creek, Wisconsin, usually brought crowds of tourists from Chicago, Minneapolis, and all parts in between.



It didn't bring unexpected calls from Washington, D.C., California, and the Henderson Law Office. Calls that now had her stomach doing crazy cartwheels.



What on earth was she going to do?



But everything is going to be fine, Lord. It's going to be fine, right? She surveyed her bookstore, breathing in the beloved scents of books, dark-roast coffee and apricot tea as she walked to the back, where her friends were already settled in an eclectic mix of comfy upholstered chairs and rockers.



Their voices fell silent as three pairs of worried eyes looked up at her. Their concern was so palpable that she forced herself to dredge up a nonchalant smile. "How's the coffee? Is it better this time? I bought a new fair trade brand and—"



"The question is, how are you?" Olivia Lawson, the oldest book-club member at fifty-six, had been an adjunct professor of literature at an exclusive private college in Chicago before walking away from the rat race and moving to Aspen Creek to teach at the community college.



Her eyebrows, dark in contrast to her short, prematurely silver hair, drew together in a worried frown. "You definitely look upset. Did that fool banker deny your loan application again?"



"No news." Beth closed her eyes briefly for a quick silent prayer over the vacant building next door, where she hoped to open a gift shop and provide space for a youth center on the upper level.



Keeley North, owner of an antiques shop a few blocks away, snorted. "If it's those vandals again, we can all march over to the sheriff's office and make sure he takes things seriously this time."



Despite her worries, Beth smiled. Blond, blue-eyed, with an effervescent sense of humor that belied her bulldog tenacity, Keeley was loyal to a fault. Beth could easily see her backing the sheriff into a corner until he called in the National Guard. "No vandals. It's…well, a little more complicated than that."



"If this is a bad time, we can all leave, dear." Olivia frowned. "Unless, of course, there's something we can do to help."



For years, they'd been meeting twice a month on Saturday mornings, an hour before the store opened.



The five members had been friends in good times and bad, and though Hannah was away to help with family problems in Texas, Beth knew she could count on every one of them for support and the utmost discretion. Still, she stumbled over her thoughts trying to frame her news in the best light.



"The first call was from my mother. She's taking the scenic route from California, and will arrive here next weekend. For two whole weeks."



"How wonderful." The glint in her eyes betrayed Olivia's true feelings. "You two can spend some quality time together, and catch up."



Beth bit her lower lip. "I hope so…if things go better this time. Usually she comes wanting to revamp my whole life, but she didn't sound quite that upbeat on the phone. I hope everything is all right."



Sophie Alexander, the youngest of the group at twenty-nine, slowly shook her cap of short auburn hair. "Last time you were frazzled for months afterward, just trying to find everything."



"Believe me, if Mom just spends every minute rearranging my house and the store again, I'll be very thankful." Beth took a deep breath. "Because that second call was from Dev. He's coming back on Monday, and plans to be in town for a week."



Olivia's mouth dropped open. "Your mother and ex-husband. In the same town." She paused for a moment, then tilted her head and angled a speculative look at Beth. "And he called you to say he's coming. Interesting."



"Believe me, there's no love lost between us now. When he filed for divorce, it was final." Beth winced, trying to hold back the painful memories of the day he'd announced that he wanted to end their marriage… and the even more painful memories of what happened later. "I haven't heard a word from him since, other than when he came back to town for his mother's funeral six months ago."



"As I remember, it wasn't exactly a friendly meeting." Keeley frowned. "I know it was a funeral and all, but he barely acknowledged you."



And Beth had had trouble controlling her hurt and anger even during that brief encounter, though she'd known it was her duty to attend. "Well, he won't be in town long this time either, before he heads right back to the Middle East…or wherever it is he's stationed. That was the drill throughout our marriage, and I'm sure he hasn't changed."



Sophie shuddered. "This should be interesting."



"I don't even know why he bothered to let me know he's coming." Beth managed an offhand smile. "But it's a blessing to know in advance. With luck, I can make sure my mom and I don't run into him, and all will be well. I doubt he'll be out and about much."



A hush fell over the group. "Is—is he all right?" Keeley ventured after an awkward pause.



"He mentioned a shoulder injury—enough to land him at Walter Reed for a few weeks. He's on medical leave right now."



"When I provide physical therapy for a rotator cuff I tell my patients it'll take a good six months to heal, and for some it's almost a year. A contaminated battle wound could be much worse." Sophie's brow furrowed. "Will he end up with a medical discharge?"



"I asked, but he vehemently denied it." She felt a twinge in a small, scarred part of her heart as she recalled just how dedicated Dev was to military service. Nothing had mattered more to him. Not his family, not her. "He…sounded awfully touchy when I asked."



There'd been a time when she would've given anything for him to come home for good. But those romantic feelings were long gone, and now she felt only sympathy for a man whose entire adult life had been focused on covert operations that he could never discuss. If he had to leave the service, she could only imagine how difficult the adjustment would be.



Olivia shook her head. "That has to be tough."



"Definitely, but he'll have a lot of options once he takes possession of his inheritance. His parents bought up a lot of cheap property long before the town became such a tourist destination. They owned this whole block, and I can't imagine what it's all worth now." Beth hesitated. "That third phone call a few minutes ago was from the family's attorney."



"The attorney called you?" Sophie's soft green eyes filled with worry. "That doesn't sound good."



"I'm supposed to be there for the reading of Vivian's will. It's just a formality, though. Dev is the only heir."



"Wow. It sure took a long time to settle things."



"Apparently Vivian was very specific about wanting both of us present, even if it meant a long delay because of his military service."



Just the thought of that meeting gave her jitters.



Dev had betrayed their relationship. Thrown away her love, and left her to face the worst experience of her life alone. She'd prayed hard, trying to forgive him, and maybe she had, but seeing him again would reopen those wounds.



And worse, Dev had made it plain during their divorce that he'd never live in Aspen Creek again. Would he callously decide to terminate her lease so he could sell all of his parents' property to the highest bidder?



If he did, she'd lose her home and her livelihood. Her customers and the members of the book club were like family to her, and she'd lose them as well, if she couldn't find another affordable location in this town.



And the bitter end of their marriage made it all a distinct possibility.



Keeley sat forward in her chair and shoved a strand of gleaming, honey-blond hair behind her ear. "Now, that's intriguing. You need to be there for the reading of the will, but you've been divorced, what—a year?"



"About that." Thirteen months and two weeks, to be exact, though she'd never admit to being so aware of the time frame.



"Maybe she left everything to you."



"And not to their only child? No way."



Keeley's irreverent grin matched the sparkle in her eyes. "All the more reason to at least divide it up."



"A will might have been drawn up during the years Dev and I were still married, but I'm sure his mother wasted no time amending it. She always thought he'd married down the social scale and way too young, even though he was twenty-one. And honestly," Beth added with a rueful laugh, "she was probably right on both counts."



"He was lucky to find someone like you," Sophie said staunchly.



"My own mother wasn't much happier, believe me." Beth shrugged. "I'll show up at that meeting, then slip away so Dev and the lawyer can get down to business. If I can just get past this next week, then everything should go back to normal. I hope."



Dev wearily dropped his duffel bag at his feet, fished a key out of his pocket and opened the front door of the empty Walker building to look inside. The massive limestone walls of the two-story structure had stood solid and uncompromising for over a hundred years, home to everything from a turn-of-the century wood mill to a medical office and finally the law offices of a long-departed attorney and his partners back in the 1980s.



It was at one end of the block-long row of four large buildings his parents had owned, which all backed up to Aspen Creek. The middle two buildings had been leased as storage for the past few years, though one of them was now empty. The bookstore was the only busy commercial establishment at this end of Hawthorne Avenue.



At that thought, he sighed.



After the reading of his mother's will, he'd need to make some hard decisions about the family home and all of this property, and he'd need to do it fast, before he shipped out to the Middle East again. But what would happen to Beth's beloved store if he sold out? He knew she couldn't possibly have the money to buy it.



He took a step into the empty building and surveyed the trash, old lumber and crumbling boxes that had accumulated inside over the years.



During some of his long, cold and deathly quiet nights on recon missions since his mother's death, he'd sometimes let his mind wander back to this building, and to what he'd do with it. Since it had been vacant for a few years, would it even attract buyers?



Yet the old building seemed like a perfect location for a fine restaurant, or an upscale clothing store of some kind. Or even better, a high-adventure sporting-goods store, with kayak and canoe rentals handled at the walk-out basement level, where customers would be able to launch practically from the back door. Surely the increasing tourism in the area could draw buyers with something like that in mind.



He stifled a flash of regret at imagining the place belonging to someone else. He certainly wasn't planning to stay in town, much less start a business, and sentiment wouldn't pay the real estate taxes at the end of the year, or the cost of ongoing upkeep, either.



Selling it to the right buyers would even bring more traffic to this secluded street and help Beth's bookstore in the process, which would all be for the good.



Beth.



Running a hand over the rough stone walls, he tried to force her from his thoughts, but her image stayed there—wounded, vulnerable, betrayed—with the shock and pain still in her eyes at the moment he'd demanded a divorce and then walked out of her life.



Maybe he could finally absolve some of his own guilt if he were to set a rock-bottom price and a no-interest payment contract, to ensure that she could buy her beloved building. He owed her that and more, for how badly he'd treated her.



If she was even willing to talk to him about it. He certainly had no doubts about what her reaction would be when they met face-to-face at the lawyer's office.



Her formal, distant words and cool nod of sympathy at his mother's funeral marked a chasm between them that had probably only deepened since then.



He'd be lucky if she even showed up. But what did he expect, after what he'd done to her? She'd been a forever kind of woman and she'd deserved so much more than someone as damaged as him.



At the oddly magnified sound of approaching footsteps, he lifted a hand to adjust his new hearing aid and froze, his senses still hyperalert as he fought a flashback to mortar fire and an explosion of rock and steel. For a split second he couldn't draw breath in the choking dust of it all. Felt the searing pain. Saw the crumpled bodies—all that was left of his squad.



His buddies for the past ten years, and the only family he knew beyond the parents who'd estranged themselves from him so long ago.



That he'd been the one left with just wounds and a severe, temporary hearing loss filled him with renewed guilt and sorrow every single day.



He forced himself to relax and look over his shoulder, and found Nora Henderson sauntering toward him with a briefcase in one hand and a stack of manila folders held in the crook of her other arm.



She nodded toward the law office across the street. "Mondays are usually quiet, and I finished with my previous appointment a little early. If you're ready, come on over."



"And Beth?" The name felt soft and sweet, like the woman herself, and he found himself reining in emotions he'd thought long dead.



The attorney shifted her load and snagged a cell phone from her briefcase. "We definitely need her, too. I'll give her a call."



"Can I ask why she has to be there? I thought everything was settled during our divorce."



A flicker of a smile touched the older woman's lips as she veered off to cross the street. "I'm simply following your mother's instructions," she said over her shoulder. "She was always remarkably specific, you know. See you in a few minutes?"



Memories swamped him as he watched the lawyer walk away. Remarkably specific. Now that was hitting the nail square on the head for both of his parents, he thought with a hollow, silent laugh.



They'd planned every step of his education. Every decision had been theirs, without fail, no matter what he'd wanted, right down to where he would go to college for premed, the GPA he had to earn, and which medical school he would attend.



They'd brooked no arguments. Hadn't listened.

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Excerpt - Daughter of Texas by Terri Reed

Daughter of Texas

by

Terri Reed



Texas Ranger Ben Fritz would give his life to protect Corinna Pike. After all, she's his captain's beloved daughter—and the only witness to her father's murder. When the assassin targets Corinna, Ben dedicates himself to her safety…while keeping his distance. The beautiful ballerina deserves better than a rough-and-tough ranger. Yet Corinna refuses to ignore the draw between them, just as she refuses to give in to fear as danger grows. Ben will need her courage—and love—to guide him through the line of fire when the killer strikes again.



Excerpt of chapter one:



The Ranger creed: "No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that's in the right and keeps on a-comin'."



Corinna Pike froze on the unlit front porch of her family's ranch home. Gunfire had come from within the house!



Her startled gaze shot to her father's Crown Victoria parked in the driveway. Her father, the only person she had left in the world, was inside the house.



Terror crashed through her like a runaway freight train.



She exploded into motion, but the front door was locked. She dropped her dance bag, fumbled with her house key, jammed it in the lock and pushed the door open so hard it bounced back from the wall.



"Dad!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.



A chill of dread that had nothing to do with the drop in the late September evening temperature skated across her flesh.



Corinna raced through the darkened hallway of the sprawling, single-story house toward the crack of light coming from beneath her father's study door. As the daughter of a Texas Ranger, running to gunfire was in her blood.



She skidded to a halt and reached for the study's doorknob and flung open the door. The light in the study winked out, throwing the world around her into pitch blackness. A loud feline screech, followed by eighteen pounds of fleeing cat slamming into her legs, made Corinna lurch back.



Before she could even think of shouting out in surprise at her deranged tabby, an explosion of noise erupted. A bright flash of light scalded her eyes. Her ears rang. Something hot sliced across her bare biceps. Searing pain brought tears to her eyes. She'd been shot!



She instinctively dropped to the floor, her hands covering her head. No more bullets came her way. Instead, she heard the patio doors fly open and the sound of running feet leaving the scene.



Around her, the house settled into a stark silence where only the rasp of her own breathing echoed in her ears. The acrid smell of gunpowder permeating the air almost obliterated the coppery scent of blood assaulting her senses.



The moon's light spilled into the study through the open patio doors outlining the desk. Staying low, she edged along the wall toward it. Using the desk as cover, she reached for the lamp with her right hand and winced with pain at the effort to raise her injured arm. Switching to her uninjured arm, she flipped the control knob. Soft light made her blink as she adjusted to the brightness. Cautiously, she peered out into the room.



She didn't see anyone ready to take another shot at her, but the sight before her was even more horrifying.



Her gaze landed on her father sprawled across the thick wool rug in front of his cherrywood desk. Everything inside her recoiled. Her mind tried to process what she saw, her feet felt rooted in place.



Her father's service weapon lay beside him. Blood oozed from a gunshot wound in his chest just below the Texas Ranger badge pinned to his plaid flannel shirt, soaking the beige carpet beneath him a deep crimson red.



Her wild gaze swept the room again looking for a threat and landed on an unfamiliar man's prone body. He had a similar wound in his abdomen. The man, mid-thirties and looking very much out of place with his dirty clothes and matted dark hair, lay very still.



She didn't see a weapon in his hand.



Crying out in anguish, Corinna crawled as best she could with one arm to her father's side. "Please, don't let him be dead."



A high keening noise filled the room. Vaguely aware the sound came from her, she reached a shaky hand to his neck and pressed her fingers to the spot where a pulse should beat. Nothing.



Agony trapped her breath in her lungs. She fell forward, her head coming to rest on her father's broad shoulder. First her mother, now her father. The two people she loved most in the world both taken from her. Her mother by sickness, her father…murdered.



How could God let this happen?



Forcing herself to move, to assess the situation, she asked herself, What would her father do?



She scrambled over to the other man and checked for a pulse. Beneath her fingers she felt the faint beat of his heart.



Quickly, and without regard to her own pain, she ripped off her navy sweatshirt with the orange-and-white roadrunner logo of the University of Texas, San Antonio. She pressed the wadded-up material against the man's wound to stem the flow of blood seeping from his abdomen.



She needed help. She ran to the credenza and grabbed the cordless phone with the hand of her uninjured side.



A cat yowled to her left.



Corinna jumped at Gabby's unexpected cry, her heart still racing from being shot at, her breath stalled in her chest. The orange tabby stood on the threshold of the open double French doors leading to the back patio. Corinna breathed a sigh of relief. If it hadn't been for Gabby's forceful exit just minutes ago, Corinna might be dead.



In the distance the sound of an engine turned over, roared and then faded away. The killer getting away. Returning to the stranger's side to press the hand of her wounded arm on the bunched-up sweatshirt, she dialed 911 with her other hand. Her gaze shifted back to her father.



A sob caught in her throat. Now she was truly alone in the world.



Texas Ranger Ben Fritz threw his Jeep into park on the curving, graveled driveway of the ranch behind the small compact car belonging to Corinna, Captain Pike's daughter.



Gut churning, Ben glanced once more at the cryptic text message he'd received on his cell phone from his boss, Texas Ranger Captain Gregory Pike, only twenty minutes ago.



CONVENE AT MY HOUSE, ASAP. MAJOR CASE ABOUT TO EXPLODE.



What was Greg working on that was so volatile?



No way would he call the Rangers to his house for a case with his adult daughter in attendance. Greg had kept his private life as isolated from his job as possible.



When he'd first received the text, Ben had been bothered that Greg had kept a case from him. But his annoyance evaporated. Something weird was going on and Greg had reached out to him. Apprehension slithered down Ben's spine like a rattler on the loose as he jumped out of his Jeep.



Lights from the cars of other Rangers, the elite law enforcement agency unique to Texas, cut through the twilight, illuminating the front of the Pike house, an expansive L-shaped place set back from the road. The circular driveway wrapped around a grassy area with a magnolia tree, a cedar bench, and a few small bushes that would flower in the spring.



Obviously, all the Rangers of Company D had received Greg's text. This was serious.



Oliver Drew climbed out of his 4x4, the red paint barely visible beneath a thick layer of grime and dust. Ben paused to wait for the half Native-American Ranger. He sported his usual leather vest over a long-sleeve white button-down, jeans and scuffed boots.



Tall, well-built and oozing with charm, Daniel Boone Riley adjusted his standard issue white cowboy hat over his dark hair as he stepped from his truck. His eyes were troubled as they met Ben's gaze.



More vehicles barreled down the drive and halted, stacked end to end like slot cars ready for the races. Cade Jarvis, Trevor Donovan, Marvel Jones, Levi McDonnell and Gisella Hernandez, the lone female of their company, got out of their vehicles and joined Ben. Only two were missing, Anderson Michaels and Evan Chen. Evan was on assignment over in Corpus Christie and would no doubt check in. And Ben knew Anderson would arrive as soon as possible from wherever he was.



It was the Ranger way to drop whatever they were doing to answer the call. Ben had been grocery shopping. He'd abandoned his cart in the middle of the produce aisle.



"Any idea what this is about? " Oliver asked.



"None." Ben started toward the front porch.



"What case was the captain working?" asked Gisella, falling in step behind Ben.



"Don't know," Daniel replied.



Ben stopped in his tracks. Since the porch light wasn't on, he hadn't noticed that the front door stood wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in alert. He held up a hand to halt his fellow Rangers. He pointed at the open door.



Cade tapped Levi on the shoulder. "We'll take the back," Cade said in a low voice as he unholstered his weapon from his belt.



The wail of a siren punctuated the air, intensifying the unease gripping Ben. He motioned for the others to follow as he drew his sidearm. They entered the house in standard two-by-two formation. Ben directed Gisella and Oliver to peel off toward the unlit living room, while he motioned for Daniel and Marvel to head down the darkened hall toward the bedrooms. Then Ben, with Trevor at his back, moved toward the only lit room. Greg's study.



The scene that met them rocked Ben back on his heels. Horror filled his senses as he tried to process what he was seeing.



Greg, his mentor and friend, lay on the floor. Blood pooled around him. Another man, also shot, was sprawled a few feet away. Greg's daughter, dressed in loose sweatpants and a pale purple leotard covered in blood, sat beside the man, her knees drawn to her chest, her head bowed so that only one side of her pale face was visible. One hand pressed a wad of material to his wound. A black cordless phone dangled from the other.



Acting on instinct and training, Ben quickly searched for the unidentified man's weapon. And found none. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Ben picked up Greg's weapon and sniffed the end. He frowned. The gun hadn't been fired recently.



Obviously, this wasn't a Western-style shoot-out. Whoever had fired the fatal shots was gone, along with the murder weapon.



Cade and Levi entered through the open patio doors. A hiss of surprise came from Gisella as she stepped up behind Ben. More shocked exclamations followed as the Rangers slipped carefully into the room.



Ben went to Greg and squatted down to check his pulse. Grief sucked the air from his body. He looked at his comrades and shook his head.



"This one's still breathing," Cade said as he checked the pulse of the other man.



Ben shoved his own anguish aside to be dealt with later and focused on Corinna. By profession, Corinna was a prima ballerina with the San Antonio Ballet Company, like her mother before her. Amanda Pike had died of breast cancer when Corinna was young, not long before Ben had met Greg.



He moved closer and touched her shoulder. She flinched. A knot formed in his gut. She looked so small and vulnerable.



Had she witnessed her father's murder? Fresh sorrow and compassion tightened his chest. Protective instincts rose despite the antagonism that had always sparked between them. He wanted to shield this fragile ballerina from the harsh reality of her father's death.



The sound of booted feet brought Ben's gaze around. Sheriff Karl Layton, a tall man with shocking white hair and chiseled features pushed his way into the room. Layton inclined his head, his question clear. Was Pike alive?



Ben shook his head as another wave of grief flowed through him. Layton blew out a breath and tears misted the older man's eyes. Greg and Karl had been close friends from way back.



Layton swiped a hand over his face. "Dispatch relayed the 911 call."



The sound of an ambulance arriving let Ben know they only had a few minutes to collect information before the body was remanded to the local police force. His gut twisted with grief. Greg wasn't just any body. He'd been a father figure to Ben for more than a decade.



Shifting his focus from Greg, Ben said to his men, "Work the scene. Get the SAPD crime response unit in here pronto while the evidence is still fresh."



"Already made the call," Cade replied, his normally tanned skin ashen.



Gently, Ben took the phone from Corinna's hand and passed it to Oliver. Her skin was pasty white; her dark hair had loosened from her normally severe bun. And her dark eyes were glassy as she stared off into space. Taking Corinna's shoulders in his hands, he pulled her to her feet. She didn't resist. Ben figured shock was setting in.



When she turned to face toward him, his heart contracted painfully in his chest. "You're hurt!"



She didn't seem to hear him.



Blood seeped from a scrape on her right upper biceps. He inspected the wound. Looked like a bullet had grazed her. Whoever had killed her father had tried to kill her. With aching ferocity, rage roared through Ben. "Get the paramedics."



"On it." Cade pivoted to disappear out the door. A moment later, he returned with one of the emergency personnel in tow while the rest rushed by to help the injured man.



"Excuse me, sir," the young blond man said to Ben. "Let me take a look at her injury."



Ben stepped back but held firmly to her slender hand.



"It's a surface wound that will probably leave a small scar," the paramedic stated as he placed a bandage over the gash. "The heat of the bullet cauterized the flesh. It will heal quickly enough."



But Ben had a feeling that her heart wouldn't heal anytime soon. She'd adored her father. That had been apparent from the moment Ben stepped foot into the Pike world. She'd barely tolerated Ben from the get-go with her icy stares and brusque manner, making it clear she thought him not good enough to be in her world. But when it came to her father…



Greg had known that if anything happened to him, she'd need help coping with the loss and ensuing devastation.



"Ben, I need you to promise me if anything ever happens to me, you'll watch out for Corinna. She'll need an anchor. I fear she's too fragile to suffer another death."



Of course Ben had promised. Though he'd refused to even allow the thought that any harm would befall his mentor and friend to form. He'd wanted to believe Greg was indestructible. But he wasn't. None of them were.



The Rangers were human and very mortal, performing a risky job that put their lives on the line every day.



Never before had Ben been so acutely aware of that fact.



Now his captain was gone. It was up to him to not only bring Greg's murderer to justice, but to protect and help Corinna.

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Excerpt - Legacy of Lies By Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Legacy of Lies

By

Jill Elizabeth Nelson



Evidence from a decades-old murder is the last thing Nicole Keller-Mattson expected to find in her grandmother's backyard. The finger-pointing and accusations aimed at her family were easier to predict. Everyone in Ellendale is eager to blame the Kellers—but after an attack leaves Nicole's grandmother in a coma, only Nicole can clear the family name. With the assistance of police chief Rich Hendricks, she stands a chance of solving the mystery…if she's willing to accept Rich's help. Nicole lost her husband in the line of duty—trusting another cop is too painful. But not trusting Rich could be deadly.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"Over my dead body!" Nicole Mattson's grandmother whirled away from the stove and planted wire-veined hands on plump hips. "Jan's Sewing Room has sold fabric, patterns and sewing notions for sixty years. I'm not about to toss that heritage out the door to convert to this new-fangled machine embroidery." She said the final words with a twist to her lips that suggested she'd tasted something nasty.



Nicole finished shredding lettuce into a bowl and turned from the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. Her gaze met her grandmother's glare. Hopefully, her own eyes contained the winsome mix of firm reason and gentle persuasion she was striving for, rather than the frustration she was trying to hide.



"I'm not saying we should throw all the conventional sewing materials out," she said, "but we need to pare that inventory down and make room for machines that will produce items people will buy in volume. We could market jackets and T-shirts and sweatshirts to schools, businesses, service organizations, churches…" She waved an expansive hand.



Her grandmother sniffed. "But what about the clientele I've built up over a lifetime? They want a quiet place to browse for creative projects—not mindless boilerplate logos and images."



Gritting her teeth, Nicole began chopping fresh vegetables for the salad. Nothing she'd said so far had convinced Grandma Jan that computers and machines could mix with creativity. Maybe the financial approach would work.



"I've studied the shop's books," Nicole said. "J.S.R. hasn't turned a profit in this century." She stopped herself from adding that if the house and shop weren't owned free and clear, and if Grandpa, former president of one of the two banks in town, hadn't left his wife well-fixed, the stubborn woman might be out in the street. "Let the machine embroidery end of the business be my thing. If I'm going to live here, I need to support myself."



A little of the stiffness drained from her grandmother's posture. "Give yourself time to recover from the loss of your husband before you get all caught up in making a living, honey. It's been barely six months since Glen was killed. I remember it took me more than a year to have a clear thought in my head after your grandpa passed. That's why I invited you to come stay with me. We widows need to take care of each other, and the shop will take care of us. It always has." She went back to tending the meat hissing in her frying pan. "Business will pick up. You'll see. In this economy, more people will think about making their own clothes."



Nicole swallowed a sharp answer. Grandma was living in ancient history if she thought many women were going to add sewing clothes for the family to their hectic schedule, especially when most needed to hold down jobs outside the home. Besides, handmade clothing wasn't that much cheaper than store-bought anymore. Not that her grandmother would realize such a thing when she continued to sew her own slacks, blouses and dresses. No jeans or T-shirts for Janet Keller, though they were Nicole's favorite garb.



Grandma commenced humming as she added salt to boiling potatoes. Nicole finished the salad, set it on the table and slipped out the back door onto the small deck. The muggy warmth of a summer evening embraced her. The humidity was preferable to the heavy aroma of side pork frying in grease. No wonder Grandma's cholesterol was sky-high. And in the last couple of weeks since Nicole arrived in the little town of Ellington, the woman claimed her granddaughter was too thin and needed plumping up. One more excuse to defy doctor's orders and refuse to change her diet. Nicole grimaced.



Grandma would give a soul in need the shirt off her back—or hand-make them one—but if there was an award for being set in one's ways, she would win it. Every change was always "over my dead body." Nicole ran splayed fingers through thick, dark hair and released a long sigh.



Her gaze scanned the quiet residential neighborhood in the small town of Ellington. A few of the 1920s bungalows had aged less gracefully than the Keller home, the oldest house in the neighborhood and the only towering colonial. Typical of the Kellers to march to a different drummer, but they paid meticulous care to what they owned. Not that anyone's property was particularly attractive at the moment. The paving, curbs and gutters had recently been torn off the streets to allow replacement of the underground water and sewer pipes, leaving rutted dirt tracks and, in some places, freshly dug pits instead of roads. Navigation was a challenge in any direction from this corner lot. A distant boom echoed. The big equipment worked on into the evening in another area of town.



A pervasive sadness sifted through Nicole. Change happened whether a person planned it or not—and not always for the good. An image of Glen in his uniform, flashing his winsome grin, darted past her mind's eye. She huffed against a stab of pain in her chest where her heart should be. That organ had felt cold and dead since the sun-bright winter day Glen's captain showed up on her doorstep in full -dress blues, hat in hand.



Melancholy pressed Nicole onto a chair on the deck. When she was growing up and her parents brought her to visit Grandma Jan and Grandpa Frank in this west-central Minnesota town, the lawn was a living carpet of thick grass, thriving plants and lush flowerbeds. Since Grandpa's death a decade ago, when Nicole was twenty-two—a young woman barely wed!—the plants had disappeared one by one, and the flowerbeds had shrunk to a few clumps of petunias here and there. Grandma was not the green thumb in the family, though she'd done her best to maintain Grandpa's beloved rose garden that lined the property along Tenth Street.



At least until this year.



Now the garden looked like some razor-toothed monster had chomped a bite out of it and gouged a trench in the earth up to the house. The gaping hole was part of the city infrastructure project to install new water and sewer lines. Out on the road, the early-evening breeze puffed dust clouds into the air. Across the street, a neighbor emerged from his house, lifted a lazy hand in greeting and ambled toward his garage.



Nicole rose and trod down the three steps onto the grass, then wandered along the edge of the trench until she reached the pitiful remains of Grandpa's beloved roses. A magnificent grandiflora and a prolific white floribunda survived on one side of the gouge in the earth. On the other, several bushes of miniature roses held their blossoms up toward the waning sun. But the trellis with its pink Bourbon climbing roses and most of the hybrid teas, including her grandfather's favorite yellow roses, were gone. This plot of ground had meant so much to him. It was a shame to see it ruined. Maybe when the city project was finished, she could try her hand at restoring the garden. Surely her grandmother wouldn't object to that!



Birdsong teased her ears from a spreading maple tree a few yards behind her. Dappled sunlight reached the trench through the leafy fringes of the tree. As the warm breeze rippled the branches, a pale gleam winked at her from the dirt wall near the bottom of the hole. Nicole bent, hands on knees, and looked closer. Crinkles of dirty white plastic poked out one side wall of the trench. The plastic was at least as wide as her grandmother's antiquated microwave oven, but only about as high as a loaf of bread.



Was this the final resting place of Grandpa's boyhood dog, Lad? Grandpa had, after all, grown up in this house. If so, it was funny he'd never mentioned the beloved mutt was buried here. But it did help explain his obsession with keeping up the rose garden. Then again, that theory could be completely off, and the plastic could contain anything from junk to treasure.



Curiosity nibbled at Nicole. She didn't really care to uncover some old dog bones, but what if it were something more interesting, maybe even valuable. Should she wait until the workers came back tomorrow and ask them to unearth the item? She shook her head. Nah! She wouldn't sleep a wink tonight for wondering, so she might as well solve the mystery right now.



Nicole went to the garage and returned with one of her grandfather's gardening trowels. The trench was only a few feet deep, so she hopped in and went to work. A little grunting, sweaty work later she pulled out what turned out to be a package wrapped in a plastic sack—probably a garbage bag. Whatever was inside had some bulk, but was almost as light as air. Probably not a bag of gold then. She smiled at her own absurdity.



The digging machine had caught an edge of the sack and made a rip in the plastic. Standing in the trench, Nicole hooked her finger in the hole and tore the opening wide to expose a bundle of deep blue fabric. A small, faded tag caught her eye. Gingerly, she touched the fragile bit of paper and leaned over the markings. A faint musky smell brushed her nostrils, and her eyes widened. Enough of the letters remained legible to make out the words Jan's Sewing Room. Whatever was in here had been wrapped in yard goods from her grandmother's store.



A chill feathered across Nicole's skin. Suddenly, she wasn't so eager to see what was inside. But she was in this too far; she had to look now. Gently, Nicole rolled the package over and over, releasing layers of fabric. Finally, the contents lay plain to see.



Oxygen fled her lungs. She blinked and stared.



Not a dog. No, not at all.



Someone had buried a baby in her grandparents' backyard!



Nicole's head swam, and she gripped the side of the trench, whimpering. Her fingers clawed into the cool earth. Could Grandma Jan have had a miscarriage or a stillbirth? But wouldn't those remains be placed in a cemetery with an official headstone? No whisper of such a family tragedy had reached her ears as she grew up. How about an abortion? Nicole shook her head. These remains were too large for some furtive termination of a rejected pregnancy. This child had probably been at least several months old. And he or she must have been buried here for a long time. Had Grandpa known what precious treasure lay beneath his roses?



What kind of question was that? She shook herself. Of course, Grandpa couldn't have known. He would never have—



"Nicole, I've been calling you to come in for supper. I—" Her grandmother's voice behind her ended in a sharp gasp.



Time suspended like a clock's pendulum gone still.



Nicole finally sucked in a breath, as Grandma Jan let out a shrill cry.



"Oh, no!" The elderly woman's cracked wail held every second of her seventy-five years of existence. "I can't believe it! I never thought… It can't be."



Nicole turned to find her grandmother scuttling away in a half crouch, as if someone had struck her in the stomach, but she must ignore the pain and flee. Grandma was clearly surprised the remains were in her yard, yet she knew something about them. What?



Nicole heaved herself out of the trench and followed, calling for her grandmother to stop. The woman didn't acknowledge that she'd heard. Nicole trailed her through the kitchen and up the hallway. The older woman could move surprisingly fast. Grandma darted into her bedroom, and slammed the door in Nicole's face, barely missing her nose.



Nicole gaped at the closed portal. "What's going on? Whose remains are those?"



"I'm not sure, dear." The thin response carried faintly.



The sound of drawers slamming and the rustling of papers reached Nicole's ears. What was her grandmother looking for?



"I have to call the police." Nicole leaned her forehead against the door panel.



"Do what you need to do, honey. Let me be, now."



On reluctant feet, Nicole went to the kitchen and lifted the telephone receiver. Why was her grandmother lying to her? And what was she rummaging for in the bedroom? Something to do with the child in the rose garden?



Nicole had come to the quiet community of Ellington— to this home she'd known as a haven since childhood—in order to rebuild her life after a devastating loss. More than that, she'd come to look after her only close living relative in the waning years of the woman's life. What might happen to both of them the minute she placed this phone call to the police station?



Police Chief Rich Hendricks caught the coded call-out from the dispatcher on his police scanner at home. He immediately phoned the station for details not given over the radio, and then abandoned his half-eaten, fast-food cheeseburger. Small loss. No fun scarfing down meals alone all the time anyway. With his wife, Karen, having passed away three years ago and his daughter, Katrina, newly graduated and off to summer Bible camp as a counselor, life had turned pretty blah. A case like this broke up the routine big-time, but it wasn't the kind of excitement he welcomed.



A baby's bones found in a trench? When he took the chief job here in Ellington, he researched the town, particularly the criminal history. This little burg hadn't had a mystery this big since Simon Elling's infant son was kidnapped in 1957 and never recovered. Had the child just been found? And in the Kellers' backyard, no less!



Bouncing over the rough terrain on the dug-up streets, Rich's SUV turned onto Tenth Street. The Keller colonial lay up ahead. Looked as if he was the first unit on the scene, but then, he only lived a few blocks away.



A slender, dark-haired woman stood slump-shouldered beside a bundle on the ground. Nicole Mattson, Jan's granddaughter. She moved to town only a couple of weeks ago, presumably to start a new life a few months after her Minneapolis police-officer husband was killed in a shootout with a team of serial bank robbers. The guy was a bonafide hero, decorated and everything, but that didn't make Nicole any less a widow. He sympathized.



Welcome to Ellington.



Rich snorted. This was not the way he'd hoped to be introduced to this woman. He'd been eyeing her from afar, giving her space to settle in and time for the sharpest pangs of loss to subside. Since Karen's passing, Nicole was the first female to spark his interest in dating again…and now he had to approach her in cop mode.



He cruised the SUV to the nonexistent curb, grabbed his interview notebook and got out. She gazed at him, brow furrowed above deep brown eyes. He glanced down at his jeans and Minnesota Vikings T-shirt.



"Sorry." He sent her a muted smile. "This caught me off duty at home. You must be Nicole, Jan's granddaughter. I'm Police Chief Rich Hendricks." He held out his hand.

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Excerpt - Danger on Her Doorstep by Rachelle McCalla

Danger on Her Doorstep

by

Rachelle McCalla



Her father's death didn't seem suspicious. Yet Maggie Arnold can't deny that there's something odd about the old Victorian house he was working on when he died. The house that Maggie has now inherited. All she wants is to finish the renovations, sell the house and leave Holyoake, Iowa…but that's easier said than done. The only handyman in town who steps up to help her is Gideon Bromley—a man no one in Holyoake wants to trust. And just beyond every corner hides the person determined to keep them both away from the house…for good.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Maggie Arnold felt uneasy about being alone in the old house on Shady Oak Lane, and it wasn't just because her father died here. The rambling old building was full of sheet-draped furniture which hunkered in the shadows.



But it was now or never. She had to push her fears aside and get the project started if she ever wanted to leave this house behind her. She pulled out her phone.



In her haste, Maggie had the call ringing through before she realized she hadn't asked for the name of the handyman whose number her Realtor had given her.



A deep voice answered her call. "Hello?" He sounded strong. Capable. Could she tell that much from one word?



"I'm calling for the handyman," Maggie started, embarrassed that she didn't know his name. "Susan Isakson gave me this number."



"I'll be sure to thank her for the referral. What's the project?" So he was cordial, too.



Maggie's heart gave a little flip, which she told herself was silly. There was no reason for her to get too excited at the sound of a strong man's voice. She just hoped this guy would be able to help her with the house she'd inherited when her father had died a little over two weeks ago.



Otherwise she didn't know where else to turn. "Do you know the old Victorian on Shady Oak Lane?"



The man let out an almost silent groan.



Maggie couldn't stand the idea that she'd lose him so easily. She rushed on. "I know it's a big project, but I'm willing to do a lot of the work myself. If you'd at least come take a look at it, even if you could just do part of it—"



"I can stop by this afternoon."



"You can?" Maggie nearly screeched in her relief. None of the other contractors she'd called had even offered to take a look at the house, and she had to have help—soon.



"Say around four o'clock?"



That was in less than a half hour. "That would be perfect."



"And, let's see…" the deep voice paused "…you're Maggie Arnold, right?"



"Right."



"Okay, see you at four, then."



"See you then." Maggie hung up the phone with a breathless goodbye and leaned her elbows back on the staircase where she sat, looking up the wide-open stairwell at the dizzying pattern of exposed stud walls above her, wondering how the handyman knew her name when she didn't even know his.



Oh, he'd probably heard all about her already. After living in Kansas City since she'd graduated from high school, Maggie wasn't used to Holyoake, Iowa, anymore, where the scant five thousand townspeople knew everything about everybody and who was up to what. No doubt rumors were already flying about her return to town and what would become of the house on Shady Oak Lane.



Most people probably figured she wasn't up to the task of fixing it up. She figured they were probably right.



And this handyman guy—whatever his name was—from his reaction, she could assume he already knew how much trouble the house would be. It was entirely possible he was only stopping by to be nice, and had no real intention of taking on the project. But she had to have his help. Though she'd meant it when she'd said she could help with the work, she didn't know much about construction—just enough to know she wasn't up to tackling the project alone.



And she'd already been turned down by every other contractor in town. Their excuses echoed through her mind. Too busy. No longer in business. Only new construction. No major renovations. And perhaps the most ominous of all: I wouldn't go near that house for anything.



"Neither would I," Maggie whispered to herself, "if it were only up to me." But she didn't have much choice in the matter. The house needed so much work. She looked around her at the aging plaster and woodwork coated with decades of paint. Her eyes fell on a couple of dead bats in the corner of the foyer. At least, she hoped they were dead.



Closing her eyes to the sight, she pictured instead the faces of children who'd been patients in the pediatric ward at the hospital where she worked in Kansas City. The new children's wing addition would be such a blessing to so many. Once she got the house fixed up enough to sell, she could make a large donation to the project and have one of the rooms named after her father. She'd already listed the other rental houses she'd inherited, but her dad had gutted most of the second floor of the old Victorian, and the Realtor had assured her the only way she'd get any profit from the house would be if she returned it to habitable condition first.



"Dear Lord," Maggie prayed, closing her eyes tight against the sight of the overwhelming amount of work that needed to be done, "help me. Please soften this man's heart so he'll be willing to take on this project." She felt a stab of fear as she wondered why this nameless handyman was able to stop by on such short notice. Why wasn't he busy at four in the afternoon?"And please let him be a good man. I don't need any more problems."



Former Sheriff Gideon Bromley slid the phone back into his pocket and made a face, stomping his foot to let out some of the frustration he felt. Why? Why had he just agreed to take a look at Maggie Arnold's project? He knew better, didn't he? But the lawman inside him just couldn't let a case go unsolved—even if he no longer had his badge.



Ever since that morning two weeks before when he'd found Glen Arnold lying facedown on the cellar floor of that old Victorian house, things in his own life had quickly careened out of control. Labor Day weekend had been a busy one. While he'd been busy on the job trying to sort out what had happened at the house on Shady Oak Lane, his own brother had been using him to gain access to information on a meth production investigation that had broken wide-open.



Worst of all, his brother, Bruce, had been the person producing the drugs. While Gideon was distracted investigating Glen Arnold's death, Bruce had covered his tracks by framing innocent people for his own illegal activities. And when the DEA swept in, Bruce had tried to pass the guilt onto Gideon.



Gideon had stepped down from his job as sheriff pending a full inquiry into his involvement with his brother's crimes. At this point, he didn't even know what the status was on Glen Arnold's murder investigation. If he was smart, he'd stay away from anything having to do with the case or the crime scene, including staying as far as possible from the house on Shady Oak Lane.



But Maggie Arnold sounded desperate, and his heart went out to her. Besides, he didn't know what else to do with his time while he waited for the verdict to be handed down. He'd come up with the idea of doing handyman work the week before. Even after hanging up posters and running an ad in the local paper, he hadn't found a single person who wanted the suspended sheriff working on their house.



Though their rejection stung, Gideon understood. They felt betrayed at the thought that the official they'd elected had been running illegal drugs right under their noses. Except that he hadn't been running drugs. That was just Bruce's story.



But of course, everyone believed Bruce. Gideon's much older brother had long been one of the most respected men in town, mostly because he owned a transportation company that was one of the biggest employers in the county. Ironically, it seemed the transportation company had been just one more cog in the wheel in Bruce's meth production and distribution ring. And much of Bruce's well-respected wealth had come from drug money. Though Bruce was now behind bars, his influence remained.



Worst of all, Bruce had used his little brother's position as sheriff as an inside means of gathering information so he could stay one step ahead of any investigation that might have uncovered his illegal activities. While Gideon had been at the house on Shady Oak Lane, Bruce had been at the sheriff's station, supposedly waiting to see him, but actually monitoring the progress of the drug investigation.



The old Victorian on Shady Oak Lane had been the wrong place for him to be that weekend. Unfortunately, there was no way he could go back in time and do things differently. All he could do was press on.



As he pulled on his work boots and made sure he had whatever tools he might need, Gideon decided it didn't matter, really, what had happened at that old house, or how his life had been changed by it. Work was work. And he needed something to fill his time before he drove himself crazy with all his regrets.



At the sound of knocking Maggie looked up from the long list she'd been making of things the house needed done. Through the beveled glass door inset she could clearly see a man's broad-shouldered silhouette. He was early. Was that a good sign?



She didn't know, but scrambled to open the door for him. Giving the age-warped door a couple of hard tugs, she finally popped it open, and extended her hand toward the figure on the other side.



Long fingers closed around her proffered hand. "Hi. You called for a handyman?"



The strong voice sounded the same as it had over the phone, but Maggie couldn't see anything of the man's face against the backdrop of bright sunlight as the autumn afternoon sun blazed low in the sky behind him. She fought the urge to immediately pull back from him. It was a simple handshake. Maggie had shaken hands with hundreds of people since she'd been back, between her father's funeral and all the meetings dealing with his estate. So why did this handshake feel so different? His touch sent her heartbeat racing.



Telling herself she was just nervous about his assessment of the overwhelming remodeling project, she pulled her hand away and practically leaped back into the foyer to make room for him to step inside. "Thanks for stopping by. Come on in. Have you ever been in this house before?"



"Uh, yes," the deep voice rumbled. "Yes, actually. Just a couple of weeks ago."



As she closed the door behind him, Maggie blinked back the glaring red that had imprinted on her retinas. She looked up at the man who seemed to fill the large foyer, wishing her vision would clear so she could see his face. Her heart was still hammering inside her, and the way his wide shoulders loomed over her didn't help. Though part of his height could be attributed to his thick-heeled work boots, the man was still close to six feet tall—much taller than her squat five foot two. And kind of scary since they were alone on the outskirts of town, in the house where her father had died.



Chastising herself for letting her fear get the better of her, she startled as the face above her came into focus. The square chin had a deep cleft in the middle that was mirrored by the ridge between his arched black brows. He had a fierce, hard face. Dark eyes glinted down at her as Maggie recognized the man. A jolt of panic sped through her.



No! She wished she could push him back out of her house, but the door was already closed behind her. Did he still hate her after all these years? Did he still blame her father for what had happened two decades before?



"Gideon." The name dropped from her lips in a lifeless whisper. What was he doing here, anyway? "I thought you were the sheriff." Her eyes narrowed as her fear-frozen brain started working again. But no, she'd heard people talking…



"I was. Two weeks ago when I called you with the news about your father, I was the sheriff. I've stepped down pending an investigation into my involvement in a meth production ring that was operating out of Holyoake County."



That was what she'd heard about him. Everyone had been talking about it at the funeral. "Did you do it?" The question escaped before her stunned consciousness could hold it back.



While she watched, Gideon's full lips bent upward in an amused expression, chasing the hardness from his face until he smiled right up to his eyes. A chuckle burst from him, surprising her. "You know, I think you're the first person who's ever actually asked me that. Everyone else just assumed I'm guilty."



Maggie tittered nervously along. The man didn't look quite so intimidating when he smiled, though she could see how he'd make a great lawman. Probably scared the daylights out of the bad guys.



Gideon's laughter faded quickly, and he explained, "Actually, I didn't do any of the things they're accusing me of. I knew there were drugs coming out of this county, but I had no idea my brother was the person behind their production. And to my shame, I was oblivious that he was using me to get the information he needed to make sure his operation went undetected." The smile disappeared, replaced by a much more frightening jaded expression. "Not that my innocence will make one bit of difference against the evidence he's stacked up against me."



"So, you don't think you'll get your job back?" Maggie tried to keep the uneasy shiver out of her voice. She almost succeeded.



"Doubt it. I'll probably go to prison instead." He stepped back and looked around him, obviously done discussing the subject. "Where do you want to start?"



Maggie followed his lead and looked around, feeling lost in the midst of the multitude of projects the house would need to have finished before it could be sold. New plumbing, new walls, new.everything. She gulped.



Gideon spun back around from his survey of the foyer and faced her. "Unless you don't want an accused man working on your house. You can tell me to get lost. I'd understand."



He'd somehow ended up closer to her, and Maggie could see the pain behind his brown-black eyes. Up until she'd recognized him, she'd been praying with all her might the handyman would be willing to work on the house. Now she wasn't sure what she wanted. "You're not just offering that because you don't want the headache of taking on this project, are you?" she asked him directly. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to have anything to do with this place."

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Excerpt - Facelift by Leanna Ellis

Facelift

by

Leanna Ellis



In life and love, we could all stand a few nips and tucks . . .



Kaye Redmond, a "can do" kind of woman, has the magical touch when it comes to staging houses to attract buyers. Her ability to make things "perfect" has served her well in her career. If only it could transform her personal life as well. With a failed marriage, an angry teenage daughter, and an ex-mother-in-law who is no fairy godmother, Kaye's life is about as imperfect as it gets.



But sometimes blessings come in the strangest packages. Like her ex-mother-in-law landing on Kaye's doorstep after a botched facelift. Could caring for the impossible woman help Kaye get what she wants most: her husband back? Isn't that what God would want? And what her daughter needs? But no fairy princess ever faced such obstacles: an ex-husband's surgically enhanced mistress, hormonal teenagers, and--worst of all--an extra handsome prince! How's a woman supposed to find happily-ever-after with all that going on?



Download the .pdf of the first chapter here.



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Excerpt - Holiday Havoc by Terri Reed and Stephanie Newton

Camy here: Because I know you're not yet tired of Christmas stories, make sure you get this before it's no longer on the shelves!



Holiday Havoc

by

Terri Reed and Stephanie Newton



Mayhem and mistletoe share the holiday in these two suspenseful stories



Yuletide Sanctuary by Terri Reed



A cry for help shatters youth counselor Sean Matthews's quiet Christmas night. He saves Lauren Curtis from her attacker—for now. But the vengeful man on her trail won't be held at bay for long….



Christmas Target by Stephanie Newton



She hadn't wanted the contest "prize" in the first place. But when police officer Maria Fuentes arrives for the holiday vacation she won, she finds much more than expected. Her "date"—handsome weatherman Ben Storm—is in danger, and Maria is the only protector he'll trust.



Excerpt of chapter one:





From the top of a sandy berm skirting the beach, the man barely noticed the bitter cold or the churning surf of the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Oregon. His focus remained on his target.



A feral smile curved his scarred mouth. He couldn't have planned their reunion better. Seemed fate was on his side. Finally. His prey, who'd ruined his life, was alone and vulnerable. Just how he liked his women.



She was just up ahead, walking down the deserted beach with a sketch pad tucked under her arm. Her dark hair whipped about her head in the chilling December wind.



Time was of the essence. It would only be a matter of hours before his ruse was discovered.



His pulse sped up as he shuffled through the tall scrub grass, keeping his gaze fixed on her. On Lauren.



The burning need to avenge his pain seethed white-hot in his veins. Patience, he cautioned himself. He had to capture her quickly and carefully in case some nosy busybody looking out the window of their insulated, Christmas-festooned little home decided to interfere.



He stuck his hand inside the pocket of his long, black leather coat and fingered the syringe of ketamine he'd stolen from a veterinarian clinic outside Burbank. He'd intended to use it on Lauren's mother. Unfortunately, the old bat hadn't been home when he'd broken in. But he'd learned where to find Lauren just the same while tossing the place. He'd then stolen a motorcycle and had ridden straight through from L.A. to this sleepy little Oregon town.



And now Lauren was only a hundred yards away from him, totally unaware that her life was about to end in a drawn-out masterpiece of torture. The familiar thrill of the kill rushed through his body. His breath quickened and the sound of it mingled with the roar of the surf.



Rushing water greedily devoured the beach. The rising tide ebbed and flowed, closer and closer to where she walked. Like him. Closer and closer.



A hulking rock loomed ahead with barnacle crusted tide pools at its base visible in the waning evening light. The waves swelled as the wind picked up. The salty air dampened his clothes and filled his nostrils. The man reached the flat sand of the beach, his scarred legs protesting the excursion. He ignored the pain as he pushed himself to move faster.



Soon, very soon, the plans he'd meticulously plotted over the past five years would come to fruition. Revenge would taste sweet.



As sweet as Lauren's tears.



A woman's sharp, desperate cry broke through Sean Matthews's jogger's trance.



His heart lurched and beach sand sprayed, stinging his shins as his long stride shortened abruptly. Mind racing through possible emergencies, he swung his attention toward the bluff above him.



In the twilight of dusk, it was difficult to spot anything beyond the interior lights that randomly dotted the windows and the strings of colored Christmas lights decorating the eaves of the resorts and cottages of the small town of Cannon Beach. High berms covered with tall grass provided a barrier between the buildings and the ocean. He didn't see anyone.



His gaze scanned the coastline, taking in Haystack Rock, a 235-foot monolith jutting out of the surf. The rising tide stirred the cold swells into white, foam-capped waves that rushed up toward the dryer sand and then quickly retreated, leaving wet, dark patterns in their wake. Mist blowing in on the evening breeze dampened Sean's hair and cooled his sweat until a chill chased down his spine.



Overhead, a gull's caw echoed the scream he'd heard.



He frowned. He hadn't imagined the cry, had he?



He scanned the area once again.



Wait!



His gaze snagged on two figures up ahead. A woman ran through the tide pools toward Sean. A man, dressed in a long black coat with a black beanie covering his head and a scarf wrapped around most of his face, was chasing her. The woman slipped, landing hard on rocks. She cried out.



As the man lunged for the woman, something glinted in his hand. She swung her arms, trying to fend him off. She lifted her head, her gaze seeming to bore right into Sean.



"Help! Help me!" she cried.



Sean's gut clenched. This was no couple romping through wavelets. The woman was in trouble. Reflex-ively, he reached inside his sweatshirt pocket for his cell phone but came up empty. Frustration spiraled through him. He'd left the thing in his truck parked at the edge of the public access road.



Knowing he was the only help available, Sean sprang into action, his feet thwacking against the sand as he ran toward the man. "Hey, hey! Leave her alone."



The man paused and swung his head toward Sean. Though Sean couldn't make out the attacker's features, there was no mistaking the malice in his dark eyes before he scrambled away and ran in the opposite direction, moving with an odd but fast gait toward the sandbank. He quickly disappeared into the tall grass.



Sean navigated a slippery, algae-covered tide pool to where the woman, seated in a puddle, was violently struggling to yank her pinned ankle from a rock crevice. She was petite with delicate features and brunette hair falling past her shoulders. She visibly shivered in her wet pink sport jacket and sweatpants.



Lord, show me how to help this woman.



Sean knelt down next to her and met her gaze. Her toffee-colored eyes brimmed with panic and wariness. "It's going to be okay," he said. "Do you have a cell phone with you?"



"I do." She reached into her jacket pocket and came up empty. "It must have fallen out." Panic echoed in her words as she continued to wrestle with her trapped foot.



Calling 911 would have to wait until they reached his truck.



"Let me try to get your foot out."



"Did you see him?" She stopped struggling and braced her hands against the mussel-encrusted lava rock.



Sean searched her face. "That man who attacked you? Yes."



She lifted a hand to her forehead. "I didn't imagine him."



Okay, that was weird. "He was real. Do you know him?"



She shook her head, her dark bangs sticking to her high forehead. Even wet and bedraggled, she was pretty in a natural, girl-next-door way. "No. I mean, yes. No. It just couldn't be." She glanced over her shoulder. "Please, tell me he's gone. Of course he's gone. He's in prison. No way could he have gotten out." She started to rock slightly.



She wasn't making sense; maybe the trauma of being attacked had been too much for her. The need to take care of her rose sharply in Sean. He fought the inclination. He'd come to this small community so he wouldn't have to take responsibility for anyone ever again, but he couldn't fight who he was any more than he could have let that man attack her without stepping in.



Sean had to set her free and get her help. Turning his focus to her foot, he noticed that her ankle was trapped between a deep red starfish, jagged black rock and white barnacles. Using his fingers for leverage, he pried at one of the prickly limbs of the starfish, his nose filling with the pungent scent of decay and brine as he pulled. The sharp, pointy bumps of the outer body bit into his cold fingers as he tugged and twisted, but the creature wouldn't budge.



Frustration and disappointment chomped through him. He contemplated his next move. Water crashed over the bed of lava rock, filling the various pools as the tide rolled in. Soon the whole area would be completely under water. He wrested a mussel shell free from the rock and sharpened its edge against the coarse stone.



The chatter of the woman's teeth echoed in his ears. He paused before pulling off the sweatshirt covering his running T-shirt. "Take off your wet jacket and put this on."



Her pale hand, the fingertips smudged black, clutched at the neck of her fleece jacket. "I can't."



"I'll help you." He leaned toward her and reached for the zipper.



She drew back with a squawk.



He held up his hands. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. Do you have something on under your jacket?"



"A tank top. But that doesn't mean I'm going to take off my jacket." Her brown eyes flashed with warning.



Sean sighed, a mixture of empathy and irritation running hot in his veins. Modesty shouldn't be a priority at a time like this. "You're soaked and freezing. A prime candidate for hypothermia. Here." He pushed his sweatshirt into her hands. "Put this on while I try to get this starfish to let go."



He turned away from her and quickly forced the sharpened edge of the shell beneath one of the rays. He needed to hurry. The sun had begun its descent beneath the horizon. Soon it would be dark and he'd be working blind.



Next to him, he could hear her struggling. The frustrated exhales. The sharp gasps of air.



"You okay?" he asked.



She huffed. "No. I guess I'll need your help." Resignation echoed in her words. "The zipper's…well, stuck."



He turned toward her again, fiddling with the zipper until it gave way. Her right hand braced against the rock, she lifted her left arm so Sean could yank off the jacket. As he moved to pull the rest of the light coat away, she grabbed his sweatshirt from her lap and held it against the bright yellow tank top.



Why was she so modest, especially in the midst of an emergency?



Sean quickly pulled the wet jacket from her right arm.



Then he knew.



Red, puckered flesh marred the skin running from her forearm to the top of her shoulder and disappeared into her sleeveless shirt. He sucked in a quick breath.



Please, Father, not again.



Lauren Curtis dropped her gaze to the dark, porous lava rock.



She couldn't stand to see the pity and revulsion her scars always generated. And this big, thoughtful man was no different from everyone else. Precisely why no one, save her doctors, was allowed to see her ugliness.



Oh, Lord, why did this have to happen?



As she had a thousand times before, she sent the question upward. But for the first time in five years, she wasn't referring to the horrible nightmare that had derailed her life and killed her dreams. Now she referred to this moment in time.



When her nightmare had reappeared.



She bit her lip. But it just couldn't be.



Once again she glanced over her shoulder, unsurprised that no one was there. The man who had attacked her wasn't Adrian. Adrian was locked up for the rest of his life. She'd been reassured of that over and over again, every time she called the police in a panic, when she'd thought she was being followed or that someone had broken into her home. She'd called so many times in the last five years that it was embarrassing, but their reply never changed. Adrian was in jail. She was safe. So why didn't she feel safe?



She trembled and quickly pulled her rescuer's sweatshirt over her head, then tugged it down to her waist, out of the water's reach. His scent wafted from the well-worn material. Spicy and very, very masculine. She snuggled into the too-large sweatshirt, the fleece inside soft and warm against her cold skin, and prayed he could help her.



"Thank you for giving up your sweatshirt," she whispered, glancing up. She met his clear blue gaze, so like a summer sky. He regarded her with cautious kindness.



"No problem. I'm Sean Matthews."



She liked his name almost as much as she liked his deep baritone voice. "I'm Lauren. Lauren Curtis."



"Hi, Lauren." He held her gaze for a moment before turning his attention back to her predicament.



In the waning light, she watched his arms bunch and flex as his large, capable hands worked at freeing her ankle. She couldn't even feel pain, her flesh was so numb from the frigid water.



"What were you doing out here?" he asked.



"I wanted to sketch the sunset. Then Ad—" She couldn't bring herself to say his name. "That man came charging down the beach at me."



"I saw something in his hand. What was it?"



Lauren thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. I didn't get a good look. I think it may have been a knife."



Sean's jaw tightened. "Do you live around here?"



"Yes. My house is just up the way."



"That guy may have seen you walking alone and followed you," Sean said. "We'll need to report the attack as soon as possible."



Did her assailant know where she lived? Fresh fear congealed in her limbs, turning her blood to ice.



The starfish shifted. Involuntarily, she cried out as her ankle throbbed. To keep her mind from the pain and fear, she asked, "Do you live around here?"



He nodded. "Recently moved."



So he wasn't a longtime local or tourist. A transplant, like herself. "Where are you from?"



He hesitated. His lips pressed together for a moment. "Portland."



"It was a blessing that you were out jogging," Lauren stated.



Was he the type who believed in fate, or did he believe, as she did, that God was the only one in control? Either way, he gave no reply.



The pressure on her ankle eased up the second time the starfish moved.



Sean sat back on his haunches. "Better?"



"Much."



"Can you move your foot at all?"



Pushing her hands against the rocks, she tried to pull herself free. She let out a guttural groan of pain. Her foot remained wedged in the crevice. "I…I can't." She was tired and cold, and frustration beat a steady rhythm at her temple.



Sean nodded. "Relax. I'll keep trying." He continued to pry at the starfish.



Chilled to the core, Lauren realized parts of her were numb. What she wouldn't do for a nice warm shower and her big down comforter.



"Lauren!"



Startled, she blinked and realized she'd rested back onto the rock. Propping herself up on her elbows, she said, "I'm sorry. I'm getting your sweatshirt dirty."



The corner of Sean's mouth lifted in a half smile. "Forget the shirt. Just concentrate on staying upright. I know you're probably in shock, but I really need you to stay focused here."



Lauren studied him as he worked to release her ankle. He was exceptionally handsome with his windblown, thick, dark auburn hair shorn close to his ears, and his strong jaw shadowed by a late-day beard.



Snap out of it, Lauren. He wasn't Prince Charming and she wasn't a damsel in distress. She stifled a scoff. Okay, maybe she was in distress—or more likely hypothermia—but this was no fairy tale. She'd stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.



Her eyes met Sean's raised brow. "It's getting dark," she said inanely.



The sun had disappeared over the horizon and dusk was rapidly turning into night. The roar of the waves echoed across the shore. Normally, Lauren loved the beach at night. She'd found that was the time when she felt most connected to God. Being attacked and then trapped in a tide pool had put a damper on things, however.



"Lauren?"



"Yes?"

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