Camy Tang's Blog, page 160
January 17, 2011
Excerpt - The Perfect Blend by Trish Perry
The Perfect Blendby
Trish Perry
Steph Vandergrift left everything to elope with Middleburg attorney Rick Manfred, who then stood her up at the altar. Too embarrassed to return home, Steph hopes to earn enough to get by until she can decide what to do next. Tea Shop owner Milly Jewel hires her and appreciates the extra help at the tea shop.
Also appreciative of Steph is Kendall James, one of the kindest, most eligible bachelors in the area. But by the time Steph feels able to consider dating again, her run-away fiancé returns and tries to win her back. Steph is wary, but she and Rick always blended so well.
Christie Burnham, the frank-talking equestrian from whom Steph rents a room, and her frillier sister Liz become fast friends and confidantes to Steph. Between the two sisters, there isn't much any man is going to pull over on Middleburg's newest bachelorette and tea shop employee.
Download the .pdf of chapter one here.
Print book:
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Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Excerpt - The Soldier's Mission by Lenora Worth
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!
The Soldier's Mission
by
Lenora Worth
Counseling is more than Laura Walton's job—it's her calling. So when Luke Martinez hangs up abruptly after calling the hotline where she works, Laura won't let it go. She tracks Luke to the Grand Canyon, little knowing she's walking into a heap of trouble. Laura's not the only one tracking Luke, and while she came to help him heal, his other pursuer has murder in mind. Luke thinks he has nothing left to lose until Laura makes him believe—and love—again. Just in time, too, since he'll need all his faith to face this last enemy.
Excerpt of chapter one:
He'd had the dream again.
The stifling desert air burned hot, dirty and dry. The acrid smell of charred metal and scorched wires mixed with the metallic, sickly sweet smell of blood all around him. The sound of rapid-fire machine guns mingled with the screams of pain as, one by one, the men in his unit fell. He saw the horror of a landmine exploding against the jagged rocks of the craggy mountainside where they'd been penned down for forty-eight hours. One misstep and three of his men gone in a flash of searing fire and ear-shattering explosions. The others were taken out as the insurgents fought to the finish.
Then, the eerie sound of a deathly silence as the shooting stopped…and even after all of Luke's efforts to save his wounded men, the moans and cries for help eased away…until there was nothing left but scorched dust lifting out over the rocks.
He was the only man left standing. But he wasn't alone on that mountain. And he knew he'd be dead before dusk.
He'd jolted awake, gasping for air, a cold sweat covering his body, his hands shaking, grasping for his machine gun.
Luke "Paco" Martinez sat up and pushed at his damp hair then searched for the glowing green of the digital clock. 6:00 a.m. Old habits died hard. And a good night's sleep was always just beyond his reach.
Barefoot, his cotton pajama bottoms dragging on the cool linoleum of the tiny trailer's floor, Luke went straight to the coffeepot and hit the brew button. And while he waited for the coffee, he stared at the lone bottle of tequila sitting on the window seal.
Stared and remembered the dream, the nightmare, that wouldn't let him find any rest.
Looking away from the tempting bottle of amber liquid, he instead focused on the distant mountains. The desert and mountains here in Arizona were a contrast against the rocky, unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan. Even though this high desert country was harsh and brutal at times, he could find comfort in the tall prickly saguaros and occasional thickets of Joshua trees and pinon pines growing all around his home. Here, he could run toward the mesas and the mountains and find solace, his questioning prayers echoing inside his head while his feet pounded on the dirt, his mind going numb with each step, each beat of his racing heart. Why was I spared, Lord?
In the dream, Luke screamed his own rage as he moved headlong into the fray, his M4 carbine popping what seemed like a never-ending round on the insurgents hidden in the hills.
In the dream, he always woke up before they killed him.
And because he did wake up and because he was alive to relive that horrible day over and over, he stared at the liquor bottle while he drank his coffee and told himself he could get through this.
Focus on the mountains, Paco.
That's what his grandfather had told him the day he'd come here to wrestle his soul back from the brink. Focus on the mountains.
He was better now, six months after coming home to Arizona. He was getting better each and every day, in spite of the nightmares. He'd even gone on a few short-term missions for CHAIM, the secret organization he'd been a member of since before he'd joined the army.
He was better now. No more drunken binges, no more fights in restaurants and bars. Not as much pain. The army might not believe that, but his fellow CHAIM agents did, thankfully.
He'd be okay, Luke told himself. He just needed a little more time. And a lot more prayers.
So he drained his coffee and put on his running clothes and headed out into the early morning chill of the ever-changing desert, away from the little trailer that was his home now, away from the nightmares and the memories.
And away from that tempting bottle of golden relief.
She couldn't get his voice out of her head.
Laura Walton thought about the man she'd come to the desert to find. The man everyone was worried about. The man who, a few weeks ago, had called the CHAIM hotline in the middle of the night.
"My father died in Vietnam," the grainy, low voice said over the phone line. "My brother was wounded in Desert Storm. He's in a wheelchair now. And I just got back from Afghanistan. Lost my whole unit. Lost everyone. I think I need to talk to somebody."
Laura had been on call that night, volunteering to man the hotline that CHAIM held open for all of its operatives, the world over.
But only one call had come to the Phoenix hotline on that still fall night. One call from a man who was suffering a tremendous amount of survivor's guilt.
Laura understood this kind of guilt. She didn't have survivor's guilt, but her own guilt ate away at her just the same. She'd lost a patient recently. A young patient who'd taken his own life. She'd failed the teenager.
She didn't want to fail Luke Martinez.
The soldier's tormented words, spoken with such raw pain, had stayed with her long after the man had hung up.
Which he did, immediately after confessing that he needed to talk.
It hadn't been easy convincing her CHAIM supervisors in Phoenix to let her go through case files and match the man to the words, then come to this remote spot near the Grand Canyon to find Luke "Paco" Martinez. Nor had it been easy taking time away from the clinic where she worked as a counselor to Christians suffering all sorts of crises.
But this crisis trumped all the rest. This man needed help. Her help. And somehow, in her guilt-laden mind, Laura had decided this was a sign from God to redeem her. She had to find this man. So she'd traced his cell number to this area.
So here she sat in a dump of a roadside café called The Last Stop, hoping she'd find the illusive Paco Martinez, also known as "The Warrior". Fitting name, Laura thought now as she dared to take another sip of the too-dark, too-strong coffee the stoic old man at the counter had poured for her. While she relied on the tip she'd received about Luke coming here every morning for breakfast, Laura went back over his file.
The army neither confirmed nor denied it, but Luke Martinez was reported to be some sort of Special Forces soldier—a shadow warrior—as they were often called. And while the elite Delta Force didn't put a lot of emphasis on rank, preferring to use code names or nicknames instead of stating rank, from what she could glean Martinez was a hero who'd been the lone survivor of a highly secretive mission to rescue two American soldiers trapped behind enemy lines in Afghanistan.
Everything about the mission had gone bad. Luke's team of men had been dropped by helicopter onto the mountain with orders to find the two soldiers and bring them home. After taking one outpost and locating the two badly beaten soldiers, Luke's team had made it back to the pickup spot to wait on a helicopter out. But the enemy had advanced behind them and taken out all of Luke's men, including the two his team has rescued. Things got fuzzy after that, but according to the rumors swirling around, The Warrior had managed not only to escape the men who tried to take him hostage, but he'd killed all of them in the process. And he refused to leave that mountain until the rescue team had recovered all of his men.
Except the one who'd seen all of them die. Luke Martinez had survived and for that, he was suffering mightily.
So he'd come home an unknown hero—that was the code of Special Forces—but Martinez didn't want to be a hero, didn't care that most would never know what he'd tried to do on that mountaintop. He was still in pain, still reeling from losing his team members. Deep inside, he was having a crisis. Post-traumatic stress over losing his men and for what he considered his failure—not bringing the stranded soldiers back safely.
That had caused a bout of serious drinking and many hours spent in jail cells and later with stress counselors and army specialists.
As well as CHAIM counselors such as Laura. His CHAIM team had stood by Luke, with one stipulation. He had to go to their remote retreat center in Ireland— Whelan Castle—for some serious debriefing and counseling sessions. And hopefully, to find some peace.
Luke had agreed. And he'd improved after his three months in Ireland. Then he'd come home to Arizona to rest. But he'd been called out on a mission in Texas to help Shane Warwick, known as The Knight, guard and protect prominent Texas socialite Katherine Atkins.
According to the official report, Luke had done a good job backing up Warwick and they'd brought down not only the woman who was trying to kill Katherine, but a ruthless oil-smuggling cartel to boot.
But this late night phone call had come after Luke had returned from Texas.
Which brought Laura back to the here-and-now. And this stand-on-its-own-legs coffee.
Laura motioned to the old man behind the counter, finding the courage to ask him the one question she'd come here to ask. "Excuse me, sir, do you know a man named Luke Martinez?"
The old man with the silver-black braid going down his back didn't respond to her question. Instead he just stared at her with such opaque eyes, Laura felt as if the man could see into her very soul. "Sir?"
Finally the man shuffled up to the counter, his tanned, aged skin reminding Laura of one of the craggy mountain faces beyond the desert. He wore a white cotton button-down shirt that hung like a tunic on his body, giving him the look of someone on their way to a fiesta.
Before she could ask the question again, he leaned forward, his frown as stand-up as the coffee. "Would you like some pie with that coffee?"
Surprised, Laura shook her head. "Ah, no thanks. I had a granola bar in the car. About the man I'm looking for—"
"Can't help you there," the old man replied, turning before Laura could finish the sentence.
But the old man didn't need to help her. The rickety screen door flapped open and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rising, felt his eyes on her even before she looked into the aged mirror running along the back wall and saw his reflection there. Completely paralyzed with confusion and doubt, she lowered her gaze then heard that distinctive voice without turning to face him.
"I'll take some pie, Grandfather." He advanced toward Laura. "And while you're getting my pie, I'll ask this pretty lady why she's trying so hard to find me."
Luke stood perfectly still, his senses on edge while he analyzed the woman sitting at the counter. Her brown hair fell around her face and shoulders in soft waves. She wore a sensible beige lightweight sweater, a faded pair of jeans and hiking boots. Interesting. He could smell her perfume, a mixture of sweet flowers and vanilla. Nice.
Then she turned to face him and Luke's gaze caught hers, the deep blue of her eyes reminding him of a mountain sky just before dusk. The look in those eyes amused him even while it destroyed him. She was afraid of him. And she probably had good reason.
"Mr. Martinez?"
Her voice was soft but firm. She quickly recovered from her first glimpse, Luke noted. She got points for that, at least. Most people just ran the other way when he scowled at them.
"Paco," he replied. "That's what everyone around here calls me."
She reached out a dainty hand, her nails clean and painted with a clear sparkle of polish, her fingers devoid of rings. "I'm Laura Walton."
Luke took her hand for a second then let it go, her perfume warming his fingers. "Okay. You already know me and now I know your name. Why are you here?"
She leaned in then glanced around the nearly empty diner. "I'm… from CHAIM."
He liked the way she pronounced it—"Chi-Im", with the CH sounding more like a K using the Hebrew enunciation. He did not like that she was here.
Luke pushed a hand through his hair and sat down beside her, the weight of his body causing the old spinning stool to squeak and groan. "Coffee, Grandfather, please. And two pieces of buttermilk pie."
"I don't want pie."
Luke didn't argue with her. "Make that one piece and two forks, Grandfather." He waited for his pretending-not-to-be-interested grandfather to bring the requested food. Then he shoved one fork at her and took his own to attack the creamy yellow-crusted pie. "Eat."
She looked down at the plate then picked up the fork. "I don't eat sweets."
"Try it."
Luke took his time eating his own side of the pie. Then he sipped the dark brew, his gaze hitting at hers in the old, pot-marked mirror running behind the cluttered counter. "Now, why are you here?"
She chewed a nibble of pie then swallowed, her eyes opening big while she slanted a gaze toward him. "One of your friends was concerned."
"I don't have a lot of friends."
"The Knight," she said on a low whisper.
"Just saw him a few weeks ago."
"I know. He wanted to make sure you were okay."
Luke knew she wasn't telling him the whole story. He'd talked to Shane Warwick two days ago. The man was crazy in love and making big plans for his upcoming Texas spring wedding. Shane was going to repeat the vows he'd spoken in England—to the same woman he'd married in England. He'd called Luke to invite him to the wedding but Shane had asked Luke how he was doing. Polite conversation or pointed inquiry?
"Who are you?" he asked, this time all the smile gone out of the question. "And don't lie to me, lady."
Laura swallowed down more coffee, hoping it would give her more courage. "I told you, I'm from CHAIM."
"Who really sent you?"
Laura couldn't hide the truth. "I…I came on my own. I mean, I got clearance to come but I asked to come and see you."
His smile was so quick and full of stealth, she almost missed it. But if he ever did really smile, Laura believed it would do her in for good. The man was an interesting paradox of good-looking coupled with dangerous and scary. His dark hair, longer than army regulations allowed since he was usually undercover, sliced in damp inky lines across his scarred face and around his muscled neck. His eyes were onyx, dark and rich and unreadable. His skin was as aged and marked as tanned leather. It rippled over hard muscle and solid strength each time he moved. He wore a black T-shirt and soft-washed jeans over battered boots. And he smelled fresh and clean, as if he'd just stepped out of a secret waterfall somewhere.
His gaze cut from her to the mirror, watching, always watching the door of the diner.
"Why did you feel you had to come and see me?"
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
The Soldier's Missionby
Lenora Worth
Counseling is more than Laura Walton's job—it's her calling. So when Luke Martinez hangs up abruptly after calling the hotline where she works, Laura won't let it go. She tracks Luke to the Grand Canyon, little knowing she's walking into a heap of trouble. Laura's not the only one tracking Luke, and while she came to help him heal, his other pursuer has murder in mind. Luke thinks he has nothing left to lose until Laura makes him believe—and love—again. Just in time, too, since he'll need all his faith to face this last enemy.
Excerpt of chapter one:
He'd had the dream again.
The stifling desert air burned hot, dirty and dry. The acrid smell of charred metal and scorched wires mixed with the metallic, sickly sweet smell of blood all around him. The sound of rapid-fire machine guns mingled with the screams of pain as, one by one, the men in his unit fell. He saw the horror of a landmine exploding against the jagged rocks of the craggy mountainside where they'd been penned down for forty-eight hours. One misstep and three of his men gone in a flash of searing fire and ear-shattering explosions. The others were taken out as the insurgents fought to the finish.
Then, the eerie sound of a deathly silence as the shooting stopped…and even after all of Luke's efforts to save his wounded men, the moans and cries for help eased away…until there was nothing left but scorched dust lifting out over the rocks.
He was the only man left standing. But he wasn't alone on that mountain. And he knew he'd be dead before dusk.
He'd jolted awake, gasping for air, a cold sweat covering his body, his hands shaking, grasping for his machine gun.
Luke "Paco" Martinez sat up and pushed at his damp hair then searched for the glowing green of the digital clock. 6:00 a.m. Old habits died hard. And a good night's sleep was always just beyond his reach.
Barefoot, his cotton pajama bottoms dragging on the cool linoleum of the tiny trailer's floor, Luke went straight to the coffeepot and hit the brew button. And while he waited for the coffee, he stared at the lone bottle of tequila sitting on the window seal.
Stared and remembered the dream, the nightmare, that wouldn't let him find any rest.
Looking away from the tempting bottle of amber liquid, he instead focused on the distant mountains. The desert and mountains here in Arizona were a contrast against the rocky, unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan. Even though this high desert country was harsh and brutal at times, he could find comfort in the tall prickly saguaros and occasional thickets of Joshua trees and pinon pines growing all around his home. Here, he could run toward the mesas and the mountains and find solace, his questioning prayers echoing inside his head while his feet pounded on the dirt, his mind going numb with each step, each beat of his racing heart. Why was I spared, Lord?
In the dream, Luke screamed his own rage as he moved headlong into the fray, his M4 carbine popping what seemed like a never-ending round on the insurgents hidden in the hills.
In the dream, he always woke up before they killed him.
And because he did wake up and because he was alive to relive that horrible day over and over, he stared at the liquor bottle while he drank his coffee and told himself he could get through this.
Focus on the mountains, Paco.
That's what his grandfather had told him the day he'd come here to wrestle his soul back from the brink. Focus on the mountains.
He was better now, six months after coming home to Arizona. He was getting better each and every day, in spite of the nightmares. He'd even gone on a few short-term missions for CHAIM, the secret organization he'd been a member of since before he'd joined the army.
He was better now. No more drunken binges, no more fights in restaurants and bars. Not as much pain. The army might not believe that, but his fellow CHAIM agents did, thankfully.
He'd be okay, Luke told himself. He just needed a little more time. And a lot more prayers.
So he drained his coffee and put on his running clothes and headed out into the early morning chill of the ever-changing desert, away from the little trailer that was his home now, away from the nightmares and the memories.
And away from that tempting bottle of golden relief.
She couldn't get his voice out of her head.
Laura Walton thought about the man she'd come to the desert to find. The man everyone was worried about. The man who, a few weeks ago, had called the CHAIM hotline in the middle of the night.
"My father died in Vietnam," the grainy, low voice said over the phone line. "My brother was wounded in Desert Storm. He's in a wheelchair now. And I just got back from Afghanistan. Lost my whole unit. Lost everyone. I think I need to talk to somebody."
Laura had been on call that night, volunteering to man the hotline that CHAIM held open for all of its operatives, the world over.
But only one call had come to the Phoenix hotline on that still fall night. One call from a man who was suffering a tremendous amount of survivor's guilt.
Laura understood this kind of guilt. She didn't have survivor's guilt, but her own guilt ate away at her just the same. She'd lost a patient recently. A young patient who'd taken his own life. She'd failed the teenager.
She didn't want to fail Luke Martinez.
The soldier's tormented words, spoken with such raw pain, had stayed with her long after the man had hung up.
Which he did, immediately after confessing that he needed to talk.
It hadn't been easy convincing her CHAIM supervisors in Phoenix to let her go through case files and match the man to the words, then come to this remote spot near the Grand Canyon to find Luke "Paco" Martinez. Nor had it been easy taking time away from the clinic where she worked as a counselor to Christians suffering all sorts of crises.
But this crisis trumped all the rest. This man needed help. Her help. And somehow, in her guilt-laden mind, Laura had decided this was a sign from God to redeem her. She had to find this man. So she'd traced his cell number to this area.
So here she sat in a dump of a roadside café called The Last Stop, hoping she'd find the illusive Paco Martinez, also known as "The Warrior". Fitting name, Laura thought now as she dared to take another sip of the too-dark, too-strong coffee the stoic old man at the counter had poured for her. While she relied on the tip she'd received about Luke coming here every morning for breakfast, Laura went back over his file.
The army neither confirmed nor denied it, but Luke Martinez was reported to be some sort of Special Forces soldier—a shadow warrior—as they were often called. And while the elite Delta Force didn't put a lot of emphasis on rank, preferring to use code names or nicknames instead of stating rank, from what she could glean Martinez was a hero who'd been the lone survivor of a highly secretive mission to rescue two American soldiers trapped behind enemy lines in Afghanistan.
Everything about the mission had gone bad. Luke's team of men had been dropped by helicopter onto the mountain with orders to find the two soldiers and bring them home. After taking one outpost and locating the two badly beaten soldiers, Luke's team had made it back to the pickup spot to wait on a helicopter out. But the enemy had advanced behind them and taken out all of Luke's men, including the two his team has rescued. Things got fuzzy after that, but according to the rumors swirling around, The Warrior had managed not only to escape the men who tried to take him hostage, but he'd killed all of them in the process. And he refused to leave that mountain until the rescue team had recovered all of his men.
Except the one who'd seen all of them die. Luke Martinez had survived and for that, he was suffering mightily.
So he'd come home an unknown hero—that was the code of Special Forces—but Martinez didn't want to be a hero, didn't care that most would never know what he'd tried to do on that mountaintop. He was still in pain, still reeling from losing his team members. Deep inside, he was having a crisis. Post-traumatic stress over losing his men and for what he considered his failure—not bringing the stranded soldiers back safely.
That had caused a bout of serious drinking and many hours spent in jail cells and later with stress counselors and army specialists.
As well as CHAIM counselors such as Laura. His CHAIM team had stood by Luke, with one stipulation. He had to go to their remote retreat center in Ireland— Whelan Castle—for some serious debriefing and counseling sessions. And hopefully, to find some peace.
Luke had agreed. And he'd improved after his three months in Ireland. Then he'd come home to Arizona to rest. But he'd been called out on a mission in Texas to help Shane Warwick, known as The Knight, guard and protect prominent Texas socialite Katherine Atkins.
According to the official report, Luke had done a good job backing up Warwick and they'd brought down not only the woman who was trying to kill Katherine, but a ruthless oil-smuggling cartel to boot.
But this late night phone call had come after Luke had returned from Texas.
Which brought Laura back to the here-and-now. And this stand-on-its-own-legs coffee.
Laura motioned to the old man behind the counter, finding the courage to ask him the one question she'd come here to ask. "Excuse me, sir, do you know a man named Luke Martinez?"
The old man with the silver-black braid going down his back didn't respond to her question. Instead he just stared at her with such opaque eyes, Laura felt as if the man could see into her very soul. "Sir?"
Finally the man shuffled up to the counter, his tanned, aged skin reminding Laura of one of the craggy mountain faces beyond the desert. He wore a white cotton button-down shirt that hung like a tunic on his body, giving him the look of someone on their way to a fiesta.
Before she could ask the question again, he leaned forward, his frown as stand-up as the coffee. "Would you like some pie with that coffee?"
Surprised, Laura shook her head. "Ah, no thanks. I had a granola bar in the car. About the man I'm looking for—"
"Can't help you there," the old man replied, turning before Laura could finish the sentence.
But the old man didn't need to help her. The rickety screen door flapped open and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rising, felt his eyes on her even before she looked into the aged mirror running along the back wall and saw his reflection there. Completely paralyzed with confusion and doubt, she lowered her gaze then heard that distinctive voice without turning to face him.
"I'll take some pie, Grandfather." He advanced toward Laura. "And while you're getting my pie, I'll ask this pretty lady why she's trying so hard to find me."
Luke stood perfectly still, his senses on edge while he analyzed the woman sitting at the counter. Her brown hair fell around her face and shoulders in soft waves. She wore a sensible beige lightweight sweater, a faded pair of jeans and hiking boots. Interesting. He could smell her perfume, a mixture of sweet flowers and vanilla. Nice.
Then she turned to face him and Luke's gaze caught hers, the deep blue of her eyes reminding him of a mountain sky just before dusk. The look in those eyes amused him even while it destroyed him. She was afraid of him. And she probably had good reason.
"Mr. Martinez?"
Her voice was soft but firm. She quickly recovered from her first glimpse, Luke noted. She got points for that, at least. Most people just ran the other way when he scowled at them.
"Paco," he replied. "That's what everyone around here calls me."
She reached out a dainty hand, her nails clean and painted with a clear sparkle of polish, her fingers devoid of rings. "I'm Laura Walton."
Luke took her hand for a second then let it go, her perfume warming his fingers. "Okay. You already know me and now I know your name. Why are you here?"
She leaned in then glanced around the nearly empty diner. "I'm… from CHAIM."
He liked the way she pronounced it—"Chi-Im", with the CH sounding more like a K using the Hebrew enunciation. He did not like that she was here.
Luke pushed a hand through his hair and sat down beside her, the weight of his body causing the old spinning stool to squeak and groan. "Coffee, Grandfather, please. And two pieces of buttermilk pie."
"I don't want pie."
Luke didn't argue with her. "Make that one piece and two forks, Grandfather." He waited for his pretending-not-to-be-interested grandfather to bring the requested food. Then he shoved one fork at her and took his own to attack the creamy yellow-crusted pie. "Eat."
She looked down at the plate then picked up the fork. "I don't eat sweets."
"Try it."
Luke took his time eating his own side of the pie. Then he sipped the dark brew, his gaze hitting at hers in the old, pot-marked mirror running behind the cluttered counter. "Now, why are you here?"
She chewed a nibble of pie then swallowed, her eyes opening big while she slanted a gaze toward him. "One of your friends was concerned."
"I don't have a lot of friends."
"The Knight," she said on a low whisper.
"Just saw him a few weeks ago."
"I know. He wanted to make sure you were okay."
Luke knew she wasn't telling him the whole story. He'd talked to Shane Warwick two days ago. The man was crazy in love and making big plans for his upcoming Texas spring wedding. Shane was going to repeat the vows he'd spoken in England—to the same woman he'd married in England. He'd called Luke to invite him to the wedding but Shane had asked Luke how he was doing. Polite conversation or pointed inquiry?
"Who are you?" he asked, this time all the smile gone out of the question. "And don't lie to me, lady."
Laura swallowed down more coffee, hoping it would give her more courage. "I told you, I'm from CHAIM."
"Who really sent you?"
Laura couldn't hide the truth. "I…I came on my own. I mean, I got clearance to come but I asked to come and see you."
His smile was so quick and full of stealth, she almost missed it. But if he ever did really smile, Laura believed it would do her in for good. The man was an interesting paradox of good-looking coupled with dangerous and scary. His dark hair, longer than army regulations allowed since he was usually undercover, sliced in damp inky lines across his scarred face and around his muscled neck. His eyes were onyx, dark and rich and unreadable. His skin was as aged and marked as tanned leather. It rippled over hard muscle and solid strength each time he moved. He wore a black T-shirt and soft-washed jeans over battered boots. And he smelled fresh and clean, as if he'd just stepped out of a secret waterfall somewhere.
His gaze cut from her to the mirror, watching, always watching the door of the diner.
"Why did you feel you had to come and see me?"
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
January 16, 2011
Excerpt - Letters in the Attic by DeAnna Julie Dodson
Letters in the Atticby
DeAnna Julie Dodson
Up in her grandmother's attic in Stony Point, Maine, Annie Dawson finds a stack of old letters from her childhood friend Susan Morris. Annie remembers Susan fondly and would like to get back in touch, but nobody seems to know what's become of her. Her friends at The Hook and Needle Club aren't much help either. All they remember is that Susan left town more than twenty years ago to marry a very wealthy man, but none of them is quite sure who he was. And Annie can find no record of any marriage.
The more Annie searches, the more she begins to wonder if something has happened to Susan. Something bad.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Annie stepped out of the library door, took a deep breath and then scurried across Oak Lane to The Cup and Saucer. The lunch crowd was gone, and Annie was glad to see that her favorite corner table was empty.
Peggy looked up from the counter where she was refilling salt shakers. "Hi, Annie. What'll it be?"
"Coffee to start with. I don't know what I want to eat yet, but I'm starved."
It took just a minute for Peggy to bring her a steaming cup and a little pitcher of cream. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. It is." Annie sighed. "Some people just have it rough, you know."
"Sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug."
Peggy gave her a menu and a wry grin, and Annie answered with one of her own.
"I know, but some people get a lot of trouble all at once."
"Anybody I know?"
"Susan Morris, the one we were talking about at the club meeting. I've been over at the library doing some research. Mary Beth was right about her parents being killed in a car wreck, and I found out that the aunt she was living with in New York died not very long before that."
"That's too bad." Peggy leaned against the other side of the booth. "And she was just out of college then? What a shame. What about that rich guy? Did you find out anything about him?"
"I haven't found any marriage records for Susan yet. So far, Prince Charming is still a complete mystery."
"Did somebody say Prince Charming?" A lanky guy in a policeman's uniform got up from his stool at the lunch counter and sauntered over to Annie's table. "Are you looking for me, ma'am?"
Peggy pursed her lips. "Oh, go sit down and drink your coffee, Roy, and let the adults talk."
"Now, that's no way to treat your elders, Peg. Why don't you introduce me to your friend here? Not that everybody in Stony Point hasn't heard of pretty Annie Dawson."
Annie didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed. She settled for skeptical. "Have they?"
"Yes, indeed."
Peggy snorted. "This is Roy Hamilton. Obviously one of Stony Point's finest."
"I haven't seen you around town," Annie admitted, shaking the hand he offered. "Are you new here?"
"Just hired on. Chief Edwards was down a man when Callahan retired. I was working in Newcastle until a little while ago, but I heard Stony Point was a pretty attractive place to hire on." He grinned at Annie. "Very attractive, if you ask me."
Annie refrained from rolling her eyes. "Do you live here in town?"
"I'm renting a beach house on Ocean, just north of Elm." His grin widened. "I guess that makes us neighbors."
"You must be at Mr. Cruz's. The little house with white trim and a porch swing?"
"That's the one. And, of course, everybody knows about Grey Gables. That's a big place for one little lady by herself."
"I don't live alone." Annie pretended not to notice the smirk on Peggy's face.
"You don't?" Roy's sandy eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead. "I heard you were a widow."
Annie smiled sweetly. "I am."
"And all your family lives back in Texas, right?"
"They do."
Roy chuckled. "You've got a dog."
"A cat," Annie admitted. "But she's the jealous type."
"Hmmm. Maybe I'll have to try to win her over with some fresh salmon. We lawmen aren't allowed to accept bribes, but that doesn't mean we can't offer a few."
She couldn't help laughing. "I'll leave that between you and Boots."
"Of course, if you'd like to–" A beep from the cell phone hooked to his belt drew his attention. "Excuse me a second."
He walked back over to the counter to take his call, and Peggy shook her head.
"Sorry about that, Annie. He's just not one to take a hint."
"Poor guy's probably just lonely. It's hard when you're new in town. I know."
"I beg your pardon, ladies." Roy came back to Annie's table. "I've got business to see to, Annie, but I hope, now that we've been properly introduced, that I'll see you again."
"Stony Point's a small place." Annie kept her voice light and impersonal. "So that's probably pretty likely."
"Us being neighbors and all." Roy took his mirrored sunglasses from his shirt pocket. "If you ever need anything, you come see me. Thanks for the coffee, Peg."
He handed Peggy a folded bill and went out the front door. Annie watched as he took long strides across Main Street towards the Town Hall.
"Well, he's not shy."
"Just a nuisance more than anything else." Peggy made a sour face. "He's always asking for his 'Police Discount.' Hardy-har-har." Peggy unfolded the bill, brightening when she saw it was a five. "But he does tip well."
Annie chuckled, and Peggy pocketed the money.
"Anyway, back to what we were talking about earlier, I've been asking just about everybody I've seen if they know anything about Susan Morris, but nobody seems to remember much about her. Sorry. I really would have thought you'd find something about her marriage."
Annie sighed. "That's where I hit a brick wall. Nothing on any Susan Morris getting married to anyone anywhere in the State of Maine anytime between nineteen-eighty-five and two-thousand-five. Absolutely nothing."
"Hmmmm. I guess it's possible she was married somewhere out of state."
"I guess so." Annie took a sip of coffee. "That proverbial haystack just got a lot bigger. Are you sure you never heard anything about this man she was supposed to be married to?"
"Me? I was way too young to pay any attention to that kind of thing back then. Maybe Mary Beth will have thought of his name by the time you see her next."
"Or that shoe company he had. It was shoes, right?"
"That's what she said."
Annie bit her lip. "I guess I could search for Maine shoe manufacturers and see what I come up with."
"But if she wasn't married in the state, maybe he didn't live here either. His company could have been in Virginia or New York or Timbuktu."
Annie propped her chin on her hand. "Yeah, I know."
"Hey, I forgot." Peggy tapped the tabletop with one bright pink nail. "I have some good news for you. I asked Wally about the other guy, the handyman. His name is Tom Maxwell and Wally says he'd do you a good job if you're in a hurry to start on your bathroom."
"Actually, I'd really rather have Wally do it. I know the kind of work he does, and that way it helps you out, too. But Mary Beth sounds like she doesn't want to wait much longer to get her basement organized. I'm sure she'd like the referral."
"I appreciate you wanting to hire Wally. I would like to see us get a little ahead for once."
"It's pure selfishness on my part. He did such a nice job on my kitchen, I don't want to use anyone else." Smiling, Annie handed the menu back to Peggy. "I hope you still have that shrimp chowder you had on your special today. I need something to warm me up."
"Coming right up."
***
The chowder was delicious, a hearty cream base packed with shrimp, bacon and potatoes, and things looked a little bit brighter by the time Annie pulled up in front of Grey Gables.
Alice waived from the front porch of the carriage house and then scurried over to the car. "Find out anything?"
"You're just as bad as Peggy. Come in out of the cold and I'll tell you about it." Annie unlocked her front door and picked up the stack of mail lying just inside. "I have some chicken and veggies in the crock pot if you want to eat later on."
"That sounds a lot better than the leftover pasta I was going to have. Don't mind if I do."
There was a patter of paws on the stairs and then Boots hurried into the room, rubbing against Annie's legs to make her demands plainly known.
"All right. All right. You first." Annie handed Alice the obituary about Susan's aunt. "That's all I found out. Pretty much the end of the story as far as tracking Susan through her. Be right back."
When she returned from feeding the cat, Alice returned the article to her.
"End of story all right. I'm sorry."
"Now I just have to figure out how to track Susan down through her marriage in forty-nine other states."
"Don't forget the territories, the District of Columbia and all the foreign countries in the world."
"Great. Thanks." Annie sat on the couch beside Alice and started shuffling through the mail. "Bills, bills and bills, it looks like. What did you decide about the harvest banquet?"
"It's the pumpkin bread again." Alice sighed dramatically. "My public demands it."
"You know you could always–" Annie frowned at the envelope she held. "I wonder what this is. It couldn't have come in the mail. There isn't an address."
Alice shrugged. "Maybe somebody brought it by. What's in it?"
"Let's see."
Annie slit open the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper, half smiling as she looked at it. The letters were cut from the newspaper the way they did in old gangster movies. It had to be a joke, right?
There was concern in Alice's eyes. "What is it?"
Annie let her read the message for herself.
FORGET ABOUT SUSAN AND MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
Interview with the author:
Tell us about your latest book.
I'm very excited about the release of Letters in the Attic, an Annie's Attic Mystery. Letters is the fourth book in this new series about Annie Dawson, a widow from Texas who goes up to clean out and sell her late grandmother's Victorian house in Maine only to find a whole attic full of intriguing and sometimes mysterious objects. The series particularly interested me because Annie and her friends are all needleworkers – knitters, crocheters, quilters, cross-stitchers – and I've been interested in needlework for as long as I can remember.
Letters in the Attic came out this summer from DRG.
What's your favorite part of the story?
I think I enjoyed writing Officer Roy Hamilton the most. I actually didn't think much about him at first. He was meant to be a very minor character who was there just to take fingerprints. Soon, though, he let me know that that was not going to be enough for him. He put on his mirrored sunglasses and sauntered up to me and said he just knew I had something more important for him to do. And darned if he wasn't right!
What do you hope your readers will get out of the story?
I think the most important thing is that there is freedom in truth. Hiding from it only weighs you down and keeps you prisoner. Facing the truth breaks those chains and breaks the hold of those who would use the fear of that truth against you. Once it's in the light of day, whatever it is you're hiding from, it loses its power.
Tell us a little about your writing. Is there any one thing or reference you keep handy when writing? Anything you kept around for this particular book?
Of course, the greatest reference tool these days is the internet. It's made research so much easier, though you do have to be careful of which sources you trust. Still, I like to have some actual reference books handy when I'm writing. I especially like The Well-Tempered Sentence by Karen Elizabeth Gordon and Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss for solving those thorny grammar and usage questions. They're both extremely practical while appealing to my sometimes-off-the-wall sense of humor.
For Letters in the Attic, of course, my best friend was the packet of series information the publisher gave me so my book would mesh with the others in the series. Since writing this kind of book was new to me, this packet was really a life saver.
Who do you rely on for help when writing?
Writing can be a very lonely and isolated job. And the worst part of it is that, once you've written something, you can never see it the way a new reader will see it. Obviously, you know what you meant to say when you wrote it, but does it really say that? Really? You just have to have a pre-reader look it over, someone who will speak the truth in love and tell you honestly what works and what doesn't.
I met author Robin Hardy (The Chataine's Guardian and many, many more) when I took a "Writing Christian Fiction" class at the local community college. At that point, I didn't imagine I would ever actually be published. She was so gracious and so kind to this very green wannabe writer. She actually read through my 250,000-word manuscript (the one that became In Honor Bound) and showed me how to improve it and, more importantly, how I could cut it down to a manageable length. Now, years later, she's still my first and best pre-reader and a terrific friend. She catches inconsistencies and stupid mistakes and tells me when something just falls flat. I would so much rather hear it from her than from my editor or, worst of all, from my readers. I'm so blessed to know her!
Aside from writing, what takes up most of your time?
I'm addicted to cross-stitch and quilting. I have just a ton of projects yet to be done because I want to do everything. That's one of the reasons I have enjoyed working on this series so much. I can relate to the ladies in the Annie's Attic Mysteries who love to make beautiful things by hand.
What advice would you give to an unpublished writer?
I suppose there are writing prodigies out there, people who can just sit down and write perfection from word one, but I've never met anyone like that. The only way I know to succeed in writing is to write. And write. And write. And read a lot. And write more. I've heard it said that it takes about ten thousand hours to really master the craft of writing. Shortcuts don't work. Put in your time. There's really no other way to end up with a product that will make you proud.
But while you're putting in your time, don't get discouraged. Really learning to write is a long, arduous process. It's usually a thankless job. Lots of people say they want to write. Very few stick with it long enough to actually become writers. Writing is a lonely business. It can be a very discouraging one. But if it's something God has called you to do, there is nothing else as satisfying. Stay the course. Learn your craft. Write the book that's on your heart. God will use it where He sees fit.
Website: http://www.deannajuliedodson.com
Blog: http://www.deannajuliedodson.com/blog/Print book:
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Excerpt - Night Prey by Sharon Dunn
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!
Night Prey
by
Sharon Dunn
Jenna Murphy wants to ignore the anonymous, puzzling note. How could she leave the work she loves at the ranch's Birds of Prey Rescue Center? But when someone attacks the birds under her care, she starts to worry. And when Jenna is attacked, she knows she's in over her head. She never expected Keith Roland to come to her rescue. They were childhood friends before he fell in with the wrong crowd. Now the former troublemaker is a soldier, and a changed man. Yet has he really reformed? Can Jenna truly trust him with her safety—and her heart?
Excerpt of chapter one:
"What are you doing on this land?" The male voice pelted Jenna Murphy's back like a hard rain.
She dropped the empty pet carrier and raised her hands slowly, not wanting to spook whoever had called out to her. Most of the locals knew her, but a lot of strangers were moving in and buying ranches. If she had stumbled on an overzealous landowner with a rifle, the situation could get sticky. Her skills lay in soothing birds, not people.
"Please, I can explain." She struggled to get the words out, already winded from running up and down hills.
"Explain away." The silky smooth quality of the voice behind her did nothing to diminish the threatening tone.
Chances were, she was trespassing. When she got focused on something, she tended to space out everything else. Whose land had she wandered onto anyway? She'd been too busy trying to catch an injured hawk to notice if she had crossed boundaries. She had started her chase out on the King Ranch.
A glance at the mountain range to her left helped her orient herself. She was still on Norman and Etta King's ranch. Both of them were getting up in age. Maybe they had hired some help. The man's voice had a distant familiarity to it. If he wasn't barking orders, she might be able to place it.
His voice softened. "I didn't mean to scare you. You can put your hands down and turn around."
Jenna pivoted. She studied the man in front of her. He didn't have a gun. Instead he held a tool that was used for digging fence posts. His forehead glistened and the front of his shirt was stained with sweat. So the Kings had hired help…or had they? She looked closer.
"Keith? Is that you?"
Twelve years of her life fell away. He had changed quite a bit, but there was enough of the old Keith Roland for her to know this was her childhood friend and the Kings' grandson. The gray eyes that appeared blue in intense light were the same. "It's Jenna Murphy," she added when he didn't respond. "We used to play together when you spent summers with your grandparents, remember?"
The man standing in front of her bore little resemblance to the boy she had rafted the river with. Together, they had built a tree house that attracted a neighborhood of kids, summer after summer. His features were the same, though his muscular frame was a sharp contrast from the skinny kid she remembered. Keith's wavy brown hair now fell past his ears. The long-sleeved shirt he wore was a little out of place considering what a hot summer day it was. The almond shaped eyes still held the same gentleness, but something about this man seemed.haunted.
Keith blinked as if she had stunned him. He shook his head and furrowed his brow. "Sorry."
Did he really not remember her? Jenna's spirits sank. Funny, he had been such an important part of her childhood, the highlight of her summer. Yet, she hadn't even been a blip on his radar. Maybe she had just been the scraggly little tagalong kid to him. Somehow, she couldn't believe that. She touched her palm to her chest. "You almost gave me a heart attack when you shouted at me like that."
"I didn't mean to frighten you." His voice held a warm quality. "We had a trespasser yesterday, too. I was concerned Gramps's place had become Grand Central Station."
Jenna laughed. Now she understood why he had been so quick to confront her. "That was probably me you saw. I'm the director of the Birds of Prey Rescue Center up Hillcrest Road." When she got a call on an injured bird, there usually wasn't time to inform landowners. All the locals knew if they saw her on their land, she was probably just taking care of a bird. She always dressed in bright colors, so she could be spotted from a distance.
"So that was you I saw tromping around yesterday when I was mending fence. Do you make a habit of trespassing?"
"The bird I rescued yesterday was an eagle with buckshot in her wing." Finding that bird flapping its flightless wings had broken her heart. Hopefully, she had gotten to the bird quickly enough to prevent infection but only time would tell. And now, she had an injured hawk to catch in the same area. It was unsettling to have two injuries occur so quickly. If someone was hurting her birds on purpose, she would get to the bottom of it. "I don't suppose you know anything about people using shotguns on eagles around here?"
Keith shook his head. "Gramps has a rifle, not a shotgun." He narrowed his eyes. "He wouldn't shoot at a bird anyway."
He seemed protective of his grandfather. She hadn't intended to accuse. "That means you have trespassers."
"Trespassers?" He rubbed the five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "You mean other than you, Jenna Murphy?" His tone lightened; all the suspicion she had heard earlier was gone.
Jenna's breath caught. Something in the way he had said her name made her think he remembered her more than he was letting on. But why had he tried to hide it? Was her perception of their friendship so much different than his? True, he had been two years older than her, but she had felt such a special bond with him until that disastrous summer when he had changed so much.
The last time she had seen Keith, he had been seventeen and deeply troubled. That was the summer his visit had ended abruptly with an arrest for drunk driving. Etta and Norman King had been heartbroken about sending their grandson away, but the arrest had been the final straw. Keith's drinking had led to wrecking farm equipment, nearly running over his grandfather and stealing from his grandparents. They had had no choice. His wildness had put everyone at risk. Jenna shook off the memories and returned her focus to the task at hand.
"That eagle went down on your grandfather's property. Any idea who might be doing something like that?"
He drew his eyebrows together and his voice intensified. "No, but I will find out who it is. It's not right to do that to my grandparents."
Jenna turned her attention to the pet carrier she had dropped. "If you don't mind, I have an injured hawk to catch." She scanned the shorter trees and the undergrowth. No sign of the bird. The wounded hawk couldn't get airborne, but had managed to bounce for miles as she'd tried to chase him down. A flightless bird didn't stand much of a chance of survival. She had to find him before nightfall.
Jenna picked up the carrier and stalked a few feet away. She turned back around. "Good running into you, Keith Roland. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
He lifted a chin in acknowledgment of her comment but offered nothing in return, no explanation of what he was doing in town or how long he planned to stay. He must have mended his relationship with his grandparents, but when? What had he been doing for the last twelve years?
Shortly after the summer Keith left, Etta King had run into Jenna in town. She'd shown Jenna a picture of a clean-cut soldier, Keith. Etta had expressed hope that enlistment in the marines would "straighten that boy out." Jenna didn't run into Etta very much, and talking about Keith was painful for both of them. She had no idea if the military had been good for Keith or not.
She strode a few feet up the hill.
"Do you need some help finding that bird, Jenna Murphy? " Keith shouted after her.
For someone who didn't remember her, he seemed to like saying her name.
A gust of wind wafted down the mountain, causing the limbs of the evergreens to creak. The breeze caught Jenna's long brown hair and plastered it against her face. She shoved the wayward strands behind her ears. "That would be nice."
After staking the post hole digger in the ground, he walked toward her with large even strides.
The wind settled. Something crashed in the forest, breaking branches. The injured hawk? No, it sounded like something bigger. Heavier. More dangerous. Jenna caught a flash of movement up the hill.
A noise she had never heard before shattered the silence. A sort of explosive snap pounded against her eardrums.
Keith's eyes grew wide. He leaped toward her. "Get down." He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her to the ground.
Her palms hit the hard earth; vibrations of pain surged up her arms. "What is going on?" She scrambled to get to her feet; he yanked her again down to the ground.
His arm went across her back like an iron bar. "We're being shot at. Stay down."
"Shot at?" Jenna shook her head in disbelief. Why would someone be shooting at them? Could it have anything to do with the injured birds?
Still on his stomach, Keith scanned the landscape around them.
A second popping explosion stirred up a poof of dirt five feet in front of them, confirming Keith's words.
Jenna's heart revved into overdrive. Her mouth went dry. "I've never been shot at before."
He put his lips close to her ear. "I have. I know what to do. Those rocks up there will give us some cover." He rose to a crouch, pulling her with him by grabbing the back of her shirt. "Stay low."
Jenna's mind reeled; she fought for a deep breath. What was happening? Why would anyone want to shoot at them?
Keith wrapped his arm around her waist. "You have to keep moving."
The strength of his voice in her ear freed her from the paralysis of panic. At least somebody knew how to respond.
Her heart pounded wildly. Keith dragged her up the mountain.
Another shot shattered the air around her. She screamed. She stumbled.
Keith pulled her to her feet. "Stay with me, Jenna."
She gasped for breath as he nearly carried her the remaining feet to the outcropping of boulders. Keith guided her in between two large rocks. The massive rocks allowed them both to crouch unseen and safe for the moment. Jenna pressed her back against the hard surface while Keith faced her.
Her pulse drummed in her ears. A tingling chill spread over her skin. She placed a hand on her somersaulting stomach. She could have died.
He touched a warm hand to her cheek. "You all right?"
Every muscle in her body trembled. "No. I'm definitely not all right. Maybe you get shot at all the time, but I don't."
"Jenna, look at me and take a breath." He clamped his hands on her shoulders.
She shook her head, unable to focus. Her thoughts moved in a hundred directions at once.
His palms pressed against her cheeks forcing her to look at him. "You're safe here. You are out of the line of fire. Do you understand?"
The warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his gaze calmed her. She stared into the deep gray of his eyes. She nodded. Not only did he have experience with being shot at, obviously he had dealt with someone falling apart, too. As he had said, he knew what to do.
The forest fell silent. Keith scooted away from her and scanned the sky above them.
"Why…why would someone be shooting at us?" Her throat was parched. An intense craving for a cup of cool water overwhelmed her.
"I don't know, but they didn't do a very good job of it. Either they are really bad shots or they weren't aiming to kill. Maybe they are trying to scare us away." He leaned forward to see beyond the protection of the rocks.
"Be careful." She grabbed his arm, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath fabric.
"I don't see anything out there." He settled back, pulling his knees up to his chest. "We'll wait a while."
Their feet intertwined in the small space. Pebbles pricked the skin on Jenna's hand as she rested her palm on the ground.
"I wonder what the trespassers are doing on Gramps's land."
"You mean besides shooting at us…and shooting at eagles and maybe hawks, as well?" A shudder ran through her body. She pressed her feet harder into the ground in an effort to get beyond the trauma of what had happened. They would have to report this to the sheriff when they got out of here. If they got out of here.
Minutes ticked by. Her heart rate returned to normal. Searching for something to take her mind off the gunshots, she studied the man in front of her, looking for signs of the boy who had been her summertime friend. The scar over his left eyebrow was new. She wondered what other scars he carried. Had they made him want to forget his past? Maybe for him the pain of what had happened when he was seventeen overshadowed any of the positive memories. She had chosen to remember the good things about those summers.
"So where did you learn how to dodge bullets like that?"
Keith shifted his feet and looked away from her. "It's the second lesson they teach you in the marines."
"What is the first?"
"How to shoot them."
The vagueness of his answer and the icy tone indicated that he didn't want her probing. She stared down the hillside where she had left the cage intended for the hawk. With any luck, the bird hadn't gotten too far away.
Keith combed his fingers through his hair. "You think the people that just shot at us shot at your eagle?"
Jenna shrugged. "One eagle doesn't mean there is a pattern. I don't know what is going on with this hawk." She sucked in a breath as concern about the eagle ate at her stomach. Her vet friend had helped her dig out the buckshot. The female eagle, who she had named Greta, was on antibiotics. Hopefully, she would make it. But at least she was getting treatment. The hawk was still there on its own.
He rubbed at a spot of dirt on his worn jeans. "You take care of birds?"
"Just raptors, birds of prey. We rehab them and release them back into their habitat. I landed the job after I finished my degree in wildlife management."
He studied her for a moment. The corners of his mouth turned up. "You always did attract wild things."
Warmth pooled around her heart. "So you do remember me?"
"I remember you liked wild things. You were the only girl in town who thought feral cats made good pets."
Jenna lifted her chin. "All they need is love and for their food to be in the same place every day."
Keith laughed. A familiar twinkle returned to his eyes.
A connection sparked between them, and she leaned closer. "Is it all coming back now?" she teased.
The change in mood was short-lived. A veil descended over his eyes, and he pulled away from her. "You look different, that's all."
"People grow up. They change." How much had he changed over the years? Was he still battling the same demons that had driven him to drink at seventeen?
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Night Preyby
Sharon Dunn
Jenna Murphy wants to ignore the anonymous, puzzling note. How could she leave the work she loves at the ranch's Birds of Prey Rescue Center? But when someone attacks the birds under her care, she starts to worry. And when Jenna is attacked, she knows she's in over her head. She never expected Keith Roland to come to her rescue. They were childhood friends before he fell in with the wrong crowd. Now the former troublemaker is a soldier, and a changed man. Yet has he really reformed? Can Jenna truly trust him with her safety—and her heart?
Excerpt of chapter one:
"What are you doing on this land?" The male voice pelted Jenna Murphy's back like a hard rain.
She dropped the empty pet carrier and raised her hands slowly, not wanting to spook whoever had called out to her. Most of the locals knew her, but a lot of strangers were moving in and buying ranches. If she had stumbled on an overzealous landowner with a rifle, the situation could get sticky. Her skills lay in soothing birds, not people.
"Please, I can explain." She struggled to get the words out, already winded from running up and down hills.
"Explain away." The silky smooth quality of the voice behind her did nothing to diminish the threatening tone.
Chances were, she was trespassing. When she got focused on something, she tended to space out everything else. Whose land had she wandered onto anyway? She'd been too busy trying to catch an injured hawk to notice if she had crossed boundaries. She had started her chase out on the King Ranch.
A glance at the mountain range to her left helped her orient herself. She was still on Norman and Etta King's ranch. Both of them were getting up in age. Maybe they had hired some help. The man's voice had a distant familiarity to it. If he wasn't barking orders, she might be able to place it.
His voice softened. "I didn't mean to scare you. You can put your hands down and turn around."
Jenna pivoted. She studied the man in front of her. He didn't have a gun. Instead he held a tool that was used for digging fence posts. His forehead glistened and the front of his shirt was stained with sweat. So the Kings had hired help…or had they? She looked closer.
"Keith? Is that you?"
Twelve years of her life fell away. He had changed quite a bit, but there was enough of the old Keith Roland for her to know this was her childhood friend and the Kings' grandson. The gray eyes that appeared blue in intense light were the same. "It's Jenna Murphy," she added when he didn't respond. "We used to play together when you spent summers with your grandparents, remember?"
The man standing in front of her bore little resemblance to the boy she had rafted the river with. Together, they had built a tree house that attracted a neighborhood of kids, summer after summer. His features were the same, though his muscular frame was a sharp contrast from the skinny kid she remembered. Keith's wavy brown hair now fell past his ears. The long-sleeved shirt he wore was a little out of place considering what a hot summer day it was. The almond shaped eyes still held the same gentleness, but something about this man seemed.haunted.
Keith blinked as if she had stunned him. He shook his head and furrowed his brow. "Sorry."
Did he really not remember her? Jenna's spirits sank. Funny, he had been such an important part of her childhood, the highlight of her summer. Yet, she hadn't even been a blip on his radar. Maybe she had just been the scraggly little tagalong kid to him. Somehow, she couldn't believe that. She touched her palm to her chest. "You almost gave me a heart attack when you shouted at me like that."
"I didn't mean to frighten you." His voice held a warm quality. "We had a trespasser yesterday, too. I was concerned Gramps's place had become Grand Central Station."
Jenna laughed. Now she understood why he had been so quick to confront her. "That was probably me you saw. I'm the director of the Birds of Prey Rescue Center up Hillcrest Road." When she got a call on an injured bird, there usually wasn't time to inform landowners. All the locals knew if they saw her on their land, she was probably just taking care of a bird. She always dressed in bright colors, so she could be spotted from a distance.
"So that was you I saw tromping around yesterday when I was mending fence. Do you make a habit of trespassing?"
"The bird I rescued yesterday was an eagle with buckshot in her wing." Finding that bird flapping its flightless wings had broken her heart. Hopefully, she had gotten to the bird quickly enough to prevent infection but only time would tell. And now, she had an injured hawk to catch in the same area. It was unsettling to have two injuries occur so quickly. If someone was hurting her birds on purpose, she would get to the bottom of it. "I don't suppose you know anything about people using shotguns on eagles around here?"
Keith shook his head. "Gramps has a rifle, not a shotgun." He narrowed his eyes. "He wouldn't shoot at a bird anyway."
He seemed protective of his grandfather. She hadn't intended to accuse. "That means you have trespassers."
"Trespassers?" He rubbed the five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "You mean other than you, Jenna Murphy?" His tone lightened; all the suspicion she had heard earlier was gone.
Jenna's breath caught. Something in the way he had said her name made her think he remembered her more than he was letting on. But why had he tried to hide it? Was her perception of their friendship so much different than his? True, he had been two years older than her, but she had felt such a special bond with him until that disastrous summer when he had changed so much.
The last time she had seen Keith, he had been seventeen and deeply troubled. That was the summer his visit had ended abruptly with an arrest for drunk driving. Etta and Norman King had been heartbroken about sending their grandson away, but the arrest had been the final straw. Keith's drinking had led to wrecking farm equipment, nearly running over his grandfather and stealing from his grandparents. They had had no choice. His wildness had put everyone at risk. Jenna shook off the memories and returned her focus to the task at hand.
"That eagle went down on your grandfather's property. Any idea who might be doing something like that?"
He drew his eyebrows together and his voice intensified. "No, but I will find out who it is. It's not right to do that to my grandparents."
Jenna turned her attention to the pet carrier she had dropped. "If you don't mind, I have an injured hawk to catch." She scanned the shorter trees and the undergrowth. No sign of the bird. The wounded hawk couldn't get airborne, but had managed to bounce for miles as she'd tried to chase him down. A flightless bird didn't stand much of a chance of survival. She had to find him before nightfall.
Jenna picked up the carrier and stalked a few feet away. She turned back around. "Good running into you, Keith Roland. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
He lifted a chin in acknowledgment of her comment but offered nothing in return, no explanation of what he was doing in town or how long he planned to stay. He must have mended his relationship with his grandparents, but when? What had he been doing for the last twelve years?
Shortly after the summer Keith left, Etta King had run into Jenna in town. She'd shown Jenna a picture of a clean-cut soldier, Keith. Etta had expressed hope that enlistment in the marines would "straighten that boy out." Jenna didn't run into Etta very much, and talking about Keith was painful for both of them. She had no idea if the military had been good for Keith or not.
She strode a few feet up the hill.
"Do you need some help finding that bird, Jenna Murphy? " Keith shouted after her.
For someone who didn't remember her, he seemed to like saying her name.
A gust of wind wafted down the mountain, causing the limbs of the evergreens to creak. The breeze caught Jenna's long brown hair and plastered it against her face. She shoved the wayward strands behind her ears. "That would be nice."
After staking the post hole digger in the ground, he walked toward her with large even strides.
The wind settled. Something crashed in the forest, breaking branches. The injured hawk? No, it sounded like something bigger. Heavier. More dangerous. Jenna caught a flash of movement up the hill.
A noise she had never heard before shattered the silence. A sort of explosive snap pounded against her eardrums.
Keith's eyes grew wide. He leaped toward her. "Get down." He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her to the ground.
Her palms hit the hard earth; vibrations of pain surged up her arms. "What is going on?" She scrambled to get to her feet; he yanked her again down to the ground.
His arm went across her back like an iron bar. "We're being shot at. Stay down."
"Shot at?" Jenna shook her head in disbelief. Why would someone be shooting at them? Could it have anything to do with the injured birds?
Still on his stomach, Keith scanned the landscape around them.
A second popping explosion stirred up a poof of dirt five feet in front of them, confirming Keith's words.
Jenna's heart revved into overdrive. Her mouth went dry. "I've never been shot at before."
He put his lips close to her ear. "I have. I know what to do. Those rocks up there will give us some cover." He rose to a crouch, pulling her with him by grabbing the back of her shirt. "Stay low."
Jenna's mind reeled; she fought for a deep breath. What was happening? Why would anyone want to shoot at them?
Keith wrapped his arm around her waist. "You have to keep moving."
The strength of his voice in her ear freed her from the paralysis of panic. At least somebody knew how to respond.
Her heart pounded wildly. Keith dragged her up the mountain.
Another shot shattered the air around her. She screamed. She stumbled.
Keith pulled her to her feet. "Stay with me, Jenna."
She gasped for breath as he nearly carried her the remaining feet to the outcropping of boulders. Keith guided her in between two large rocks. The massive rocks allowed them both to crouch unseen and safe for the moment. Jenna pressed her back against the hard surface while Keith faced her.
Her pulse drummed in her ears. A tingling chill spread over her skin. She placed a hand on her somersaulting stomach. She could have died.
He touched a warm hand to her cheek. "You all right?"
Every muscle in her body trembled. "No. I'm definitely not all right. Maybe you get shot at all the time, but I don't."
"Jenna, look at me and take a breath." He clamped his hands on her shoulders.
She shook her head, unable to focus. Her thoughts moved in a hundred directions at once.
His palms pressed against her cheeks forcing her to look at him. "You're safe here. You are out of the line of fire. Do you understand?"
The warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his gaze calmed her. She stared into the deep gray of his eyes. She nodded. Not only did he have experience with being shot at, obviously he had dealt with someone falling apart, too. As he had said, he knew what to do.
The forest fell silent. Keith scooted away from her and scanned the sky above them.
"Why…why would someone be shooting at us?" Her throat was parched. An intense craving for a cup of cool water overwhelmed her.
"I don't know, but they didn't do a very good job of it. Either they are really bad shots or they weren't aiming to kill. Maybe they are trying to scare us away." He leaned forward to see beyond the protection of the rocks.
"Be careful." She grabbed his arm, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath fabric.
"I don't see anything out there." He settled back, pulling his knees up to his chest. "We'll wait a while."
Their feet intertwined in the small space. Pebbles pricked the skin on Jenna's hand as she rested her palm on the ground.
"I wonder what the trespassers are doing on Gramps's land."
"You mean besides shooting at us…and shooting at eagles and maybe hawks, as well?" A shudder ran through her body. She pressed her feet harder into the ground in an effort to get beyond the trauma of what had happened. They would have to report this to the sheriff when they got out of here. If they got out of here.
Minutes ticked by. Her heart rate returned to normal. Searching for something to take her mind off the gunshots, she studied the man in front of her, looking for signs of the boy who had been her summertime friend. The scar over his left eyebrow was new. She wondered what other scars he carried. Had they made him want to forget his past? Maybe for him the pain of what had happened when he was seventeen overshadowed any of the positive memories. She had chosen to remember the good things about those summers.
"So where did you learn how to dodge bullets like that?"
Keith shifted his feet and looked away from her. "It's the second lesson they teach you in the marines."
"What is the first?"
"How to shoot them."
The vagueness of his answer and the icy tone indicated that he didn't want her probing. She stared down the hillside where she had left the cage intended for the hawk. With any luck, the bird hadn't gotten too far away.
Keith combed his fingers through his hair. "You think the people that just shot at us shot at your eagle?"
Jenna shrugged. "One eagle doesn't mean there is a pattern. I don't know what is going on with this hawk." She sucked in a breath as concern about the eagle ate at her stomach. Her vet friend had helped her dig out the buckshot. The female eagle, who she had named Greta, was on antibiotics. Hopefully, she would make it. But at least she was getting treatment. The hawk was still there on its own.
He rubbed at a spot of dirt on his worn jeans. "You take care of birds?"
"Just raptors, birds of prey. We rehab them and release them back into their habitat. I landed the job after I finished my degree in wildlife management."
He studied her for a moment. The corners of his mouth turned up. "You always did attract wild things."
Warmth pooled around her heart. "So you do remember me?"
"I remember you liked wild things. You were the only girl in town who thought feral cats made good pets."
Jenna lifted her chin. "All they need is love and for their food to be in the same place every day."
Keith laughed. A familiar twinkle returned to his eyes.
A connection sparked between them, and she leaned closer. "Is it all coming back now?" she teased.
The change in mood was short-lived. A veil descended over his eyes, and he pulled away from her. "You look different, that's all."
"People grow up. They change." How much had he changed over the years? Was he still battling the same demons that had driven him to drink at seventeen?
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January 15, 2011
Excerpt - Shelter of Hope by Lyn Cote
Shelter of Hopeby
Lyn Cote
Struggling single mother Rosa Santos is deeply touched when volunteers band together to build her a home. With a waitressing job, community college and church, Rosa barely has time to help, let alone dream about a husband and father figure. But when handsome volunteer Marc Chambers hands her withdrawn young son a little hammer, her heart swells. Suddenly, her son is blossoming. But the closer she and Marc get, the more he pulls away. Why? He's built her a shelter of hope. One she—and her son—pray he'll take refuge within….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Without warning, on a clear blue August morning, danger barreled onto New Friends Street. Glancing over his shoulder, Marc Chambers saw the cement truck take the corner a little fast. At the same moment, he glimpsed a boy running across the street. Not looking. No!
The cement truck's brakes squealed like a trapped animal. Marc raced for the kid. Scooped him up. The wheels of the cement truck, just feet away, jumped, skipped—trying to stop in time.
People were screaming. Marc wrapped himself around the small boy's body. Threw himself into a roll…
I can't stop in time. The horrible wrenching sound of metal chewing into metal churned through his flesh like the grinding of some vicious machine. His heart pounded in his ears—
"Marc," a familiar voice came through the din in Marc's head. "Marc, it's all right. You and the boy are safe. The truck missed you both."
Marc blinked. His mind tried to grasp his grandmother's words. What had just happened to him?
Marc looked into his grandmother's soft round face, surrounded by her wavy white hair and straw hat. Her kind blue eyes were dark with concern. He realized suddenly that other people were crowded around him. Staring at him.
Then he heard—felt—the boy in his arms sobbing. He released him. Marc shook his head as if that could shake off what had just happened or what had just flashed through his mind.
A pretty young woman claimed the boy and encircled him with her arms. "You could have been killed, Johnny!" she cried out. "You could have been killed!" She sank to her knees, clutching the boy to her.
Marc slowly pulled himself up until he was sitting with his back against the curb. He held his head in his hands, not trusting himself to speak or to try to rise. His stomach sloshed back and forth in a giddy tide. A deluge of memories wanted to saturate him with fear and carry him back to January, back to that awful day.
"Man," someone with a deep, gruff voice said loudly. "Man, am I glad you were able to get to him. I couldn't have stopped in time."
Marc glanced toward the voice.
It came from a man in gray work clothes. He was sort of leaning limply over the back fender of the cement truck. "I don't know what I would have done. I got kids of my own."
I don't know what I would have done. The man's words sent shivers through Marc. And from the corner of his eye, he saw the same shivers go through the young denim-clad woman. Life was so fragile—he'd learned that lesson this year painfully. He put out a hand and patted the woman's slender shoulder awkwardly, briefly.
A horn honked and then another. Marc looked around at the crowd in the middle of the street and the cars that had halted on either side of them.
A new brisk voice, a woman's voice, intruded. "Let's all get out of the street. We're blocking traffic."
The people around Marc moved away reluctantly, returning to the dedication at the Habitat site. Many kept casting glances back at him. Marc tried to avoid their gazes, and calm the roiling in his midsection. The truck driver climbed into his rig and drove off much slower.
Marc's grandmother lingered protectively beside him. That bothered him. He didn't want her worrying again. He forced a smile and glanced up. "Go on. I'll be all right. It's just the heat and running like that. The excitement—that's all." I thought I'd put it behind me. What just happened?
Another older woman with salt-and-pepper hair was standing by the young mother who was still on her knees. "Rosa," she began, "por favor…"
He couldn't follow what she said after that; it sounded like Spanish, sounded worried.
"No, Abuela, Grandmother," the young woman said, shaking her head. "You go. I'll come…soon."
His own grandmother tucked her hand into the Spanish-speaking grandmother's elbow. "Come. We'll go and let them have a few moments to compose themselves."
"Si," the woman agreed in a pleasantly accented voice, "yes, I must represent la familia." Still, the woman looked concerned.
The two grandmothers walked together across New Friends Street to watch the dedication of the Habitat for Humanity house that was being built in their little town of Hope, Wisconsin. August heat, dripping with humidity, wrapped around Marc. It made it harder to breathe, harder to calm his racing heart.
The mother of the boy looked at him and then slid from her knees to sit beside him against the curb. The little boy sank between them, leaning against her. "I'm Rosa Santos." She offered him her hand. "And this is Johnny."
She still looked shaken. He forced another smile, a reassuring one. He gripped her small hand in his for a brief moment, comforted by touching her soft palm. "Marc Chambers."
"Thank you so much," Rosa said, feathering the boy's bangs with one hand. "Thank you for saving my Johnny." Her voice caught on the boy's name.
He looked into the woman's pretty face, her olive skin smooth and lightly tanned. Her large eyes—so brown they were almost black—captured him. Not only because they were beautiful, but because fear blazed there.
He had experienced that kind of flaming, consuming fear. Evidently it still lived in him. I thought I got over all this. He sucked in the hot, moist air. "No problem." He shuddered involuntarily. "No problem."
Then he noticed the boy, Johnny, was looking down, looking shamed. It cut into Marc's heart.
Marc bent his head to eye level with the boy. "Johnny, that's your name, right?" Marc waited till the boy had nodded, bouncing his brown bangs. Then with his hand, he lifted Johnny's trembling chin and looked into the boy's tear-streaked face. "It's okay. We weren't hurt. Just be more careful next time. Look before you cross." Even when a man doesn't take foolish chances, bad can happen.
Rosa's heart still pounded against her ribs like a wild bird trying to escape from a cage. How could she have let this happen? Johnny had been standing right beside her. Then she'd heard the truck's brakes squealing and seen her son running into the truck's path. She had to get her emotions under control. She didn't want to raise a fearful child, just a careful one.
Rosa's heartbeat began to slow as she stared at the picture of this man, Marc Chambers, comforting her boy. He was a big man. His legs stretched out long and strong. His hand was tanned brown by the sun and his hair was light brown with a reddish tone, his expression filled with compassion.
"I saw a dog running across the street," her son mumbled. "I wanted to…" Johnny tried to lower his chin again.
A dog. All this because of a stray dog. Rosa closed her eyes for a moment. The image of Johnny running into the path of the oncoming truck was now burned into her memory. She opened her eyes, hoping the glittering sunshine would blot it out.
Then Marc softened his voice and let his hand fall back to his side. "Just be more careful next time, okay? Bad things can happen in this world."
Johnny nodded while she repeated what this kind man had said. Bad things could happen in this world, had happened to her. She looked away so neither of them would see her blinking away a tear.
"Should we join the others?" Marc asked.
She turned and looked fully into his blue eyes. She read concern there and something else lurked in their recesses. "A little while longer, please." Her knees still felt like soft-set gelatin.
He nodded and glanced across the street.
She appreciated his not questioning her or urging her to do what she couldn't yet. "It's just because…" Her voice faltered. She looked down at the pebbles along the curb. Should she say this with her son listening?
Marc made a sound, something like a chuckle. "My mom always points to the gray hairs my brother and I gave her. She claims she can name each gray hair by incident."
His unexpected understanding nearly undid her composure. Then his humorous comment about his mother knowing which incident caused each of her gray hairs made her smile. It was just what she needed to help her come back to herself. "I'm ready now." She started to get up.
"Let me help you." Rising, Marc offered her both his hands. She took them and he pulled her to her feet. His strength flowed through her hands and up her arms. Marc released her hands and she immediately missed their reassuring support.
She noticed then that he had grazed the side of his face which had been away from her. She claimed his chin and turned his face, examining it. Then she blushed at doing something so personal to a man she'd just met. "Sorry, but I'm so used to bumps and scratches. Here."
Avoiding his gaze, she dug into her jean pocket, pulling out a plastic pack. She waved it. "I came prepared." She lifted out a square packet antiseptic swab, tore it open and wiped the grazed flesh. And did the same to his lower arm, hand and wrist which also had been scraped. The sensation of touching him was peculiar, made her a little breathless. "There, that will help start the healing." She made her voice strong, masking how being this close to him affected her.
"Thanks." He looked uncomfortable and pained.
"I have ibuprofen—"
"No, I'm fine," he said, holding up the uninjured hand. "Just bumped and scraped a bit. I'll live."
She wanted to pursue this but recognized his dismissal. She looked down at Johnny. "Before you lead me across the street, look both ways first, please," she said, stopping her son from running across the street again.
"Si, Mama." Johnny looked both ways. "We can go now."
She ruffled her son's hair and reached for Marc's hand again. She didn't speak a word but tried to convey to him with a smile her gratitude once more.
He squeezed her hand, dropped it and reached for Johnny's hand. So did she.
The three of them walked across the street, linked together. Somehow this lifted her mood. At the curb, they parted and joined the crowd listening to the end of the dedication. Marc murmured a few polite words and drifted away. She took a deep breath, trying to appear normal. Her emotions, however, did not obey her will.
Rosa had met the woman speaking, Eleanor Washburn, who would be coordinating the project. Trying to listen to Eleanor, Rosa folded her arms in front of her and covered her mouth with her hand. She didn't want anybody to see her lips still trembling. She captured her lower lip with her upper teeth, willing them to still.
Eleanor said, "Without arguing over theological differences, everyone can put love into action by swinging a hammer as an instrument to demonstrate God's love."
Rosa couldn't stop herself from glancing toward the man who'd saved her son. There was so much she'd wanted to say. How could she let him know how grateful she was? Words didn't seem enough. And somehow his expression had warned her away.
At the front, Eleanor beamed at everyone. "To date, Habitat volunteers and supporters have made decent, affordable housing a reality for more than three hundred thousand families worldwide. Now I'd like you all to meet the Santos family." During the applause, she waved at Rosa to come forward.
Rosa swallowed down the tears that were still trying to surface. She took her grandmother and Johnny's hands and led them forward. Eleanor smiled and turned them to face the crowd. "Rosa, why don't you introduce yourself and your family?"
Rosa swallowed again. Her throat was thick. "I'm Rosa Santos." Her voice cracked on her last name. "This is my grandmother, Consuela Santos, and my son, Johnny." An embarrassing tear trickled down her cheek. She tried to ignore it. "We are very happy to have this opportunity for a new home of our own." More tears slid down her cheeks. She tried to rein them in and failed. "Thank you all for coming to help us."
Ignoring Eleanor's prompting for her to say more, Rosa hurried her small but very precious family back to where they had been standing. That of course was the problem. Her family had not always been this small.
I almost lost Johnny this morning. That was her greatest fear, that she wouldn't be able to take care of her son. Tears, one by one, slid down her right cheek and refused to stop.
"Rosa," her grandmother whispered, "he is a boy. You cannot always be there. You must trust the Lord."
Rosa nodded, but one tear and then another dripped down her cheeks and then fell to the rough ground. Her grandmother spoke the bare truth; Rosa accepted that with her mind. But in her heart, she carried her son and her grandmother on her back alone. Lord, please help me stop feeling this way. I know I can't guard Johnny from every danger. But, Lord, no more losing, please.
Her eyes sought out Marc Chambers again. Opposite her and farther back in the crowd, he was standing close beside his grandmother who was looking up at him with stark anxiety on her face. Marc was rubbing his shoulder and rotating it as if in pain.
Then he looked up and his gaze connected with hers. She knew that harassed look, the "How much more can I bear?" look. In fact, she had in the past looked into a mirror and seen it reflected in her own eyes. Her reaction was immediate. The urge to comfort to him swept over her.
Suddenly she recalled how disoriented Marc had been immediately after saving Johnny. She'd been in the midst of her own shock. Now she replayed the incident in her mind.
There was no reason for Marc to look so burdened by what had just happened. So this could not be about saving her son. What, then, had unnerved a brave man like Marc Chambers?
Two mornings later Marc stood at the open window of his apartment on the second floor of his grandmother's house. He watched the pink-gold of dawn finally gild the green fields that spread out on three sides of his grandmother's house on Chambers Road. He had been waiting for dawn all night. He'd watched the predawn glow hover on the horizon for what had seemed hours and then the brightening had come. At last.
He rubbed his forehead. He hadn't slept at all the night before and not more than a couple of hours this night. Nightmares had kept waking him up. Each one had featured the screams and din from that awful day in January. He'd driven his semi onto the interstate; mist had iced the pavement. He'd lost control—a twenty vehicle pile-up, a fatal one. The intense sensations of that treacherous morning had tried to reclaim him, entrap him.
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Excerpt - Her Healing Ways by Lyn Cote
Lyn mentioned to me that she's posting her very first unpublished novel in serial form on her blog! Click here to read chapter one, scene one.
Her Healing Ways
by
Lyn Cote
A female physician with an adopted black daughter? The townsfolk of Idaho Bend will never accept Dr. Mercy Gabriel—even when faced with a deadly cholera epidemic. But all Mercy needs is one man willing to listen…and to trust.
Four years of war command turned Lon Mackey into a footloose gambler who can't abide attachments. Yet he can't help getting riled by the threats Mercy keeps receiving. Her trailblazing courage could reignite his faith and humanity. And his loyalty could make her dream—for the first time—of a family of her own….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Idaho Territory, September 1868
High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people ran toward it with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold, wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy's spine.
She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her, away from the onrushing people. Though almost sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. "Don't worry," Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.
She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with them?
With one sweeping glance, he quelled the people shoving each other to get closer to the wagons. A commanding gambler. In her opinion, an unusual combination.
"Are there any medical supplies on this train?" he asked in a calm tone at odds with the mood of the people crowding around. "Two days ago, we telegraphed to Boise, asking for a doctor to come. But no one has. We've got cholera."
The dreaded word drenched the brave, brawny wagoners; they visibly shrank back from the man. It set off the crowd clamoring again.
Mercy's pulse raced. No, not cholera. Yet she hesitated only a second before revealing the truth about herself. Until this moment, she'd just been another traveler, not an object of mirth, puzzlement or derision. She braced herself for the inevitable reactions and rose. "I am a qualified physician."
Startled, the frantic crowd stopped pushing. As usual, every head swiveled, every face gawked at her.
"You? " the gambler challenged. "You're a woman."
Mercy swallowed a number of sardonic responses to this silly comment. She said, "I am a recent graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I also worked alongside Clara Barton as a nurse throughout the Civil War."
"You nursed in the war?" The gambler studied her, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Yes." Leaning forward, she held out her gloved hand. "I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. And this is my assistant, Nurse Indigo."
He hesitated only a moment. Then, reaching up, he grasped her hand for a firm, brief handshake. "Beggars can't be choosers. I'm Lon Mackey. Will you come and help us?"
She wondered fleetingly why a gambler was taking charge here. She would have expected a mayor or—
Renewed commotion from the crowd, almost a mob now, grabbed her attention. People were trying to climb aboard the supply wagons. "Get us out of this town!" one of them shouted.
No, that would be disastrous! "Stop them," Mercy ordered, flinging up a hand. "No one from this town should be allowed to leave. They could infect everyone on the supply train and spread the disease to other towns."
At this, the wagoners rose and shouted, "Keep back! Quarantine! Quarantine!"
This only spurred the people of the mining town to try harder.
The head wagoner put out an arm, keeping Mercy and Indigo from getting down. "Wagoners, use your whips! "
The drivers raised their whips and snapped them expertly toward the mob. Mercy was horrified. Still muttering mutinously, the crowd fell back until safely out of range. Mercy swallowed her fear, her heart jumping.
"We will unload the shipment of supplies," the wagon master barked, "then we're leaving for the next town right away. And we're not taking on any new passengers."
People looked ready to make another charge toward the train, their expressions frantic, desperate.
"Thee must not give in to fear," Mercy declared. "There is hope. I am a qualified physician and my nurse is also trained." A silent Mercy stood very straight, knowing that her petite height of just over five feet didn't add much to her presence.
"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Gabriel," Lon Mackey announced, pulling a pistol from his vest. "I came to see if anyone could send us assistance. I didn't expect a doctor to be on the supply train. Please come. Lives are at stake."
Mercy moved to descend from the high buckboard. The wagon master let her go, shaking his head. Again he raised his whip as if ready to defend her. Barely able to breathe, Mercy descended, with Indigo in her wake. She addressed Lon Mackey. "I have medical supplies with me. Someone will need to get my trunk from the wagon."
"Get her trunk!" Lon ordered. "We need help. Thirteen people have already died in only three days."
The wagon master roared names, and another two wagoners got down and started to unload Mercy's trunk, one cracking his whip to keep people back. The sullen mob still appeared ready to rush the wagons.
"No new passengers! Now back off or I start shooting!" The wagon master waved his pistol at the people about to surge forward. The sight of the gun caused a collective gasp. The mob fell back.
A wagoner pulled Mercy's bright red trunk, which was on casters, to her and Indigo. He touched the wide brim of his leather hat. "Good luck, ma'am."
Lon Mackey, also brandishing his pistol, led Mercy and Indigo through the crowd.
Indigo hovered closer to Mercy. They both knew what damage a bullet could do to flesh. And how a crowd could turn hostile. Mercy held tight to her slipping composure. Father, no violence, please.
Mercy called out a thanks and farewell to the gruff yet kind wagoners who had been their traveling companions for the past ten days on their way to Boise.
Lon Mackey led Mercy into the charcoal-gray twilight. She drew in the cool mountain air, praying for strength. The crowd milled around them, following, grumbling loudly, angrily.
Mercy tried to ignore them. She understood their fear but knew she must not get caught up in it. "Lon Mackey, has the town set up an infirmary?"
"We have concentrated the sick in the saloon. It was where the cholera started and it's the biggest building in town."
Mercy touched Lon's shoulder. "Cholera can snatch away life within a day. I'll do my best, as will my nurse-assistant. But people are going to die even after treatment. Cholera is a swift, mortal disease."
"That's why we got to get out of town, lady," one of the people in the surrounding crowd complained.
She looked at them. "Go to thy homes. If there has been anyone sick in thy house, open all the doors and windows and begin scrubbing everything—clothing, walls, floors, ceilings. Everything! Scrub with water as hot as thee can stand to use and with enough lye soap mixed into it to make thy eyes water. Use a scrub brush, not a cloth. That's thy only defense."
The crowd gawked at her.
"Now! Go!" Mercy waved her hands at them as if shooing away children. Several in the crowd turned and began to leave. The rest stared at her as if unable to move. "If thee acts quickly, thee and thy families may not succumb!"
This finally moved the people. They began running in several directions.
Lon Mackey started walking faster, waving for Indigo and Mercy to follow him. Mercy didn't complain about the brisk pace he set, but she had trouble keeping up. She forced herself on. People were dying.
The sun was sliding below the horizon of tall green mountains. How many evenings like this had she been faced with? People were dying. And she must help them. It was her calling and her privilege.
The gaudy front of the saloon loomed above the street, sticky with mud. Mercy and Indigo followed Lon Mackey inside, where another man was lighting the hanging oil lamps. Mercy gazed around and assessed the situation. Perhaps twenty people lay on blankets spread over the floor and the bar. Most were alone, but some were being ministered to by others, probably relatives.
Many of the patients' faces were bluish, the sign that cholera had already accomplished its pitiless, deadly work. The gorge rose in Mercy's throat. Father, let my knowledge—as flimsy as it is—save some lives. Help me.
Mercy took off her bonnet. "Good evening!" she announced in a loud, firm voice, though her stomach quivered like jelly. "I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. I am a graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I nursed with Clara Barton throughout the war. I am here to see if I can save any of the sick. Now first—"
As she expected—dreaded—hoped to avoid, a sudden cacophony of voices roared in the previously quiet room.
"A woman doctor!"
"No!"
"Is this a joke?"
Mercy had heard this so many times before that it was hard not to shout back. A sudden wave of fatigue rolled over her. She resisted the urge to slump against the wall. As was common on most wagon trains she and Indigo had walked most of the ten days from the nearest railhead. She'd been looking forward to a hotel bed tonight. And now she must face the ridiculous but inevitable objections to her profession. The urge to stamp her foot at them nearly overwhelmed her good sense.
She endeavored to ignore the squawking about how she couldn't be a doctor. Who could trust a female doctor, they asked, and was that the best the gambler could do?
"Quiet." Lon Mackey's solid, male voice cut through the squabbling voices. He did not yell, he merely made himself heard over everyone else. The people fell silent. "What should we do to help you, Dr. Gabriel?"
In this chaotic and fearful room, Lon Mackey had asserted control. He was an impressive man. Mercy wondered what made him so commanding. She decided it wasn't his physical appearance as much as his natural self-assurance.
Mercy cleared her throat and raised her voice. There was no use sugarcoating the truth and doing so could only give false hope. "I am very sorry to say that those who have been sick for over twenty-four hours are without much hope. I need those cases to be moved to the far side of the room so that I can devote my energies to saving those who still have a chance to survive."
Again, the babble broke out.
Lon Mackey silenced all with a glance and the lifting of one hand. "We don't have time to argue. You wanted help, I got a doctor—"
"But a woman—" someone objected.
He kept talking right over the objection. "The mayor's dead and no one else knew what to do. I went and got you a doctor, something I thought impossible." He propped his hands on his hips, looking dangerous to any opposition. "If Dr. Gabriel nursed in the war, she knows more than we do about taking care of sick people. If you don't want her to nurse your folks, then take them home. Anyone who stays will do what they're told by this lady doctor. Do you all understand that?"
Mercy was surprised to see the opposition to her melt away, even though Lon Mackey's pistol was back in his vest. She looked to the man again. She'd been distracted by his gambler's flashy vest. Now she noted that the shirt under it was of the finest quality, though smudged and wrinkled. Lon Mackey had once bought only the best.
He wasn't in his first youth, but he was also by no means near middle-aged. His face was rugged from the sun and perhaps the war—he had that look about him, the look of a soldier. And from just the little of him she'd seen in action, he was most probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.
Mercy raised her voice and repeated, "I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn't nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.
"And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let's get busy. The cholera won't stop until we force it out."
The people stared at her.
She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, "Get moving! Now!"
And everyone began moving.
Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor's instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.
He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He'd noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?
"Lon Mackey?"
He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. "What can I do for you, miss?"
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Her Healing Waysby
Lyn Cote
A female physician with an adopted black daughter? The townsfolk of Idaho Bend will never accept Dr. Mercy Gabriel—even when faced with a deadly cholera epidemic. But all Mercy needs is one man willing to listen…and to trust.
Four years of war command turned Lon Mackey into a footloose gambler who can't abide attachments. Yet he can't help getting riled by the threats Mercy keeps receiving. Her trailblazing courage could reignite his faith and humanity. And his loyalty could make her dream—for the first time—of a family of her own….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Idaho Territory, September 1868
High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people ran toward it with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold, wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy's spine.
She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her, away from the onrushing people. Though almost sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. "Don't worry," Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.
She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with them?
With one sweeping glance, he quelled the people shoving each other to get closer to the wagons. A commanding gambler. In her opinion, an unusual combination.
"Are there any medical supplies on this train?" he asked in a calm tone at odds with the mood of the people crowding around. "Two days ago, we telegraphed to Boise, asking for a doctor to come. But no one has. We've got cholera."
The dreaded word drenched the brave, brawny wagoners; they visibly shrank back from the man. It set off the crowd clamoring again.
Mercy's pulse raced. No, not cholera. Yet she hesitated only a second before revealing the truth about herself. Until this moment, she'd just been another traveler, not an object of mirth, puzzlement or derision. She braced herself for the inevitable reactions and rose. "I am a qualified physician."
Startled, the frantic crowd stopped pushing. As usual, every head swiveled, every face gawked at her.
"You? " the gambler challenged. "You're a woman."
Mercy swallowed a number of sardonic responses to this silly comment. She said, "I am a recent graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I also worked alongside Clara Barton as a nurse throughout the Civil War."
"You nursed in the war?" The gambler studied her, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Yes." Leaning forward, she held out her gloved hand. "I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. And this is my assistant, Nurse Indigo."
He hesitated only a moment. Then, reaching up, he grasped her hand for a firm, brief handshake. "Beggars can't be choosers. I'm Lon Mackey. Will you come and help us?"
She wondered fleetingly why a gambler was taking charge here. She would have expected a mayor or—
Renewed commotion from the crowd, almost a mob now, grabbed her attention. People were trying to climb aboard the supply wagons. "Get us out of this town!" one of them shouted.
No, that would be disastrous! "Stop them," Mercy ordered, flinging up a hand. "No one from this town should be allowed to leave. They could infect everyone on the supply train and spread the disease to other towns."
At this, the wagoners rose and shouted, "Keep back! Quarantine! Quarantine!"
This only spurred the people of the mining town to try harder.
The head wagoner put out an arm, keeping Mercy and Indigo from getting down. "Wagoners, use your whips! "
The drivers raised their whips and snapped them expertly toward the mob. Mercy was horrified. Still muttering mutinously, the crowd fell back until safely out of range. Mercy swallowed her fear, her heart jumping.
"We will unload the shipment of supplies," the wagon master barked, "then we're leaving for the next town right away. And we're not taking on any new passengers."
People looked ready to make another charge toward the train, their expressions frantic, desperate.
"Thee must not give in to fear," Mercy declared. "There is hope. I am a qualified physician and my nurse is also trained." A silent Mercy stood very straight, knowing that her petite height of just over five feet didn't add much to her presence.
"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Gabriel," Lon Mackey announced, pulling a pistol from his vest. "I came to see if anyone could send us assistance. I didn't expect a doctor to be on the supply train. Please come. Lives are at stake."
Mercy moved to descend from the high buckboard. The wagon master let her go, shaking his head. Again he raised his whip as if ready to defend her. Barely able to breathe, Mercy descended, with Indigo in her wake. She addressed Lon Mackey. "I have medical supplies with me. Someone will need to get my trunk from the wagon."
"Get her trunk!" Lon ordered. "We need help. Thirteen people have already died in only three days."
The wagon master roared names, and another two wagoners got down and started to unload Mercy's trunk, one cracking his whip to keep people back. The sullen mob still appeared ready to rush the wagons.
"No new passengers! Now back off or I start shooting!" The wagon master waved his pistol at the people about to surge forward. The sight of the gun caused a collective gasp. The mob fell back.
A wagoner pulled Mercy's bright red trunk, which was on casters, to her and Indigo. He touched the wide brim of his leather hat. "Good luck, ma'am."
Lon Mackey, also brandishing his pistol, led Mercy and Indigo through the crowd.
Indigo hovered closer to Mercy. They both knew what damage a bullet could do to flesh. And how a crowd could turn hostile. Mercy held tight to her slipping composure. Father, no violence, please.
Mercy called out a thanks and farewell to the gruff yet kind wagoners who had been their traveling companions for the past ten days on their way to Boise.
Lon Mackey led Mercy into the charcoal-gray twilight. She drew in the cool mountain air, praying for strength. The crowd milled around them, following, grumbling loudly, angrily.
Mercy tried to ignore them. She understood their fear but knew she must not get caught up in it. "Lon Mackey, has the town set up an infirmary?"
"We have concentrated the sick in the saloon. It was where the cholera started and it's the biggest building in town."
Mercy touched Lon's shoulder. "Cholera can snatch away life within a day. I'll do my best, as will my nurse-assistant. But people are going to die even after treatment. Cholera is a swift, mortal disease."
"That's why we got to get out of town, lady," one of the people in the surrounding crowd complained.
She looked at them. "Go to thy homes. If there has been anyone sick in thy house, open all the doors and windows and begin scrubbing everything—clothing, walls, floors, ceilings. Everything! Scrub with water as hot as thee can stand to use and with enough lye soap mixed into it to make thy eyes water. Use a scrub brush, not a cloth. That's thy only defense."
The crowd gawked at her.
"Now! Go!" Mercy waved her hands at them as if shooing away children. Several in the crowd turned and began to leave. The rest stared at her as if unable to move. "If thee acts quickly, thee and thy families may not succumb!"
This finally moved the people. They began running in several directions.
Lon Mackey started walking faster, waving for Indigo and Mercy to follow him. Mercy didn't complain about the brisk pace he set, but she had trouble keeping up. She forced herself on. People were dying.
The sun was sliding below the horizon of tall green mountains. How many evenings like this had she been faced with? People were dying. And she must help them. It was her calling and her privilege.
The gaudy front of the saloon loomed above the street, sticky with mud. Mercy and Indigo followed Lon Mackey inside, where another man was lighting the hanging oil lamps. Mercy gazed around and assessed the situation. Perhaps twenty people lay on blankets spread over the floor and the bar. Most were alone, but some were being ministered to by others, probably relatives.
Many of the patients' faces were bluish, the sign that cholera had already accomplished its pitiless, deadly work. The gorge rose in Mercy's throat. Father, let my knowledge—as flimsy as it is—save some lives. Help me.
Mercy took off her bonnet. "Good evening!" she announced in a loud, firm voice, though her stomach quivered like jelly. "I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. I am a graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I nursed with Clara Barton throughout the war. I am here to see if I can save any of the sick. Now first—"
As she expected—dreaded—hoped to avoid, a sudden cacophony of voices roared in the previously quiet room.
"A woman doctor!"
"No!"
"Is this a joke?"
Mercy had heard this so many times before that it was hard not to shout back. A sudden wave of fatigue rolled over her. She resisted the urge to slump against the wall. As was common on most wagon trains she and Indigo had walked most of the ten days from the nearest railhead. She'd been looking forward to a hotel bed tonight. And now she must face the ridiculous but inevitable objections to her profession. The urge to stamp her foot at them nearly overwhelmed her good sense.
She endeavored to ignore the squawking about how she couldn't be a doctor. Who could trust a female doctor, they asked, and was that the best the gambler could do?
"Quiet." Lon Mackey's solid, male voice cut through the squabbling voices. He did not yell, he merely made himself heard over everyone else. The people fell silent. "What should we do to help you, Dr. Gabriel?"
In this chaotic and fearful room, Lon Mackey had asserted control. He was an impressive man. Mercy wondered what made him so commanding. She decided it wasn't his physical appearance as much as his natural self-assurance.
Mercy cleared her throat and raised her voice. There was no use sugarcoating the truth and doing so could only give false hope. "I am very sorry to say that those who have been sick for over twenty-four hours are without much hope. I need those cases to be moved to the far side of the room so that I can devote my energies to saving those who still have a chance to survive."
Again, the babble broke out.
Lon Mackey silenced all with a glance and the lifting of one hand. "We don't have time to argue. You wanted help, I got a doctor—"
"But a woman—" someone objected.
He kept talking right over the objection. "The mayor's dead and no one else knew what to do. I went and got you a doctor, something I thought impossible." He propped his hands on his hips, looking dangerous to any opposition. "If Dr. Gabriel nursed in the war, she knows more than we do about taking care of sick people. If you don't want her to nurse your folks, then take them home. Anyone who stays will do what they're told by this lady doctor. Do you all understand that?"
Mercy was surprised to see the opposition to her melt away, even though Lon Mackey's pistol was back in his vest. She looked to the man again. She'd been distracted by his gambler's flashy vest. Now she noted that the shirt under it was of the finest quality, though smudged and wrinkled. Lon Mackey had once bought only the best.
He wasn't in his first youth, but he was also by no means near middle-aged. His face was rugged from the sun and perhaps the war—he had that look about him, the look of a soldier. And from just the little of him she'd seen in action, he was most probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.
Mercy raised her voice and repeated, "I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn't nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.
"And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let's get busy. The cholera won't stop until we force it out."
The people stared at her.
She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, "Get moving! Now!"
And everyone began moving.
Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor's instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.
He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He'd noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?
"Lon Mackey?"
He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. "What can I do for you, miss?"
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Excerpt - Yuletide Defender by Sandra Robbins
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!
Yuletide Defender
by
Sandra Robbins
Is a vigilante responsible for the murders of Lake City gang members? According to reporter Rachel Long's anonymous source, yes. The goal is to trigger a gang war—and her investigations lead Rachel to the heart of the battlegrounds. Which is where she finds handsome officer Matthew Franklin. The protective cop wants her out of harm's way. But she needs the raise from a big story to secure care for her special-needs sister. Rachel won't walk away, even though the vigilante is now aiming at a determined reporter—and a tailing cop—for a showdown just in time for Christmas.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Arriving at a murder scene before breakfast wasn't Rachel Long's idea of a good way to start the day.
She leaned against the lamppost at the corner of Ninth and Perkins and pulled her coat tighter. The December wind that whistled around the deserted storefronts and run-down apartment buildings lining the street sent a shiver down her spine. Unlike other neighborhoods in Lake City, there were no holiday decorations anywhere in sight. In fact, nothing about her surroundings gave a hint that Christmas was only a few weeks away.
A young man's lifeless body sprawled twenty feet away spoke volumes about what life was like in this part of the city. Several uniformed policemen stood to the side as crime scene investigators gathered their evidence.
Her stomach rumbled and she pressed her hand against her abdomen to suppress the hunger pains. Coffee would have to come later. As chief investigative reporter for the Lake City Daily Beacon, her job was to cover the news.
One of the policemen backed away, and Rachel caught sight of the victim's leg twisted underneath him. She made a quick note in her journal of his white canvas tennis shoe with a five-pointed star on the side—one of the identifying marks of the Vipers, the gang that boasted control of this neighborhood.
She pursed her lips and tried to mentally recall how many gang-related deaths she'd reported in the past two months. Four? No, five. This one made the sixth victim.
A car pulled to a stop across the street and Detective Matt Franklin stepped out from the driver's side. He tugged at the cuffs of a white shirt and they slipped over his wrists from underneath the sleeves of his navy blazer. Even this early in the morning he looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine spread. The wind ruffled his brown hair. He smoothed it into place as he waited for the man who climbed from the passenger side of the car.
"Matt," Rachel called out.
He stopped in the middle of the street and glanced around. Catching sight of her, he turned and walked toward her. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. He stopped in front of her and tilted his head to one side. "Rachel, how did you find out about this so quickly?"
"My scanner." She glanced toward the group examining the body. "Another gang killing? "
He sighed and nodded. "Looks like it."
"I noticed the boy's tennis shoes. He's a member of the Vipers. Do you think this is the work of the Rangers?"
Matt shrugged. "It's too early to know. Some in the department think the Vipers from the north side of the city and the Rangers from the south have decided to declare open war on each other. But so far neither gang is talking."
"May I quote you on that?"
"You probably would even if I said no." His mouth curved into the lopsided smile she'd first noticed when they met two months ago at the scene of the first gang member's death.
Rachel closed the notebook she held and dropped her pen into her bag. "When I was growing up, I never thought we'd someday have two gangs in a town this size. They were in urban areas like New York and Los Angeles, not in a small city in the heart of Illinois."
Matt nodded. "No town, no matter how small, is safe from the threat of gangs. Pressure from large-city police departments is forcing many gang members from the cities into more rural areas. Once there, they recruit locals into the groups. It's a growing problem all across the country."
Rachel glanced back at the body down the street. "So now we have six kids dead. Three Rangers and three Vipers. And because of what? Their neighborhoods aren't any better because they died. In fact, now it's worse for the people who live there and want to raise their children in a safe environment." She shook her head. "What a waste."
Matt regarded her with a steady gaze. "I didn't realize you had such strong feelings about the fate of these kids."
Her eyes grew wide. "Of course I do. Most of them don't have a chance of escaping their lives of poverty. They're looking to neighborhood gangs to save them and instead they're ending up dead."
Matt's gaze flitted across her face for a moment before he responded. "Once they take that step into the gang life, though, they're also dangerous. When I saw you standing over here, I thought it might be a good time to give you a friendly warning. You've written some hard-hitting articles in the past few weeks since this string of killings started. I'd hate to see you anger the wrong people."
She shrugged. "I don't make the news. I only report it."
Matt nodded. "I know. And I don't make the crimes. I only try to solve them. All I'm saying is just don't get in over your head."
Rachel smiled. "It's nice of you to worry about my safety, but I don't think I'll have any problems. The gang members only know me as a name in the newspaper. I doubt if they even care what I think."
Matt shook his head. "I don't know about that. Your picture is right beside your byline. Someone wanting to find you wouldn't have to look far."
Rachel had never thought of that, and her skin tingled with a rush of fear. "Don't try to scare me, Matt. I can't back off my job. Good reporters follow the facts and print them."
Matt's dark eyes clouded. "I know what these gangs are like, Rachel. I deal with them on a daily basis. As a friend, I thought I should warn you. Just be careful."
She nodded. "I will be. And don't forget to read my story." She glanced around at the local residents, some in their pajamas and robes, standing along the sidewalk. "I think I'll try to get some quotes from a few of the people who live around here. Of course they'll refuse to give their names, but you can't blame them. They're afraid of retaliation from the people who control their streets."
"We run into that problem all the time. It sure makes catching a killer harder." Matt glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene. "Well, I'd better get busy. I just wanted to pass along my concern." He turned to leave but then he faced her again. "By the way, I saw you at church last Sunday with your friend Mindy. You left before I could speak to you."
Rachel smiled at how surprised she'd been to see Matt there. That day he was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt as he played the drums in the praise band for the worship service. He'd looked so relaxed and completely absorbed in the music. Today he was every inch the professional policeman.
"Mindy has been after me to go with her, so I did."
"Maybe you'd like to come to our Singles Bible Study. We meet tonight."
She shrugged. "Maybe. If I have time. My job keeps me busy."
He looked back at the crime scene. "Mine does, too. I'd better get to work. See you later."
Rachel watched as Matt jogged back to the officers still beside the body. She'd liked Matt the first time they'd met. Perhaps it was the sorrow she saw in his eyes as he gazed down at the young victim who'd died alone on a dark street. And now a sixth person had also met his end.
She turned her attention to the small crowd of onlookers who'd gathered in front of an apartment building across the street. At the edge of the cluster of residents, a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties gripped the hand of a young boy beside her.
As Rachel watched, the woman spoke to the boy who stared into her face. The child didn't move as the woman accented her words with gestures toward the body across the street.
Fascinated by the exchange between the two, Rachel ambled toward them until she stood in front of the woman. She smiled. "Good morning, my name is Rachel Long. I'm a reporter for the Lake City Daily Beacon, and I noticed you standing here. I wondered if I might speak with you."
Suspicion flashed in the woman's eyes and she gripped the boy's hand tighter. "What about?"
Rachel glanced at the boy. "Is this your son?"
The woman straightened her shoulders. "Yes."
"I couldn't help but notice that you were talking to him as if you really wanted to impress something on him. It reminded me of how my mother used to talk with me."
The woman pointed across the street. "I was tellin' him that he's all I got in this world, and I don't aim to see him end up dead on no street corner. That's what gangs do for you. Promise all kinds of things but they ain't true."
Rachel nodded. "You're a very wise woman. I know it isn't easy living in a neighborhood where gangs roam the streets."
The woman's eyes grew wide and her mouth pulled into a grim line. "Easy? There ain't nothing easy 'bout life around here, and these hoodlums with their drugs and guns just make it harder for folks like us who workin' to get by."
"Do you have something you'd like to say to the people of Lake City or to the police about what the gangs are doing to our city?"
She started to speak but stopped. Fear flashed in her eyes. "You ain't gonna use my name or tell where I live, are you?"
Rachel shook her head. "I'll just quote you as a concerned mother."
"Well, then I guess I'd say to the folks who live in the nice neighborhoods, you ain't got no idea what it's like to be afraid of where you live. My son can't play outside 'cause I'm scared a stray bullet gonna hit him. We don't get out after dark, just stay inside with all the curtains pulled. And we stay away from the windows. I can't afford to move nowhere else, so I'm stuck here. When is somebody gonna help us clean up the filth that's turned what used to be a good neighborhood into a battlefield?"
Rachel had promised herself when she became a reporter that she would keep her personal feelings under control when she was interviewing someone. The anguish in this mother's eyes, though, made her forget that intention.
Her heart pricked at the predicament of this woman and her child. She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and smiled down at the boy. "You have a smart mama. Do what she says and stay safe."
The boy's somber brown eyes stared at her. "I will."
The mother pulled her son closer. "You gonna write how bad it is down here?"
"I am." She reached out and squeezed the woman's hand that rested on her son's shoulder. "I'll be thinking of you."
With a sigh she headed back across the street. She saw Matt bending over the victim. He straightened and smiled when he saw her. They stared at each other for a moment before they both waved, and Rachel turned down the street to the spot where she'd parked.
When she climbed into her car and cranked the engine, she held her breath. To her relief, the motor purred to life. She really had to do something about a car soon. Hers had already exceeded its life expectancy by a few years. Maybe by this time next year she'd be driving a new vehicle.
The Beacon was just the first step to success. If things went as planned, this job would be her springboard to a larger newspaper or even a television station. And stories of rival gangs killing each other just might be the ticket to jump-start the journey.
Rachel thought again of the mother's fear for her son. Her own mother had dealt with many problems in raising Rachel and her sister, but gangs weren't something they had to worry about. She couldn't imagine what life must be like for that woman and her son. Maybe if she dug deeper into the killings, she would find something to help the police.
Matt's warning drifted through her mind but she shook it away. There were reasons why she wanted to succeed at her job. No, had to succeed. She only had one choice—to go anywhere and talk to anybody to get the story she needed.
Rachel stared at the computer screen and scanned the article she'd just written once more before sending it to the copy editor. "It seems almost like a rewrite of the other murders," she grumbled aloud.
She leaned back in her chair and tapped the desktop with a pencil. The police might believe gang violence was the reason for the similar killings, but according to what Matt had told her they still couldn't be sure. With no clues left behind, the police didn't appear to know where to turn. Gang members weren't talking, and most residents who lived in the neighborhoods controlled by the groups were too afraid to tell what they knew.
Somebody in Lake City knew what was going on with these killings but so far no one had come forward. She reread the last two lines of the article she'd just completed. "It's time for every resident of Lake City to say, 'We will not stand quietly by and let the gangs destroy us.' Only by joining forces can we safeguard the future and provide a secure way of life for our children and those who will come after us."
Whether or not her call for unity would work, she didn't know. All she could do was try to rally the citizens to fight what was happening around them. She sighed and, with a click of the mouse, sent the story on its way to the copy editor.
She picked up her coffee cup and took a drink just as the phone rang. Setting the cup back on the desk, she wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder. "Rachel Long. May I help you? "
"I don't know. Maybe I can help you." Rachel's eyes widened at the curtness in the man's voice. This was no friendly call. She pushed her cup away, reached for a pencil and slid her notepad across her desk.
"Help me with what?"
"I been reading your stories in the paper."
Rachel took a deep breath to still her thudding heart.
"Which ones?"
"The gang murders."
Rachel's fingers flexed and gripped the pencil tighter. "I'm glad. We always like to hear from our readers."
"I ain't calling to brag on your writing. I gots a story I want to talk about."
She poised the pencil above the pad. "And what's your name?"
A low laugh came over the phone. "That don't matter. Let's just say I'm a confidential source. Okay?"
Rachel could almost hear her heart pounding. "That depends on what you have to tell me."
"Oh, you gonna like this. 'Cause I got a story that'll rock this city."
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Yuletide Defenderby
Sandra Robbins
Is a vigilante responsible for the murders of Lake City gang members? According to reporter Rachel Long's anonymous source, yes. The goal is to trigger a gang war—and her investigations lead Rachel to the heart of the battlegrounds. Which is where she finds handsome officer Matthew Franklin. The protective cop wants her out of harm's way. But she needs the raise from a big story to secure care for her special-needs sister. Rachel won't walk away, even though the vigilante is now aiming at a determined reporter—and a tailing cop—for a showdown just in time for Christmas.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Arriving at a murder scene before breakfast wasn't Rachel Long's idea of a good way to start the day.
She leaned against the lamppost at the corner of Ninth and Perkins and pulled her coat tighter. The December wind that whistled around the deserted storefronts and run-down apartment buildings lining the street sent a shiver down her spine. Unlike other neighborhoods in Lake City, there were no holiday decorations anywhere in sight. In fact, nothing about her surroundings gave a hint that Christmas was only a few weeks away.
A young man's lifeless body sprawled twenty feet away spoke volumes about what life was like in this part of the city. Several uniformed policemen stood to the side as crime scene investigators gathered their evidence.
Her stomach rumbled and she pressed her hand against her abdomen to suppress the hunger pains. Coffee would have to come later. As chief investigative reporter for the Lake City Daily Beacon, her job was to cover the news.
One of the policemen backed away, and Rachel caught sight of the victim's leg twisted underneath him. She made a quick note in her journal of his white canvas tennis shoe with a five-pointed star on the side—one of the identifying marks of the Vipers, the gang that boasted control of this neighborhood.
She pursed her lips and tried to mentally recall how many gang-related deaths she'd reported in the past two months. Four? No, five. This one made the sixth victim.
A car pulled to a stop across the street and Detective Matt Franklin stepped out from the driver's side. He tugged at the cuffs of a white shirt and they slipped over his wrists from underneath the sleeves of his navy blazer. Even this early in the morning he looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine spread. The wind ruffled his brown hair. He smoothed it into place as he waited for the man who climbed from the passenger side of the car.
"Matt," Rachel called out.
He stopped in the middle of the street and glanced around. Catching sight of her, he turned and walked toward her. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. He stopped in front of her and tilted his head to one side. "Rachel, how did you find out about this so quickly?"
"My scanner." She glanced toward the group examining the body. "Another gang killing? "
He sighed and nodded. "Looks like it."
"I noticed the boy's tennis shoes. He's a member of the Vipers. Do you think this is the work of the Rangers?"
Matt shrugged. "It's too early to know. Some in the department think the Vipers from the north side of the city and the Rangers from the south have decided to declare open war on each other. But so far neither gang is talking."
"May I quote you on that?"
"You probably would even if I said no." His mouth curved into the lopsided smile she'd first noticed when they met two months ago at the scene of the first gang member's death.
Rachel closed the notebook she held and dropped her pen into her bag. "When I was growing up, I never thought we'd someday have two gangs in a town this size. They were in urban areas like New York and Los Angeles, not in a small city in the heart of Illinois."
Matt nodded. "No town, no matter how small, is safe from the threat of gangs. Pressure from large-city police departments is forcing many gang members from the cities into more rural areas. Once there, they recruit locals into the groups. It's a growing problem all across the country."
Rachel glanced back at the body down the street. "So now we have six kids dead. Three Rangers and three Vipers. And because of what? Their neighborhoods aren't any better because they died. In fact, now it's worse for the people who live there and want to raise their children in a safe environment." She shook her head. "What a waste."
Matt regarded her with a steady gaze. "I didn't realize you had such strong feelings about the fate of these kids."
Her eyes grew wide. "Of course I do. Most of them don't have a chance of escaping their lives of poverty. They're looking to neighborhood gangs to save them and instead they're ending up dead."
Matt's gaze flitted across her face for a moment before he responded. "Once they take that step into the gang life, though, they're also dangerous. When I saw you standing over here, I thought it might be a good time to give you a friendly warning. You've written some hard-hitting articles in the past few weeks since this string of killings started. I'd hate to see you anger the wrong people."
She shrugged. "I don't make the news. I only report it."
Matt nodded. "I know. And I don't make the crimes. I only try to solve them. All I'm saying is just don't get in over your head."
Rachel smiled. "It's nice of you to worry about my safety, but I don't think I'll have any problems. The gang members only know me as a name in the newspaper. I doubt if they even care what I think."
Matt shook his head. "I don't know about that. Your picture is right beside your byline. Someone wanting to find you wouldn't have to look far."
Rachel had never thought of that, and her skin tingled with a rush of fear. "Don't try to scare me, Matt. I can't back off my job. Good reporters follow the facts and print them."
Matt's dark eyes clouded. "I know what these gangs are like, Rachel. I deal with them on a daily basis. As a friend, I thought I should warn you. Just be careful."
She nodded. "I will be. And don't forget to read my story." She glanced around at the local residents, some in their pajamas and robes, standing along the sidewalk. "I think I'll try to get some quotes from a few of the people who live around here. Of course they'll refuse to give their names, but you can't blame them. They're afraid of retaliation from the people who control their streets."
"We run into that problem all the time. It sure makes catching a killer harder." Matt glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene. "Well, I'd better get busy. I just wanted to pass along my concern." He turned to leave but then he faced her again. "By the way, I saw you at church last Sunday with your friend Mindy. You left before I could speak to you."
Rachel smiled at how surprised she'd been to see Matt there. That day he was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt as he played the drums in the praise band for the worship service. He'd looked so relaxed and completely absorbed in the music. Today he was every inch the professional policeman.
"Mindy has been after me to go with her, so I did."
"Maybe you'd like to come to our Singles Bible Study. We meet tonight."
She shrugged. "Maybe. If I have time. My job keeps me busy."
He looked back at the crime scene. "Mine does, too. I'd better get to work. See you later."
Rachel watched as Matt jogged back to the officers still beside the body. She'd liked Matt the first time they'd met. Perhaps it was the sorrow she saw in his eyes as he gazed down at the young victim who'd died alone on a dark street. And now a sixth person had also met his end.
She turned her attention to the small crowd of onlookers who'd gathered in front of an apartment building across the street. At the edge of the cluster of residents, a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties gripped the hand of a young boy beside her.
As Rachel watched, the woman spoke to the boy who stared into her face. The child didn't move as the woman accented her words with gestures toward the body across the street.
Fascinated by the exchange between the two, Rachel ambled toward them until she stood in front of the woman. She smiled. "Good morning, my name is Rachel Long. I'm a reporter for the Lake City Daily Beacon, and I noticed you standing here. I wondered if I might speak with you."
Suspicion flashed in the woman's eyes and she gripped the boy's hand tighter. "What about?"
Rachel glanced at the boy. "Is this your son?"
The woman straightened her shoulders. "Yes."
"I couldn't help but notice that you were talking to him as if you really wanted to impress something on him. It reminded me of how my mother used to talk with me."
The woman pointed across the street. "I was tellin' him that he's all I got in this world, and I don't aim to see him end up dead on no street corner. That's what gangs do for you. Promise all kinds of things but they ain't true."
Rachel nodded. "You're a very wise woman. I know it isn't easy living in a neighborhood where gangs roam the streets."
The woman's eyes grew wide and her mouth pulled into a grim line. "Easy? There ain't nothing easy 'bout life around here, and these hoodlums with their drugs and guns just make it harder for folks like us who workin' to get by."
"Do you have something you'd like to say to the people of Lake City or to the police about what the gangs are doing to our city?"
She started to speak but stopped. Fear flashed in her eyes. "You ain't gonna use my name or tell where I live, are you?"
Rachel shook her head. "I'll just quote you as a concerned mother."
"Well, then I guess I'd say to the folks who live in the nice neighborhoods, you ain't got no idea what it's like to be afraid of where you live. My son can't play outside 'cause I'm scared a stray bullet gonna hit him. We don't get out after dark, just stay inside with all the curtains pulled. And we stay away from the windows. I can't afford to move nowhere else, so I'm stuck here. When is somebody gonna help us clean up the filth that's turned what used to be a good neighborhood into a battlefield?"
Rachel had promised herself when she became a reporter that she would keep her personal feelings under control when she was interviewing someone. The anguish in this mother's eyes, though, made her forget that intention.
Her heart pricked at the predicament of this woman and her child. She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and smiled down at the boy. "You have a smart mama. Do what she says and stay safe."
The boy's somber brown eyes stared at her. "I will."
The mother pulled her son closer. "You gonna write how bad it is down here?"
"I am." She reached out and squeezed the woman's hand that rested on her son's shoulder. "I'll be thinking of you."
With a sigh she headed back across the street. She saw Matt bending over the victim. He straightened and smiled when he saw her. They stared at each other for a moment before they both waved, and Rachel turned down the street to the spot where she'd parked.
When she climbed into her car and cranked the engine, she held her breath. To her relief, the motor purred to life. She really had to do something about a car soon. Hers had already exceeded its life expectancy by a few years. Maybe by this time next year she'd be driving a new vehicle.
The Beacon was just the first step to success. If things went as planned, this job would be her springboard to a larger newspaper or even a television station. And stories of rival gangs killing each other just might be the ticket to jump-start the journey.
Rachel thought again of the mother's fear for her son. Her own mother had dealt with many problems in raising Rachel and her sister, but gangs weren't something they had to worry about. She couldn't imagine what life must be like for that woman and her son. Maybe if she dug deeper into the killings, she would find something to help the police.
Matt's warning drifted through her mind but she shook it away. There were reasons why she wanted to succeed at her job. No, had to succeed. She only had one choice—to go anywhere and talk to anybody to get the story she needed.
Rachel stared at the computer screen and scanned the article she'd just written once more before sending it to the copy editor. "It seems almost like a rewrite of the other murders," she grumbled aloud.
She leaned back in her chair and tapped the desktop with a pencil. The police might believe gang violence was the reason for the similar killings, but according to what Matt had told her they still couldn't be sure. With no clues left behind, the police didn't appear to know where to turn. Gang members weren't talking, and most residents who lived in the neighborhoods controlled by the groups were too afraid to tell what they knew.
Somebody in Lake City knew what was going on with these killings but so far no one had come forward. She reread the last two lines of the article she'd just completed. "It's time for every resident of Lake City to say, 'We will not stand quietly by and let the gangs destroy us.' Only by joining forces can we safeguard the future and provide a secure way of life for our children and those who will come after us."
Whether or not her call for unity would work, she didn't know. All she could do was try to rally the citizens to fight what was happening around them. She sighed and, with a click of the mouse, sent the story on its way to the copy editor.
She picked up her coffee cup and took a drink just as the phone rang. Setting the cup back on the desk, she wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder. "Rachel Long. May I help you? "
"I don't know. Maybe I can help you." Rachel's eyes widened at the curtness in the man's voice. This was no friendly call. She pushed her cup away, reached for a pencil and slid her notepad across her desk.
"Help me with what?"
"I been reading your stories in the paper."
Rachel took a deep breath to still her thudding heart.
"Which ones?"
"The gang murders."
Rachel's fingers flexed and gripped the pencil tighter. "I'm glad. We always like to hear from our readers."
"I ain't calling to brag on your writing. I gots a story I want to talk about."
She poised the pencil above the pad. "And what's your name?"
A low laugh came over the phone. "That don't matter. Let's just say I'm a confidential source. Okay?"
Rachel could almost hear her heart pounding. "That depends on what you have to tell me."
"Oh, you gonna like this. 'Cause I got a story that'll rock this city."
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January 14, 2011
Excerpt - Whisper on the Wind by Maureen Lang
Whisper on the Wind by
Maureen Lang
She risked everything to rescue him.
But what if he doesn't want to be saved?
Belgium, 1916
The German Imperial Army may have conquered Belgium on its march through Europe, but the small country refuses to be defeated. An underground newspaper surfaces to keep patriotism alive and bring hope and real news of the war to the occupied country. It may be a whisper amongst the shouts of the German army, but it's a thorn in their side nonetheless—and Edward Kirkland will do anything to keep it in print . . . even risk his life.
Isa Lassone is a Belgium socialite whose family fled Europe at the first rumblings of war. Now, two years later, she sneaks back across enemy lines, determined to rescue Edward—the man she has loved from afar since she was a child.
But will he ever see her as more than the wealthy, silly girl his mother once cared for as a daughter?
When Edward refuses to leave, so does Isa, and soon she is drawn into his dangerous double life. But the Germans are closing in on the paper, and Edward had never planned to put any one else at risk . . . especially the beautiful, smart, yet obstinate young woman who has inconveniently managed to work her way into his life—and into his heart.
***
"Whisper on the Wind brings to life a time and place too often forgotten in historical fiction. . . . The suspenseful climax kept me on the edge of my seat!"
Lynn Austin, best-selling author of Though Waters Roar
"A suspense-filled romance. . . . an exciting page-turner, one that will have readers racing to reach the end so they can discover how it will turn out. I highly recommend Whisper on the Wind."
Robin Lee Hatcher, best-selling author of A Vote of Confidence
A note from Maureen:
Whisper on the Wind holds a special place in my heart, because I conceived the idea during a time in my life when I wasn't actively writing. I knew "someday" when I could devote myself to writing again, this would be the book I'd write. And here it is, years later—a book inspired by the true events surrounding a Belgian newspaper, La Libre Belgique. During the German occupation of Belgium in the First World War, the Germans ordered every legitimate Belgian newspaper to submit to censorship—and so sprang up La Libre Belgique, one of the few voices of opposition to the propaganda the Germans circulated. Their goal was to bring hope to a suppressed nation, and many people lost everything from their freedom to their fortunes, some even their lives to see this paper circulated. With so much material, it was easy to create a romantic tale of adventure and intrigue, so I hope you'll enjoy the story—knowing the story-behind-the story is full of factual history.
A little about Maureen:
Maureen Lang is the author of several novels, including Pieces of Silver (a Christy finalist), The Oak Leaves (Holt Medallion Award of Merit, finalist in ACFW's Book of the Year and Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence contests) and Look to the East (Inspirational Reader's Choice Contest winner and Carol Award finalist). She is also the recipient of RWA's Golden Heart and ACFW's Noble Theme Award (now the Genesis). Maureen lives in the Midwest with her family and their much-loved dog, Susie. Visit her Web site at www.maureenlang.com.
Excerpt of chapter one:
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Excerpt - Christmas Bodyguard by Margaret Daley
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!
Christmas Bodyguard
by
Margaret Daley
Someone's after wealthy Texan Slade Caulder's daughter. Desperate to keep her safe while he determines the motive, the widowed father hires a bodyguard for Abbey. A female bodyguard, with the training to protect the girl—and an understanding of a willful teenager who keeps trying to outsmart her. Elizabeth Walker is the perfect combination of caring and toughness for her job. But as the holidays approach, the stalker's threats escalate. And Slade finds himself willing to risk everything to keep his Christmas bodyguard by his side…forever.
Excerpt of chapter one:
"Watch out!" Slade Caulder said through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle on his SUV. Why had he allowed a sixteen-year-old with a permit to drive? Only a few more miles to the ranch—thankfully.
"Dad, I saw him coming out. I've got everything under control."
When he noticed Abbey sliding a glance toward him, his heart rate shot up even further. "Keep your eyes on the road."
"I'm gonna ask Gram to take me driving next time."
"No." Although he wished he could let his mother-in-law take over teaching his daughter to drive around Dallas, he wouldn't. It was his job.
The car gained speed. "Don't go over sixty."
"I'm not. I have to practice going highway speed. Quit worrying about me."
Yeah, sure. She might as well ask him to quit breathing. It wasn't going to happen. Abbey was all he had. At least this was an almost-deserted stretch of road.
Thud! Bam!
A blowout?
Suddenly the car swerved to the right toward the ditch along the highway. He lurched around and glimpsed the color leaching from Abbey's face. Her knuckles whitened as she fought the shimmying steering wheel.
"Daddy!" she screamed above the thumping sound followed by a whomp. "I can't control…"
"Take your foot off the gas. Put the brakes on. Get off the road." He schooled his voice into the calmest level he could manage. He desperately wanted to change places with his daughter, but knew he couldn't.
The rougher terrain along the shoulder alerted him right before the car plunged into the ditch, heading toward a tree growing in it. Slade twisted toward Abbey, but the seatbelt retracted, immobilizing him like a prisoner. The air bags exploded outward, slamming into him. His breath whooshed from his lungs.
Blackness swirled before him. He fought to stay conscious, but his eyelids slid closed as the darkness rushed at him.
Pain jolted Slade back from the void. He opened his eyes to a fine powder dancing in the air about him, choking him. He coughed but his body protested the sudden movement— a deep, throbbing ache spread out from his chest. As he raised his hand to his head, a hissing filled the air, vying with the sound of the engine running. Pushing the deflated air bag back, he tried to straighten but couldn't. The seat belt trapped him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Suddenly, a thought drove the daze from his mind. "Abbey!" he called out, but she didn't answer.
Adrenaline pumped through him. He jerked his head toward his daughter. The action sent the world before him spinning and forced him to close his eyes for a few seconds. But the need to make sure his daughter was all right overrode everything. Alert, totally focused on Abbey, he squashed his own pain.
A tree limb, having smashed through her side window, pinned her against her seat. Her head tilted to the side, blood streaming down her face from multiple cuts. Panic battled to take over Slade. He tried to thrust the limb out the hole in the window so he could get to his daughter better. The branch refused to dislodge.
Think! He couldn't lose his daughter, too.
His hand shaking, he reached across and felt for her pulse at the side of her neck. Strong. But she hadn't moved. He quickly dug into his pocket for his cell and called 911. Once he knew help was on the way, he allowed a second of relief to flutter through him.
The vibration and sound of the motor grabbed his attention. He snaked his hand through the limb's small branches and managed to turn his SUV off. Then he rummaged in the compartment between the driver's seat and the front passenger seat for the first aid kit, tore into it and unwound some gauze. He needed to get closer to her to bandage her head. When he tried to unclasp his seatbelt, it wouldn't budge. Panic attacked him from all sides. He clawed at the strap as though he could pry loose the metal clamp that held him captive.
He looked over at his daughter, her eyes still closed, her blood soaking her. "I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered.
Taking in a deep breath, he composed himself. He couldn't lose control. Another fortifying gulp of air, then he pulled on the strap and finally disconnected it. Able to move more freely, he braced himself with one foot against the door and the other under the dashboard to compensate for the way the car leaned forward in the ditch. He angled toward his daughter and wrapped the gauze around the worst of her cuts to stem the blood flow. But when he drew his fingers away they were sticky and covered in Abbey's blood. The sight sent terror straight to his heart.
Abbey moaned and stirred. Her eyes popped open, wide with fear as they linked with his. "Daddy?" She licked her lips, her face screwing up into a panicky look as her tongue ran over some blood. "I'm bleeding."
"Help is coming, honey."
He wanted to go around to her side to take a closer look at her injuries. When he shoved at the door, it creaked open, water gushing inside from the ditch. An earthy stench accosted him.
"Don't leave me, Daddy." Hysteria coated each word.
He twisted back toward his daughter, the cold water swirling about his feet. A shudder shivered up his body. "I won't." In the distance, the sound of the sirens blared. "It won't be long now," he said as calmly as possible, while inside the same helplessness he'd experienced when his wife had died five years ago washed over him. Suddenly, a sense of foreboding dominated all senses. Sweat popped out on his forehead. His hands shook.
Why did he feel like someone was watching?
Elizabeth Walker parked her red Trans Am in a space next to the Dallas office building where Guardians, Inc. was located. She'd hoped her boss, Kyra Morgan, wouldn't have anything for her yet. Although Elizabeth had been home almost a week since her last assignment, she could use another few days for rest and relaxation. Her last job in Phoenix had been a long one—ten weeks. But the call that morning asking her to come in to the office could only mean one thing.
She loved working as a bodyguard with the all-female agency, but some assignments required longer to bounce back from. The job demanded a lot of mental energy, and sometimes physical energy, too. The stress from always being on guard, always scanning the perimeter for trouble and never getting to enjoy the beauty of the moment heightened the importance of her downtime between missions. Kyra knew that well. So the fact that her boss called her in a little early meant this job was important—not something she would want to turn down.
Entering the suite on the second floor, Elizabeth greeted Kyra's secretary with a smile. "Is she in there?" Elizabeth tossed her head toward the closed door.
Carrie, her expression solemn, nodded. "She has a client with her, but she wanted you to go on in when you arrived."
"Who's the new client?"
"I gather someone Kyra knows."
That might explain why she was here earlier than usual after a taxing assignment. Her specialty was guarding children. She couldn't see Kyra turning down a friend, and from what her boss had said a couple of days ago, the other four employees who specialized in children were all still on assignments.
She pushed open the door to her employer's office and stepped into the room. A large man, over six feet, was pacing before Kyra's desk. As Elizabeth entered, he came to a stop and swiveled toward her. The most piercing gray gaze she'd ever seen homed in on her. For a second she glimpsed surprise in his expression from the slight widening of his eyes to the flare of his nostrils.
"This is Elizabeth Walker." Kyra came around from behind her desk and gestured toward a seating arrangement consisting of a couch and two wing chairs. "Elizabeth, this is Slade Caulder." Kyra, long legged and nearly six feet in height, moved toward the seats and took a chair.
Slade tipped his head toward Elizabeth and fit his tall frame into the other wing chair, leaving Elizabeth to take the couch. The intensity pouring off the man charged the air. The hair on her arms stood up.
Poised and professional, Kyra set a pad on her lap and wrote something down on it. "Slade has a problem that needs your expertise. His sixteen-year-old daughter has been threatened, and he needs the services of a bodyguard to protect her. I'll let him tell you what he's looking for."
His body held rigidly, he gripped the arms of the chair and turned his assessing gaze on her. Silence ruled for a long moment as Elizabeth felt catalogued and evaluated. A flicker in his eyes gave her the impression that she fell short. She lifted her chin a notch and focused her attention totally on him. Some people took her petite stature to mean she wasn't capable of defending someone. They were mistaken.
That sharp gaze switched to her employer. "Kyra, she can't be more than a few years or so out of high school herself. How can she guard my daughter effectively?"
Elizabeth stiffened and, before Kyra could answer said, "I'm flattered you think I look so young, but I'm nearly thirty." She bit back the words. "And I can show you my birth certificate if you need proof."
This time he didn't try to disguise his surprise as his look locked on hers.
"I assure you, Slade, Elizabeth is highly qualified and has been working for me for three years. She usually handles cases where a child is involved and has been successful in all her assignments. You wanted someone who could blend in with your daughter and her friends, especially at school. As you can see, she'll be able to."
"What kind of skills do you have?"
Elizabeth relaxed back on the couch, smoothing her straight black skirt as she crossed her legs. Slade's glance flicked to her four-inch heels, and she could imagine what he was thinking. She only indulged in wearing heels when she wasn't working and when she met prospective clients. It added to her height, giving the illusion she was taller than five feet three inches.
"I have a third-degree black belt in tae kwon do. I'm capable of shooting all kinds of guns, but my weapon of choice is a Glock Model 23. My last score on a PPC was 580 out of a possible 600."
"PPC?"
"Police Pistol Competition. I have taken down a man your size holding a gun on more than one occasion. Do you want me to show you how?"
One dark eyebrow rose. "I'll take your word for it."
"Why do you think your daughter is in danger?" Elizabeth kept her gaze glued to his, determined not to be the first one to look away.
"It started three days ago when we were in an accident. My daughter was driving when we had a blowout going sixty miles an hour. She's still learning to drive and couldn't handle the car. We ended up in a ditch. Next time I teach someone to drive, the first thing on my list will be what to do during a blowout."
Elizabeth sat forward, clasping her hands loosely together, and asked, "Someone caused your blowout?"
"I didn't know it at the time, but when my mechanic was going over my car after the wreck, he discovered what he thought looked like a bullet hole by the whitewall. He notified the sheriff and me. Sheriff McCain agrees the blowout was caused by a bullet."
"Where was this wreck?"
"Not far from my ranch, near Silver Chase toward the end of Highway 156."
"Could it have been a hunter?" Elizabeth asked, although unease settled across her shoulders.
"At first I thought, maybe. None of us who live out that way allow hunting on our ranches but occasionally someone will try anyway. The sheriff told me it's hard to shoot a tire out. It would have to be either a lucky shot or someone very skilled."
"Like a sniper?"
He nodded.
The uneasy sensation spread down her spine. "What made you decide that it wasn't a hunter?"
Slade slanted his glance toward Kyra for a few seconds before returning the intense look to Elizabeth. The power behind his expression jiggled her nerves. This man was used to getting exactly what he wanted. Did he have a lot of enemies out there? Someone who would want to harm him through his child?
"This morning I went into my office. I hadn't been into work since the accident. Abbey had to stay overnight at the hospital for observation and had a rough day or two, but today she insisted on going back to school. I took her and went to work. In my mail, I received a photo of Abbey cut into pieces."
"Do you have it?"
"The police have it. I phoned Captain Ted Dickerson immediately after I informed the school of the threat. The principal called in extra guards until I could get something in place."
Kyra stood. "I want to contact Captain Dickerson and let him know you have hired us to watch Abbey." Her employer headed toward the exit and left Elizabeth alone with Slade.
"Where does Abbey go to school?" Elizabeth asked when the door clicked closed.
"Dawson Academy. It's a private school with more than adequate security. When I called, they said she was fine.
After that, I came here. There's only so much the police or sheriff can do. I aim to protect my daughter no matter how much it costs."
"What kind of photo of her was destroyed? A school one? A recent one?"
Slade clamped his jaw together so tightly that a nerve twitched. "Recent. It was a picture of her cheering at a basketball game. The person who took it was probably only a couple of yards away." He leaned forward and his neutral expression became fierce, his eyes hard like smoky ice. "Which means the person was close to my daughter."
"While I can't prevent people from taking pictures, I can keep an eye out for anyone who is suspicious and stop them from gaining access to Abbey." She held his look. If someone wanted a person harmed, it was usually possible. But there were things that could be done to lessen the chance. She intended to take those precautions. "I am very good at my job. How will Abbey feel about having me follow her around?"
He blew a harsh breath out. "That's the problem. She's headstrong and independent. I think she would more likely accept you rather than a man guarding her, but I'm not going to kid you. She still won't like it, even though you're a woman and young-looking." His glance strayed over her, resting for a few extra seconds on her heels.
"Does she know she's in danger?"
"Until an hour ago I didn't know, myself. I haven't told her yet. I will this afternoon after school, when I introduce you."
"So what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Not let my daughter out of your sight. I want you to stay in the room next to hers at the ranch, escort her to school and back home until the person is caught." He plowed his hand through his medium-length black hair. "I'm curtailing her activities, which won't sit well with her, but with the security at Dawson Academy and you there, she'll be okay and more likely to accept the other restrictions."
"Who would have a grudge against your daughter?"
"I don't know. She's sixteen and popular at school. She's a cheerleader and has lots of friends."
"Have you considered that the person is really after you?"
That nerve in his jawline jerked again. "Yes. I think it's possible that someone wants to get to me through my daughter, and I'm looking into that. But first and foremost I have to know my daughter will be safe."
"That will be my top priority."
"It will be your only one."
His intense stare might have made a lesser person back off, but she'd learned painfully she had to stand her ground, especially in her profession. "You said you live on a ranch near Silver Chase. Which one?"
"The Rocking Horse, two miles before the end of the road on the left. Abbey gave it that name when we moved out there. She was five years old then." For just a split second a faraway look entered his eyes as though he was remembering how it had been when his daughter was five.
"What time do you want me at the ranch, Mr. Caulder?"
"Call me Slade. We'll be living in the same house." When she nodded, he continued. "I'll pick Abbey up from school at three and be home by three forty-five. I'll let my mother-in-law know you'll be there by two. Mary can show you around before Abbey and I get there." He rose in one fluid motion.
She came to her feet, too. "One more question. How secure is your ranch?"
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Christmas Bodyguardby
Margaret Daley
Someone's after wealthy Texan Slade Caulder's daughter. Desperate to keep her safe while he determines the motive, the widowed father hires a bodyguard for Abbey. A female bodyguard, with the training to protect the girl—and an understanding of a willful teenager who keeps trying to outsmart her. Elizabeth Walker is the perfect combination of caring and toughness for her job. But as the holidays approach, the stalker's threats escalate. And Slade finds himself willing to risk everything to keep his Christmas bodyguard by his side…forever.
Excerpt of chapter one:
"Watch out!" Slade Caulder said through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle on his SUV. Why had he allowed a sixteen-year-old with a permit to drive? Only a few more miles to the ranch—thankfully.
"Dad, I saw him coming out. I've got everything under control."
When he noticed Abbey sliding a glance toward him, his heart rate shot up even further. "Keep your eyes on the road."
"I'm gonna ask Gram to take me driving next time."
"No." Although he wished he could let his mother-in-law take over teaching his daughter to drive around Dallas, he wouldn't. It was his job.
The car gained speed. "Don't go over sixty."
"I'm not. I have to practice going highway speed. Quit worrying about me."
Yeah, sure. She might as well ask him to quit breathing. It wasn't going to happen. Abbey was all he had. At least this was an almost-deserted stretch of road.
Thud! Bam!
A blowout?
Suddenly the car swerved to the right toward the ditch along the highway. He lurched around and glimpsed the color leaching from Abbey's face. Her knuckles whitened as she fought the shimmying steering wheel.
"Daddy!" she screamed above the thumping sound followed by a whomp. "I can't control…"
"Take your foot off the gas. Put the brakes on. Get off the road." He schooled his voice into the calmest level he could manage. He desperately wanted to change places with his daughter, but knew he couldn't.
The rougher terrain along the shoulder alerted him right before the car plunged into the ditch, heading toward a tree growing in it. Slade twisted toward Abbey, but the seatbelt retracted, immobilizing him like a prisoner. The air bags exploded outward, slamming into him. His breath whooshed from his lungs.
Blackness swirled before him. He fought to stay conscious, but his eyelids slid closed as the darkness rushed at him.
Pain jolted Slade back from the void. He opened his eyes to a fine powder dancing in the air about him, choking him. He coughed but his body protested the sudden movement— a deep, throbbing ache spread out from his chest. As he raised his hand to his head, a hissing filled the air, vying with the sound of the engine running. Pushing the deflated air bag back, he tried to straighten but couldn't. The seat belt trapped him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Suddenly, a thought drove the daze from his mind. "Abbey!" he called out, but she didn't answer.
Adrenaline pumped through him. He jerked his head toward his daughter. The action sent the world before him spinning and forced him to close his eyes for a few seconds. But the need to make sure his daughter was all right overrode everything. Alert, totally focused on Abbey, he squashed his own pain.
A tree limb, having smashed through her side window, pinned her against her seat. Her head tilted to the side, blood streaming down her face from multiple cuts. Panic battled to take over Slade. He tried to thrust the limb out the hole in the window so he could get to his daughter better. The branch refused to dislodge.
Think! He couldn't lose his daughter, too.
His hand shaking, he reached across and felt for her pulse at the side of her neck. Strong. But she hadn't moved. He quickly dug into his pocket for his cell and called 911. Once he knew help was on the way, he allowed a second of relief to flutter through him.
The vibration and sound of the motor grabbed his attention. He snaked his hand through the limb's small branches and managed to turn his SUV off. Then he rummaged in the compartment between the driver's seat and the front passenger seat for the first aid kit, tore into it and unwound some gauze. He needed to get closer to her to bandage her head. When he tried to unclasp his seatbelt, it wouldn't budge. Panic attacked him from all sides. He clawed at the strap as though he could pry loose the metal clamp that held him captive.
He looked over at his daughter, her eyes still closed, her blood soaking her. "I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered.
Taking in a deep breath, he composed himself. He couldn't lose control. Another fortifying gulp of air, then he pulled on the strap and finally disconnected it. Able to move more freely, he braced himself with one foot against the door and the other under the dashboard to compensate for the way the car leaned forward in the ditch. He angled toward his daughter and wrapped the gauze around the worst of her cuts to stem the blood flow. But when he drew his fingers away they were sticky and covered in Abbey's blood. The sight sent terror straight to his heart.
Abbey moaned and stirred. Her eyes popped open, wide with fear as they linked with his. "Daddy?" She licked her lips, her face screwing up into a panicky look as her tongue ran over some blood. "I'm bleeding."
"Help is coming, honey."
He wanted to go around to her side to take a closer look at her injuries. When he shoved at the door, it creaked open, water gushing inside from the ditch. An earthy stench accosted him.
"Don't leave me, Daddy." Hysteria coated each word.
He twisted back toward his daughter, the cold water swirling about his feet. A shudder shivered up his body. "I won't." In the distance, the sound of the sirens blared. "It won't be long now," he said as calmly as possible, while inside the same helplessness he'd experienced when his wife had died five years ago washed over him. Suddenly, a sense of foreboding dominated all senses. Sweat popped out on his forehead. His hands shook.
Why did he feel like someone was watching?
Elizabeth Walker parked her red Trans Am in a space next to the Dallas office building where Guardians, Inc. was located. She'd hoped her boss, Kyra Morgan, wouldn't have anything for her yet. Although Elizabeth had been home almost a week since her last assignment, she could use another few days for rest and relaxation. Her last job in Phoenix had been a long one—ten weeks. But the call that morning asking her to come in to the office could only mean one thing.
She loved working as a bodyguard with the all-female agency, but some assignments required longer to bounce back from. The job demanded a lot of mental energy, and sometimes physical energy, too. The stress from always being on guard, always scanning the perimeter for trouble and never getting to enjoy the beauty of the moment heightened the importance of her downtime between missions. Kyra knew that well. So the fact that her boss called her in a little early meant this job was important—not something she would want to turn down.
Entering the suite on the second floor, Elizabeth greeted Kyra's secretary with a smile. "Is she in there?" Elizabeth tossed her head toward the closed door.
Carrie, her expression solemn, nodded. "She has a client with her, but she wanted you to go on in when you arrived."
"Who's the new client?"
"I gather someone Kyra knows."
That might explain why she was here earlier than usual after a taxing assignment. Her specialty was guarding children. She couldn't see Kyra turning down a friend, and from what her boss had said a couple of days ago, the other four employees who specialized in children were all still on assignments.
She pushed open the door to her employer's office and stepped into the room. A large man, over six feet, was pacing before Kyra's desk. As Elizabeth entered, he came to a stop and swiveled toward her. The most piercing gray gaze she'd ever seen homed in on her. For a second she glimpsed surprise in his expression from the slight widening of his eyes to the flare of his nostrils.
"This is Elizabeth Walker." Kyra came around from behind her desk and gestured toward a seating arrangement consisting of a couch and two wing chairs. "Elizabeth, this is Slade Caulder." Kyra, long legged and nearly six feet in height, moved toward the seats and took a chair.
Slade tipped his head toward Elizabeth and fit his tall frame into the other wing chair, leaving Elizabeth to take the couch. The intensity pouring off the man charged the air. The hair on her arms stood up.
Poised and professional, Kyra set a pad on her lap and wrote something down on it. "Slade has a problem that needs your expertise. His sixteen-year-old daughter has been threatened, and he needs the services of a bodyguard to protect her. I'll let him tell you what he's looking for."
His body held rigidly, he gripped the arms of the chair and turned his assessing gaze on her. Silence ruled for a long moment as Elizabeth felt catalogued and evaluated. A flicker in his eyes gave her the impression that she fell short. She lifted her chin a notch and focused her attention totally on him. Some people took her petite stature to mean she wasn't capable of defending someone. They were mistaken.
That sharp gaze switched to her employer. "Kyra, she can't be more than a few years or so out of high school herself. How can she guard my daughter effectively?"
Elizabeth stiffened and, before Kyra could answer said, "I'm flattered you think I look so young, but I'm nearly thirty." She bit back the words. "And I can show you my birth certificate if you need proof."
This time he didn't try to disguise his surprise as his look locked on hers.
"I assure you, Slade, Elizabeth is highly qualified and has been working for me for three years. She usually handles cases where a child is involved and has been successful in all her assignments. You wanted someone who could blend in with your daughter and her friends, especially at school. As you can see, she'll be able to."
"What kind of skills do you have?"
Elizabeth relaxed back on the couch, smoothing her straight black skirt as she crossed her legs. Slade's glance flicked to her four-inch heels, and she could imagine what he was thinking. She only indulged in wearing heels when she wasn't working and when she met prospective clients. It added to her height, giving the illusion she was taller than five feet three inches.
"I have a third-degree black belt in tae kwon do. I'm capable of shooting all kinds of guns, but my weapon of choice is a Glock Model 23. My last score on a PPC was 580 out of a possible 600."
"PPC?"
"Police Pistol Competition. I have taken down a man your size holding a gun on more than one occasion. Do you want me to show you how?"
One dark eyebrow rose. "I'll take your word for it."
"Why do you think your daughter is in danger?" Elizabeth kept her gaze glued to his, determined not to be the first one to look away.
"It started three days ago when we were in an accident. My daughter was driving when we had a blowout going sixty miles an hour. She's still learning to drive and couldn't handle the car. We ended up in a ditch. Next time I teach someone to drive, the first thing on my list will be what to do during a blowout."
Elizabeth sat forward, clasping her hands loosely together, and asked, "Someone caused your blowout?"
"I didn't know it at the time, but when my mechanic was going over my car after the wreck, he discovered what he thought looked like a bullet hole by the whitewall. He notified the sheriff and me. Sheriff McCain agrees the blowout was caused by a bullet."
"Where was this wreck?"
"Not far from my ranch, near Silver Chase toward the end of Highway 156."
"Could it have been a hunter?" Elizabeth asked, although unease settled across her shoulders.
"At first I thought, maybe. None of us who live out that way allow hunting on our ranches but occasionally someone will try anyway. The sheriff told me it's hard to shoot a tire out. It would have to be either a lucky shot or someone very skilled."
"Like a sniper?"
He nodded.
The uneasy sensation spread down her spine. "What made you decide that it wasn't a hunter?"
Slade slanted his glance toward Kyra for a few seconds before returning the intense look to Elizabeth. The power behind his expression jiggled her nerves. This man was used to getting exactly what he wanted. Did he have a lot of enemies out there? Someone who would want to harm him through his child?
"This morning I went into my office. I hadn't been into work since the accident. Abbey had to stay overnight at the hospital for observation and had a rough day or two, but today she insisted on going back to school. I took her and went to work. In my mail, I received a photo of Abbey cut into pieces."
"Do you have it?"
"The police have it. I phoned Captain Ted Dickerson immediately after I informed the school of the threat. The principal called in extra guards until I could get something in place."
Kyra stood. "I want to contact Captain Dickerson and let him know you have hired us to watch Abbey." Her employer headed toward the exit and left Elizabeth alone with Slade.
"Where does Abbey go to school?" Elizabeth asked when the door clicked closed.
"Dawson Academy. It's a private school with more than adequate security. When I called, they said she was fine.
After that, I came here. There's only so much the police or sheriff can do. I aim to protect my daughter no matter how much it costs."
"What kind of photo of her was destroyed? A school one? A recent one?"
Slade clamped his jaw together so tightly that a nerve twitched. "Recent. It was a picture of her cheering at a basketball game. The person who took it was probably only a couple of yards away." He leaned forward and his neutral expression became fierce, his eyes hard like smoky ice. "Which means the person was close to my daughter."
"While I can't prevent people from taking pictures, I can keep an eye out for anyone who is suspicious and stop them from gaining access to Abbey." She held his look. If someone wanted a person harmed, it was usually possible. But there were things that could be done to lessen the chance. She intended to take those precautions. "I am very good at my job. How will Abbey feel about having me follow her around?"
He blew a harsh breath out. "That's the problem. She's headstrong and independent. I think she would more likely accept you rather than a man guarding her, but I'm not going to kid you. She still won't like it, even though you're a woman and young-looking." His glance strayed over her, resting for a few extra seconds on her heels.
"Does she know she's in danger?"
"Until an hour ago I didn't know, myself. I haven't told her yet. I will this afternoon after school, when I introduce you."
"So what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Not let my daughter out of your sight. I want you to stay in the room next to hers at the ranch, escort her to school and back home until the person is caught." He plowed his hand through his medium-length black hair. "I'm curtailing her activities, which won't sit well with her, but with the security at Dawson Academy and you there, she'll be okay and more likely to accept the other restrictions."
"Who would have a grudge against your daughter?"
"I don't know. She's sixteen and popular at school. She's a cheerleader and has lots of friends."
"Have you considered that the person is really after you?"
That nerve in his jawline jerked again. "Yes. I think it's possible that someone wants to get to me through my daughter, and I'm looking into that. But first and foremost I have to know my daughter will be safe."
"That will be my top priority."
"It will be your only one."
His intense stare might have made a lesser person back off, but she'd learned painfully she had to stand her ground, especially in her profession. "You said you live on a ranch near Silver Chase. Which one?"
"The Rocking Horse, two miles before the end of the road on the left. Abbey gave it that name when we moved out there. She was five years old then." For just a split second a faraway look entered his eyes as though he was remembering how it had been when his daughter was five.
"What time do you want me at the ranch, Mr. Caulder?"
"Call me Slade. We'll be living in the same house." When she nodded, he continued. "I'll pick Abbey up from school at three and be home by three forty-five. I'll let my mother-in-law know you'll be there by two. Mary can show you around before Abbey and I get there." He rose in one fluid motion.
She came to her feet, too. "One more question. How secure is your ranch?"
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
Books a Million
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
New blog look! and lots of excerpts!
Like the new blog look? Tekeme Studios is doing my new website design and they just switched over my blog design today! Isn't it great? Ashley is totally nice to work with and I love the graphic designs they put together for me. :)
I'm way behind on book excerpts I'm supposed to be posting so I'll be posting a slew of them this month. I hope some of them are books you guys might want to buy or borrow from the library!
I'm way behind on book excerpts I'm supposed to be posting so I'll be posting a slew of them this month. I hope some of them are books you guys might want to buy or borrow from the library!
