Camy Tang's Blog, page 163
October 21, 2010
Street Team book list excerpt - Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball by Donita K. Paul
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Donita K. Paul
and the book:
Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball
WaterBrook Press (October 5, 2010)
***Special thanks to Ashley Boyer and Staci Carmichael of Waterbrook Multnomah for sending me a review copy.***
With warmth, humor and a healthy dose of old-fashioned romance, Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball is the story of two unlikely people finding love, thanks to determined matchmaking booksellers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Expertly weaving together fantasy, romance and Biblical truths, Donita K. Paul penned the best-selling, fan-favorite DragonKeeper Chronicles series. After retiring early from teaching, she began a second career as an award-winning author and loves serving as a mentor for new writers of all ages. And when she's not putting pen to paper, Donita makes her home in Colorado Springs and enjoys spending time with her grandsons, cooking, beading, stamping, and knitting.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Hardcover: 240 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (October 5, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307458997
ISBN-13: 978-0307458995
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Christmas. Cora had been trying to catch it for four years. She scurried down the sidewalk, thankful that streetlights and brightly lit storefronts counteracted the gloom of early nightfall. Somewhere, sometime, she'd get a hold of how to celebrate Christmas. Maybe even tonight.
With snowflakes sticking to her black coat, Christmas lights blinking around shop windows, and incessant bells jingling, Cora should have felt some holiday cheer.
And she did.
Really.
Just not much.
At least she was on a Christmas errand this very minute. One present for a member of the family. Shouldn't that count for a bit of credit in the Christmas-spirit department?
Cora planned out her Christmas gift giving in a reasonable manner. The execution of her purchasing schedule gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Tonight's quest was a book for Uncle Eric—something about knights and castles, sword fights, shining armor, and all that.
One or two gifts purchased each week from Labor Day until December 15, and her obligations were discharged efficiently, economically, and without the excruciating last-minute frenzy that descended upon other people…like her three sisters, her mother, her grandmother, her aunts.
Cora refused to behave like her female relatives and had decided not to emulate the male side of the family either. The men didn't buy gifts. They sometimes exchanged bottles from the liquor store, but more often they drank the spirits themselves.
Her adult ambition had been to develop her own traditions for the season, ones that sprouted from the Christianity she'd discovered in college. The right way to celebrate the birth of Christ. She avoided the chaos that could choke Christmas. Oh dear. Judgmental again. At least now she recognized when she slipped.
She glanced around Sage Street. Not too many shoppers. The quaint old shops were decked out for the holidays, but not with LED bulbs and inflated cartoon figures.
Since discovering Christianity, she'd been confused about the trappings of Christmas—the gift giving, the nativity scenes, the carols, even the Christmas tree. Every year she tried to acquire some historical background on the festivities. She was learning. She had hope. But she hadn't wrapped her head around all the traditions yet.
The worst part was shopping.
Frenzy undid her. Order sustained her. And that was a good reason to steer clear of any commercialized holiday rush. She'd rather screw red light bulbs into plastic reindeer faces than push through a crowd of shoppers.
Cora examined the paper in her hand and compared it to the address above the nearest shop. Number 483 on the paper and 527 on the building. Close.
When she'd found the bookstore online, she had been amazed that a row of old-fashioned retailers still existed a few blocks from the high-rise office building where she worked. Truthfully, it was more like the bookstore found her. Every time she opened her browser, and on every site she visited, the ad for the old-fashioned new- and used-book store showed up in a banner or sidebar. She'd asked around, but none of her co-workers patronized the Sage Street Shopping District.
"Sounds like a derelict area to me," said Meg, the receptionist. "Sage Street is near the old railroad station, isn't it? The one they decided was historic so they wouldn't tear it down, even though it's empty and an eyesore?"
An odd desire to explore something other than the mall near her apartment seized Cora. "I'm going to check it out."
Jake, the security guard, frowned at her. "Take a cab. You don't want to be out too late over there."
Cora walked. The brisk air strengthened her lungs, right? The exercise pumped her blood, right? A cab would cost three, maybe four dollars, right?
An old man, sitting on the stoop of a door marked 503, nodded at her. She smiled, and he winked as he gave her a toothless grin. Startled, she quickened her pace and gladly joined the four other pedestrians waiting at the corner for the light to change.
Number 497 emblazoned the window of an ancient shoe store on the opposite corner. She marched on. In this block she'd find the book and check another item off her Christmas list.
Finally! "Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad, Books," Cora read the sign aloud and then grasped the shiny knob. It didn't turn. She frowned. Stuck? Locked? The lights were on. She pressed her face against the glass. A man sat at the counter. Reading. How appropriate.
Cora wrenched the knob. A gust of wind pushed with her against the door, and she blew into the room. She stumbled and straightened, and before she could grab the door and close it properly, it swung closed, without the loud bang she expected.
"I don't like loud noises," the man said without looking up from his book.
"Neither do I," said Cora.
He nodded over his book. With one gnarled finger, he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Must be an interesting book. Cora took a quick look around. The place could use stronger lights. She glanced back at the clerk. His bright lamp cast him and his book in a golden glow.
Should she peruse the stacks or ask?
She decided to browse. She started to enter the aisle between two towering bookcases.
"Not there," said the old man.
"I beg your pardon?" said Cora.
"How-to books. How to fix a leaky faucet. How to build a bridge. How to mulch tomatoes. How to sing opera. How-to books. You don't need to know any of that, do you?"
"No."
"Wrong aisle, then." He placed the heavy volume on the counter and leaned over it, apparently absorbed once more.
Cora took a step toward him. "I think I saw a movie like this once."
His head jerked up, his scowl heavier. He glared over the top of his glasses at the books on the shelves as if they had suddenly moved or spoken or turned bright orange.
"A movie? Here? I suppose you mean the backdrop of a bookstore. Not so unusual." He arched an eyebrow. "You've Got Mail and 84 Charing Cross Road."
"I meant the dialogue. You spoke as if you knew what I needed."
He hunched his shoulders. The dark suspenders stretched across the faded blue of his shirt. "Reading customers. Been in the business a long time."
"I'm looking for a book for my uncle. He likes castles, knights, tales of adventure. That sort of thing."
He sighed, closed his book, and tapped its cover. "This is it." He stood as Cora came to the desk. "Do you want me to wrap it and send it? We have the service. My grandson's idea."
Cora schooled her face and her voice. One of the things she excelled in was not showing her exasperation. She'd been trained by a dysfunctional family, and that had its benefits. She knew how to take guff and not give it back. Maintaining a calm attitude was a good job skill.
She tried a friendly smile and addressed the salesclerk.
"I want to look at it first and find out how much it costs."
"It's the book you want, and the price is eleven dollars and thirteen cents."
Cora rubbed her hand over the cover. It looked and felt like leather, old leather, but in good repair. The book must be ancient.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Which?" the old man barked.
"Which what?"
"Which part of the statement am I sure about? It doesn't matter because I'm sure about both."
Cora felt her armor of detachment suffer a dent. The man was impossible. She could probably order a book online and get it wrapped and delivered right to her uncle with less aggravation. But dollar signs blinked in neon red in her mind as she thought how much that would cost. No need to be hasty.
Curtain rings rattled on a rod, and Cora looked up to see a younger version of the curmudgeon step into the area behind the counter.
The younger man smiled. He had the same small, wiry build as the older version, but his smile was warm and genuine. He looked to be about fifty, but his hair was still black, as black as the old man's hair was white. He stretched out his hand, and Cora shook it.
"I'm Bill Wizbotterdad. This is my granddad, William Wizbotterdad."
"Let me guess. Your father is named Will?"
Bill grinned, obviously pleased she'd caught on quickly. "Willie Wizbotterdad. He's off in Europe collecting rare books."
"He's not!" said the elder shop owner.
"He is." Bill cast his granddad a worried look.
"That's just the reason he gave for not being here." William shook his head and leaned across the counter. "He doesn't like Christmas. We have a special job to do at Christmas, and he doesn't like people and dancing and matrimony."
Bill put his arm around his grandfather and pulled him back. He let go of his granddad and spun the book on the scarred wooden counter so that Cora could read the contents. "Take a look." He opened the cover and flipped through the pages. "Colored illustrations."
A rattling of the door knob was followed by the sound of a shoulder thudding against the wood. Cora turned to see the door fly open with a tall man attached to it. The stranger brushed snow from his sleeves, then looked up at the two shop owners. Cora caught them giving each other a smug smile, a wink, and a nod of the head.
Odd. Lots of oddness in this shop.
She liked the book, and she wanted to leave before more snow accumulated on the streets. Yet something peculiar about this shop and the two men made her curious. Part of her longed to linger. However, smart girls trusted their instincts and didn't hang around places that oozed mystery. She didn't feel threatened, just intrigued. But getting to know the peculiar booksellers better was the last thing she wanted, right? She needed to get home and be done with this Christmas shopping business. "I'll take the book."
The newcomer stomped his feet on the mat by the door, then took off his hat.
Cora did a double take. "Mr. Derrick!"
He cocked his head and scrunched his face. "Do I know you?" The man was handsome, even wearing that comical lost expression. "Excuse me. Have we met?"
"We work in the same office."
He studied her a moment, and a look of recognition lifted the frown. "Third desk on the right." He hesitated, then snapped his fingers. "Cora Crowden."
"Crowder."
He jammed his hand in his pocket, moving his jacket aside. His tie hung loosely around his neck. She'd never seen him looking relaxed. The office clerks called him Serious Simon Derrick.
"I drew your name," she said.
He looked puzzled.
"For the gift exchange. Tomorrow night. Office party."
"Oh. Of course." He nodded. "I drew Mrs. Hudson. She's going to retire, and I heard her say she wanted to redecorate on a shoestring."
"That's Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Hudson is taking leave to be with her daughter, who is giving birth to triplets."
He frowned and began looking at the books.
"You won't be there, will you?" Cora asked.
"At the party? No, I never come."
"I know. I mean, I've worked at Sorenby's for five years, and you've never been there."
The puzzled expression returned to Serious Simon's face. He glanced to the side. "I'm looking for the how-to section."
Cora grinned. "On your left. Second aisle."
He turned to stare at her, and she pointed to the shelves Mr. Wizbotterdad had not let her examine. Mr. Derrick took a step in that direction.
Cora looked back at the shop owners and caught them leaning back in identical postures, grins on their faces, and arms crossed over their chests.
Bill jerked away from the wall, grabbed her book, rummaged below the counter, and brought out a bag. He slid the book inside, then looked at her. "You didn't want the book wrapped and delivered?"
"No, I'll just pay for it now."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to look around some more?" asked Bill.
"Right," said William. "No hurry. Look around. Browse. You might find something you like."
Bill elbowed William.
Simon Derrick had disappeared between the stacks.
William nodded toward the how-to books. "Get a book. We have a copy of How to Choose Gifts for Ungrateful Relatives. Third from the bottom shelf, second case from the wall."
The statement earned him a "shh" from his grandson.
Cora shifted her attention to the man from her office and walked a few paces to peek around the shelves. "Mr. Derrick, I'm getting ready to leave. If you're not coming to the party, may I just leave the gift on your desk tomorrow?"
He glanced at her before concentrating again on the many books. "That's fine. Nice to see you, Miss Crowden."
"Crowder," she corrected, but he didn't answer.
She went to the counter and paid. Mr. Derrick grunted when she said good-bye at the door.
"Come back again," said Bill.
"Yes," said William. "We have all your heart's desires."
Bill elbowed him, and Cora escaped into the blustering weather.
She hiked back to the office building. Snow sprayed her with tiny crystals, and the sharp wind nipped her nose. Inside the parking garage, warm air helped her thaw a bit as she walked to the spot she leased by the month. It would be a long ride home on slippery roads. But once she arrived, there would be no one there to interrupt her plans. She got in the car, turned the key, pushed the gearshift into reverse, looked over her shoulder, and backed out of her space.
She would get the gift ready to mail off and address a few cards in the quiet of her living room. There would be no yelling. That's what she liked about living states away from her family. No one would ambush her with complaints and arguments when she walked through the door.
Except Skippy. Skippy waited. One fat, getting fatter, cat to talk to. She did complain at times about her mistress being gone too long, about her dinner being late, about things Cora could not fathom. But Cora never felt condemned by Skippy, just prodded a little.
_
Once inside her second-floor apartment, she pulled off her gloves, blew her nose, and went looking for Skippy.
The cat was not behind the curtain, sitting on the window seat, staring at falling snow. Not in her closet, curled up in a boot she'd knocked over. Not in the linen closet, sleeping on clean towels. She wasn't in any of her favorite spots. Cora looked around and saw the paper bag that, this morning, had been filled with wadded scraps of Christmas paper. Balls of pretty paper and bits of ribbon littered the floor. There. Cora bent over and spied her calico cat in the bag.
"Did you have fun, Skippy?"
The cat rolled on her back and batted the top of the paper bag. Skippy then jumped from her cave and padded after Cora, as her owner headed for the bedroom.
Thirty minutes later, Cora sat at the dining room table in her cozy pink robe that enveloped her from neck to ankles. She stirred a bowl of soup and eyed the fifteen packages she'd wrapped earlier in the week. Two more sat waiting for their ribbons.
These would cost a lot less to send if some of these people were on speaking terms. She could box them together and ship them off in large boxes.
She spooned chicken and rice into her mouth and swallowed.
The soup was a tad too hot. She kept stirring.
She could send one package with seven gifts inside to Grandma Peterson, who could dispense them to her side of the family. She could send three to Aunt Carol.
She took another sip. Cooler.
Aunt Carol could keep her gift and give two to her kids. She could send five to her mom…
Cora grimaced. She had three much older sisters and one younger. "If Mom were on speaking terms with my sisters, that would help."
She eyed Skippy, who had lifted a rear leg to clean between her back toes. "You don't care, do you? Well, I'm trying to. And I think I'm doing a pretty good job with this Christmas thing."
She reached over and flipped the switch on her radio. A Christmas carol poured out and jarred her nerves. She really should think about Christmas and not who received the presents. Better to think "my uncle" than "Joe, that bar bum and pool shark."
She finished her dinner, watching her cat wash her front paws.
"You and I need to play. You're"—she paused as Skippy turned
a meaningful glare at her—"getting a bit rotund, dear kitty."
Skippy sneezed and commenced licking her chest.
After dinner, Cora curled up on the couch with her Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad bag. Skippy came to investigate the rattling paper.
Uncle Eric. Uncle Eric used to recite "You Are Old, Father William." He said it was about a knight. But Cora wasn't so sure. She dredged up memories from college English. The poem was by Lewis Carroll, who was really named Dodson, Dogson, Dodgson, or something.
"He wrote Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," she said. "There's a cat in the story, but not as fine a cat as you. He smiles too much."
Skippy gave her a squint-eyed look.
Cora eased the leather-bound book out of the bag. "The William I met at the bookstore qualifies for at least ancient."
She put the book in her lap and ran her fingers over the embossed title: How the Knights Found Their Ladies.
She might have been hasty. She didn't know if Uncle Eric would like this. She hefted the book, guessing its weight to be around four pounds. She should have found a lighter gift. This would cost a fortune to mail.
Skippy sniffed at the binding, feline curiosity piqued. Cora stroked her fur and pushed her back. She opened the book to have a peek inside. A piece of thick paper fell out. Skippy pounced on it as it twirled to the floor.
"What is it, kitty? A bookmark?" She slipped it out from between Skippy's paws, then turned the rectangle over in her hands. Not a bookmark. A ticket.
Admit one to the Wizards' Christmas Ball
Costumes required
Dinner and Dancing
and your Destiny
Never heard of it. She tucked the ticket in between the pages and continued to flip through the book, stopping to read an occasional paragraph.
This book wasn't for Uncle Eric at all. It was not a history, it was a story. Kind of romantic too. Definitely not Uncle Eric's preferred reading.
Skippy curled against her thigh and purred.
"You know what, cat? I'm going to keep it."
Skippy made her approval known by stretching her neck up and rubbing her chin on the edge of the leather cover. Cora put the book on the sofa and picked up Skippy for a cuddle. The cat squirmed out of her arms, batted at the ticket sticking out of the pages, and scampered off.
"I love you too," called Cora.
She pulled the ticket out and read it again: Wizards' Christmas Ball. She turned out the light and headed for bed. But as she got ready, her eye caught the computer on her desk. Maybe she could find a bit more information.
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Donita K. Paul
and the book:
Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball
WaterBrook Press (October 5, 2010)
***Special thanks to Ashley Boyer and Staci Carmichael of Waterbrook Multnomah for sending me a review copy.***
With warmth, humor and a healthy dose of old-fashioned romance, Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball is the story of two unlikely people finding love, thanks to determined matchmaking booksellers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Expertly weaving together fantasy, romance and Biblical truths, Donita K. Paul penned the best-selling, fan-favorite DragonKeeper Chronicles series. After retiring early from teaching, she began a second career as an award-winning author and loves serving as a mentor for new writers of all ages. And when she's not putting pen to paper, Donita makes her home in Colorado Springs and enjoys spending time with her grandsons, cooking, beading, stamping, and knitting.Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Hardcover: 240 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (October 5, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307458997
ISBN-13: 978-0307458995
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Christmas. Cora had been trying to catch it for four years. She scurried down the sidewalk, thankful that streetlights and brightly lit storefronts counteracted the gloom of early nightfall. Somewhere, sometime, she'd get a hold of how to celebrate Christmas. Maybe even tonight.
With snowflakes sticking to her black coat, Christmas lights blinking around shop windows, and incessant bells jingling, Cora should have felt some holiday cheer.
And she did.
Really.
Just not much.
At least she was on a Christmas errand this very minute. One present for a member of the family. Shouldn't that count for a bit of credit in the Christmas-spirit department?
Cora planned out her Christmas gift giving in a reasonable manner. The execution of her purchasing schedule gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Tonight's quest was a book for Uncle Eric—something about knights and castles, sword fights, shining armor, and all that.
One or two gifts purchased each week from Labor Day until December 15, and her obligations were discharged efficiently, economically, and without the excruciating last-minute frenzy that descended upon other people…like her three sisters, her mother, her grandmother, her aunts.
Cora refused to behave like her female relatives and had decided not to emulate the male side of the family either. The men didn't buy gifts. They sometimes exchanged bottles from the liquor store, but more often they drank the spirits themselves.
Her adult ambition had been to develop her own traditions for the season, ones that sprouted from the Christianity she'd discovered in college. The right way to celebrate the birth of Christ. She avoided the chaos that could choke Christmas. Oh dear. Judgmental again. At least now she recognized when she slipped.
She glanced around Sage Street. Not too many shoppers. The quaint old shops were decked out for the holidays, but not with LED bulbs and inflated cartoon figures.
Since discovering Christianity, she'd been confused about the trappings of Christmas—the gift giving, the nativity scenes, the carols, even the Christmas tree. Every year she tried to acquire some historical background on the festivities. She was learning. She had hope. But she hadn't wrapped her head around all the traditions yet.
The worst part was shopping.
Frenzy undid her. Order sustained her. And that was a good reason to steer clear of any commercialized holiday rush. She'd rather screw red light bulbs into plastic reindeer faces than push through a crowd of shoppers.
Cora examined the paper in her hand and compared it to the address above the nearest shop. Number 483 on the paper and 527 on the building. Close.
When she'd found the bookstore online, she had been amazed that a row of old-fashioned retailers still existed a few blocks from the high-rise office building where she worked. Truthfully, it was more like the bookstore found her. Every time she opened her browser, and on every site she visited, the ad for the old-fashioned new- and used-book store showed up in a banner or sidebar. She'd asked around, but none of her co-workers patronized the Sage Street Shopping District.
"Sounds like a derelict area to me," said Meg, the receptionist. "Sage Street is near the old railroad station, isn't it? The one they decided was historic so they wouldn't tear it down, even though it's empty and an eyesore?"
An odd desire to explore something other than the mall near her apartment seized Cora. "I'm going to check it out."
Jake, the security guard, frowned at her. "Take a cab. You don't want to be out too late over there."
Cora walked. The brisk air strengthened her lungs, right? The exercise pumped her blood, right? A cab would cost three, maybe four dollars, right?
An old man, sitting on the stoop of a door marked 503, nodded at her. She smiled, and he winked as he gave her a toothless grin. Startled, she quickened her pace and gladly joined the four other pedestrians waiting at the corner for the light to change.
Number 497 emblazoned the window of an ancient shoe store on the opposite corner. She marched on. In this block she'd find the book and check another item off her Christmas list.
Finally! "Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad, Books," Cora read the sign aloud and then grasped the shiny knob. It didn't turn. She frowned. Stuck? Locked? The lights were on. She pressed her face against the glass. A man sat at the counter. Reading. How appropriate.
Cora wrenched the knob. A gust of wind pushed with her against the door, and she blew into the room. She stumbled and straightened, and before she could grab the door and close it properly, it swung closed, without the loud bang she expected.
"I don't like loud noises," the man said without looking up from his book.
"Neither do I," said Cora.
He nodded over his book. With one gnarled finger, he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Must be an interesting book. Cora took a quick look around. The place could use stronger lights. She glanced back at the clerk. His bright lamp cast him and his book in a golden glow.
Should she peruse the stacks or ask?
She decided to browse. She started to enter the aisle between two towering bookcases.
"Not there," said the old man.
"I beg your pardon?" said Cora.
"How-to books. How to fix a leaky faucet. How to build a bridge. How to mulch tomatoes. How to sing opera. How-to books. You don't need to know any of that, do you?"
"No."
"Wrong aisle, then." He placed the heavy volume on the counter and leaned over it, apparently absorbed once more.
Cora took a step toward him. "I think I saw a movie like this once."
His head jerked up, his scowl heavier. He glared over the top of his glasses at the books on the shelves as if they had suddenly moved or spoken or turned bright orange.
"A movie? Here? I suppose you mean the backdrop of a bookstore. Not so unusual." He arched an eyebrow. "You've Got Mail and 84 Charing Cross Road."
"I meant the dialogue. You spoke as if you knew what I needed."
He hunched his shoulders. The dark suspenders stretched across the faded blue of his shirt. "Reading customers. Been in the business a long time."
"I'm looking for a book for my uncle. He likes castles, knights, tales of adventure. That sort of thing."
He sighed, closed his book, and tapped its cover. "This is it." He stood as Cora came to the desk. "Do you want me to wrap it and send it? We have the service. My grandson's idea."
Cora schooled her face and her voice. One of the things she excelled in was not showing her exasperation. She'd been trained by a dysfunctional family, and that had its benefits. She knew how to take guff and not give it back. Maintaining a calm attitude was a good job skill.
She tried a friendly smile and addressed the salesclerk.
"I want to look at it first and find out how much it costs."
"It's the book you want, and the price is eleven dollars and thirteen cents."
Cora rubbed her hand over the cover. It looked and felt like leather, old leather, but in good repair. The book must be ancient.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Which?" the old man barked.
"Which what?"
"Which part of the statement am I sure about? It doesn't matter because I'm sure about both."
Cora felt her armor of detachment suffer a dent. The man was impossible. She could probably order a book online and get it wrapped and delivered right to her uncle with less aggravation. But dollar signs blinked in neon red in her mind as she thought how much that would cost. No need to be hasty.
Curtain rings rattled on a rod, and Cora looked up to see a younger version of the curmudgeon step into the area behind the counter.
The younger man smiled. He had the same small, wiry build as the older version, but his smile was warm and genuine. He looked to be about fifty, but his hair was still black, as black as the old man's hair was white. He stretched out his hand, and Cora shook it.
"I'm Bill Wizbotterdad. This is my granddad, William Wizbotterdad."
"Let me guess. Your father is named Will?"
Bill grinned, obviously pleased she'd caught on quickly. "Willie Wizbotterdad. He's off in Europe collecting rare books."
"He's not!" said the elder shop owner.
"He is." Bill cast his granddad a worried look.
"That's just the reason he gave for not being here." William shook his head and leaned across the counter. "He doesn't like Christmas. We have a special job to do at Christmas, and he doesn't like people and dancing and matrimony."
Bill put his arm around his grandfather and pulled him back. He let go of his granddad and spun the book on the scarred wooden counter so that Cora could read the contents. "Take a look." He opened the cover and flipped through the pages. "Colored illustrations."
A rattling of the door knob was followed by the sound of a shoulder thudding against the wood. Cora turned to see the door fly open with a tall man attached to it. The stranger brushed snow from his sleeves, then looked up at the two shop owners. Cora caught them giving each other a smug smile, a wink, and a nod of the head.
Odd. Lots of oddness in this shop.
She liked the book, and she wanted to leave before more snow accumulated on the streets. Yet something peculiar about this shop and the two men made her curious. Part of her longed to linger. However, smart girls trusted their instincts and didn't hang around places that oozed mystery. She didn't feel threatened, just intrigued. But getting to know the peculiar booksellers better was the last thing she wanted, right? She needed to get home and be done with this Christmas shopping business. "I'll take the book."
The newcomer stomped his feet on the mat by the door, then took off his hat.
Cora did a double take. "Mr. Derrick!"
He cocked his head and scrunched his face. "Do I know you?" The man was handsome, even wearing that comical lost expression. "Excuse me. Have we met?"
"We work in the same office."
He studied her a moment, and a look of recognition lifted the frown. "Third desk on the right." He hesitated, then snapped his fingers. "Cora Crowden."
"Crowder."
He jammed his hand in his pocket, moving his jacket aside. His tie hung loosely around his neck. She'd never seen him looking relaxed. The office clerks called him Serious Simon Derrick.
"I drew your name," she said.
He looked puzzled.
"For the gift exchange. Tomorrow night. Office party."
"Oh. Of course." He nodded. "I drew Mrs. Hudson. She's going to retire, and I heard her say she wanted to redecorate on a shoestring."
"That's Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Hudson is taking leave to be with her daughter, who is giving birth to triplets."
He frowned and began looking at the books.
"You won't be there, will you?" Cora asked.
"At the party? No, I never come."
"I know. I mean, I've worked at Sorenby's for five years, and you've never been there."
The puzzled expression returned to Serious Simon's face. He glanced to the side. "I'm looking for the how-to section."
Cora grinned. "On your left. Second aisle."
He turned to stare at her, and she pointed to the shelves Mr. Wizbotterdad had not let her examine. Mr. Derrick took a step in that direction.
Cora looked back at the shop owners and caught them leaning back in identical postures, grins on their faces, and arms crossed over their chests.
Bill jerked away from the wall, grabbed her book, rummaged below the counter, and brought out a bag. He slid the book inside, then looked at her. "You didn't want the book wrapped and delivered?"
"No, I'll just pay for it now."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to look around some more?" asked Bill.
"Right," said William. "No hurry. Look around. Browse. You might find something you like."
Bill elbowed William.
Simon Derrick had disappeared between the stacks.
William nodded toward the how-to books. "Get a book. We have a copy of How to Choose Gifts for Ungrateful Relatives. Third from the bottom shelf, second case from the wall."
The statement earned him a "shh" from his grandson.
Cora shifted her attention to the man from her office and walked a few paces to peek around the shelves. "Mr. Derrick, I'm getting ready to leave. If you're not coming to the party, may I just leave the gift on your desk tomorrow?"
He glanced at her before concentrating again on the many books. "That's fine. Nice to see you, Miss Crowden."
"Crowder," she corrected, but he didn't answer.
She went to the counter and paid. Mr. Derrick grunted when she said good-bye at the door.
"Come back again," said Bill.
"Yes," said William. "We have all your heart's desires."
Bill elbowed him, and Cora escaped into the blustering weather.
She hiked back to the office building. Snow sprayed her with tiny crystals, and the sharp wind nipped her nose. Inside the parking garage, warm air helped her thaw a bit as she walked to the spot she leased by the month. It would be a long ride home on slippery roads. But once she arrived, there would be no one there to interrupt her plans. She got in the car, turned the key, pushed the gearshift into reverse, looked over her shoulder, and backed out of her space.
She would get the gift ready to mail off and address a few cards in the quiet of her living room. There would be no yelling. That's what she liked about living states away from her family. No one would ambush her with complaints and arguments when she walked through the door.
Except Skippy. Skippy waited. One fat, getting fatter, cat to talk to. She did complain at times about her mistress being gone too long, about her dinner being late, about things Cora could not fathom. But Cora never felt condemned by Skippy, just prodded a little.
_
Once inside her second-floor apartment, she pulled off her gloves, blew her nose, and went looking for Skippy.
The cat was not behind the curtain, sitting on the window seat, staring at falling snow. Not in her closet, curled up in a boot she'd knocked over. Not in the linen closet, sleeping on clean towels. She wasn't in any of her favorite spots. Cora looked around and saw the paper bag that, this morning, had been filled with wadded scraps of Christmas paper. Balls of pretty paper and bits of ribbon littered the floor. There. Cora bent over and spied her calico cat in the bag.
"Did you have fun, Skippy?"
The cat rolled on her back and batted the top of the paper bag. Skippy then jumped from her cave and padded after Cora, as her owner headed for the bedroom.
Thirty minutes later, Cora sat at the dining room table in her cozy pink robe that enveloped her from neck to ankles. She stirred a bowl of soup and eyed the fifteen packages she'd wrapped earlier in the week. Two more sat waiting for their ribbons.
These would cost a lot less to send if some of these people were on speaking terms. She could box them together and ship them off in large boxes.
She spooned chicken and rice into her mouth and swallowed.
The soup was a tad too hot. She kept stirring.
She could send one package with seven gifts inside to Grandma Peterson, who could dispense them to her side of the family. She could send three to Aunt Carol.
She took another sip. Cooler.
Aunt Carol could keep her gift and give two to her kids. She could send five to her mom…
Cora grimaced. She had three much older sisters and one younger. "If Mom were on speaking terms with my sisters, that would help."
She eyed Skippy, who had lifted a rear leg to clean between her back toes. "You don't care, do you? Well, I'm trying to. And I think I'm doing a pretty good job with this Christmas thing."
She reached over and flipped the switch on her radio. A Christmas carol poured out and jarred her nerves. She really should think about Christmas and not who received the presents. Better to think "my uncle" than "Joe, that bar bum and pool shark."
She finished her dinner, watching her cat wash her front paws.
"You and I need to play. You're"—she paused as Skippy turned
a meaningful glare at her—"getting a bit rotund, dear kitty."
Skippy sneezed and commenced licking her chest.
After dinner, Cora curled up on the couch with her Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad bag. Skippy came to investigate the rattling paper.
Uncle Eric. Uncle Eric used to recite "You Are Old, Father William." He said it was about a knight. But Cora wasn't so sure. She dredged up memories from college English. The poem was by Lewis Carroll, who was really named Dodson, Dogson, Dodgson, or something.
"He wrote Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," she said. "There's a cat in the story, but not as fine a cat as you. He smiles too much."
Skippy gave her a squint-eyed look.
Cora eased the leather-bound book out of the bag. "The William I met at the bookstore qualifies for at least ancient."
She put the book in her lap and ran her fingers over the embossed title: How the Knights Found Their Ladies.
She might have been hasty. She didn't know if Uncle Eric would like this. She hefted the book, guessing its weight to be around four pounds. She should have found a lighter gift. This would cost a fortune to mail.
Skippy sniffed at the binding, feline curiosity piqued. Cora stroked her fur and pushed her back. She opened the book to have a peek inside. A piece of thick paper fell out. Skippy pounced on it as it twirled to the floor.
"What is it, kitty? A bookmark?" She slipped it out from between Skippy's paws, then turned the rectangle over in her hands. Not a bookmark. A ticket.
Admit one to the Wizards' Christmas Ball
Costumes required
Dinner and Dancing
and your Destiny
Never heard of it. She tucked the ticket in between the pages and continued to flip through the book, stopping to read an occasional paragraph.
This book wasn't for Uncle Eric at all. It was not a history, it was a story. Kind of romantic too. Definitely not Uncle Eric's preferred reading.
Skippy curled against her thigh and purred.
"You know what, cat? I'm going to keep it."
Skippy made her approval known by stretching her neck up and rubbing her chin on the edge of the leather cover. Cora put the book on the sofa and picked up Skippy for a cuddle. The cat squirmed out of her arms, batted at the ticket sticking out of the pages, and scampered off.
"I love you too," called Cora.
She pulled the ticket out and read it again: Wizards' Christmas Ball. She turned out the light and headed for bed. But as she got ready, her eye caught the computer on her desk. Maybe she could find a bit more information.
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
October 13, 2010
Street Team book list excerpt - Embers of Love by Tracie Peterson
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Embers of Love Bethany House (October 1, 2010)
by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.
She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in.
Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Embers of Love Bethany House (October 1, 2010)
by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in. Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
Excerpt - Embers of Love by Tracie Peterson
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Embers of Love Bethany House (October 1, 2010)
by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.
She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in.
Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Embers of Love Bethany House (October 1, 2010)
by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
The logging industry in eastern Texas is booming, and Deborah Vandermark plans to assist her family's business now that she's completed college. Unexpectedly, her best friend, Lizzie Decker, accompanies her back home--fleeing a wedding and groom she has no interest in. Deborah, the determined matchmaker, puts her sights on uniting her brother and dear friend in a true love match. Deborah soon meets Dr. Christopher Clayton, a much-needed addition to the town. As their lives intersect, Deborah realizes that she has a much greater interest in medicine and science than the bookkeeping she was trained in.
But when typhoid begins to spread and Lizzie's jilted fiance returns, Deborah wonders if true love can overcome such obstacles...for those dearest to her, and for herself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Embers of Love
October 6, 2010
Street Team Book List excerpt - Within My Heart by Tamera Alexander
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Within My Heart Bethany House; Original edition (September 1, 2010)
by Tamera Alexander
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tamera Alexander is the best-selling author of Rekindled, Revealed and Remembered, the critically acclaimed Fountain Creek Chronicles historical series with Bethany House Publishers. Her second historical series, Timber Ridge Reflections (From a Distance, Beyond This Moment, and Within My Heart), penned in her style with deeply drawn characters, thought-provoking plots, and poignant prose have earned her devoted readers—and multiple industry awards.
These awards include the 2009 and 2008 Christy Award, the 2007 RITA for Best Inspirational Romance, the 2009 and 2007 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, 2007 Bookseller's Best Award, and Library Journal's Top Christian Fiction for 2006, among others.
After living in Colorado for seventeen years, Tamera has returned to her Southern roots. She and her husband now make their home in Nashville with Tamera's father, Doug. They enjoy life there with Joe and Tamera's two adult children, and Jack, a precious—and precocious—silky terrier.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Widow Rachel Boyd struggles to keep her ranch afloat and provide for her two young sons, though some days it feels as though her efforts are sabotaged at every turn. When her cattle come down with disease and her sons' lives are endangered, she must turn to Rand Brookston, Timber Ridge's physician and reluctant veterinarian. While Rachel appreciates his help, she squelches any feelings she might have for Rand--her own father was a doctor and his patients always took priority over his family. Rachel refuses to repeat the mistakes her mother made. But when she's courted by a wealthy client of the local resort, she faces a choice: self-sufficiency and security or the risk inherent in the deepest of loves.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Dusk, hours following the Battle of Nashville
December 17, 1864
Half hidden beneath the bare-limbed canopy of a dogwood tree, the
gravedigger kept a reverent distance, patiently waiting for the last
whispered prayers to be uttered and for the final mourner to take her
leave. Only then did he step into the fading light, a worn spool of
string clutched tight in his gnarled hand. Not much time left. It would
be dark soon. And the last grave still needed tending before the pewter
skies let loose their winter white.
The distant squeak of wagon wheels and the clomp of horses' hooves faded
into the night, leaving only the faint chirrup of crickets to companion
the silence. Jessup Collum lifted the lid of the oblong pine box and
with painstaking care, his arthritic fingers numb from the cold and
marred with time and age, he tied a trailing length of string around the
soldier's right wrist. Mindful not to tie the string overtight, he
looped the other end through a tiny bell.
He stared for a moment at the soldier's face—the fallen Confederate a
mere boy judging from his features—then he glanced around at the freshly
covered graves. Deep in his bones he knew what he was doing was right,
even if a bit out of the ordinary. There was no malice in his actions,
and no sin, most certainly. Nothing that would bring serious offense.
Though folks would surely think him a touch senile, if they saw. If they
knew ...
So many ways for a man to die, yet only one was needed for the earth to cradle a body back from whence all life had come.
Jessup turned that thought over in his mind as he'd done countless times
before, not indifferent to the shadows stealing across the graveyard as
the December sun hastened its retreat. Nightfall brought bitter cold,
but not a breath of wind stirred, and each snowflake lofted downward
from heaven, unhindered in its journey. He worked hurriedly to cover the
last grave, mindful of the trailing string.
After the last shovel of dirt, he straightened, slowly, his crooked
spine bearing the brunt of forty-two years of tending this hallowed
ground—and of the last few hours of burying the bloodied remnants the
Federal Army had abandoned following their assault. If the once-valiant
Tennessee Army had been crippled in the battle at Franklin two weeks
ago, then the past two days of fighting had delivered a mortal wound.
Jessup lit a torch and stared over row after row of mounded earth, the
light casting a burnished glow around him. Too many and too young were
those who lay here, going before their time. Before their lives had been
lived out. He thought again of the young woman earlier who'd been last
to take her leave.
Dark-haired with skin pale and smooth as cream, she'd knelt for the
longest time at the grave on the far end, one he'd taken care in
covering not two hours earlier, as he'd done the one at his feet just
now. She'd huddled close by that grave, weeping, arms drawn around
herself, looking as if she'd wanted to lay herself down and mark an end
to her own life, what little she had left after losing the man buried
there—"a decorated lieutenant from the Tennessee regiment, and my only
brother," she'd whispered through tears.
The wound on the lieutenant's neck had told Jessup how the man had died,
and the sutures and bloodstained bandages told him how hard some doctor
had fought to save him. Shame how fast these soldiers were buried. No
proper funeral. No time for one— not with the Federal Army bearing down
hard, void of mercy, bent on conquering what little was left.
He tugged the worn collar of his coat closer about his neck and begged
the Almighty, again, to intervene, to put an end to this war. Surely it
couldn't go on much longer.
A heavy mist crept over the rise from the creek, shrouding the stone
markers. The fog seemed to deepen the pungent aroma of upturned earth,
and a beguiling trace of honeysuckle clung to the cool night air,
despite the wild vine not being in bloom. Jessup took a deeper whiff and
could almost taste the sweet summer nectar. A smile pushed up his
whiskered cheeks. Maybe folks were right. Maybe he was a touch senile
after all. These days recent memories skittered off about as quickly as
he reached for them, while others that should have been long gathering
dust inched closer as the years stretched on.
He sat down against an ancient poplar, borrowing its strength. Still no
wind, and the snow had ceased falling. He imagined the boy's face again,
able to see it clearly in his mind's eye as he stared at the bell,
willing it to move.
Even the slightest bit.
He put his head back, resting his eyes, only for a moment. But the
moments lengthened and gathered and pulled taut, coaxing him along on a
gentle wave, absent of the throb in his lower back and the ache across
his swollen knuckles.
He was a boy again, running through fields knee-high with summer grass,
the sun hot on his face, sweat from a humid Tennessee afternoon beading
on his forehead and matting his hair to his head. Someone called to him
in the distance. A voice so sweet ... A lifetime had passed since he'd
heard that voice. Mother ...
He ran, youthful legs pumping hard, trying to reach her, wanting to see
her again. But the faster he ran, the farther away her voice seemed to—
Jessup awakened with a start, his breath coming in sharp staggers.
An uncanny sense of presence crowded the darkness around him, and he
realized the torch had gone out. He sat straighter, head cocked to one
side, and listened, straining to hear his mother's voice again.
But her voice was gone.
He wiped the telling moisture from his cheeks and rose, the joints
cracking in his knees. In all his days, he couldn't recall so still a
night. So loud a hush over the graves. With a sinking feeling, he looked
down at the grave of the young boy. It was late now. Too late.
He prayed the boy was at peace, wherever he was. Same for the decorated
lieutenant down the way. He didn't know much about the afterlife—not
like folks expected him to—but he reckoned if God was as kind as he
believed Him to be that there was some sort of special welcome going on
right now for those men who'd laid down their lives in this terrible—
The distant tinkling of a bell brought Jessup upright.
A skitter shimmied up his spine. The air trapped viselike in his lungs.
Praying he wasn't still dreaming, he searched the darkness at the end of
the row where the woman had knelt earlier, and his skin turned to
gooseflesh. If this was what some folks felt when they visited this
place late at night, he knew now why they never ventured back.
He also knew why he would never leave.
Chapter 1
Timber Ridge, Colorado, Rocky Mountains
April 12, 1877
Rachel Boyd stood motionless in the main aisle of the general store,
knowing she shouldn't eavesdrop. But heaven help her, she couldn't bring
herself to move! Half afraid that Ben and Lyda Mullins would hear her
if she did try to make a stealthy exit, she gripped the jar of molasses
in her hand, unable to stifle a giggle. The only patron in the store,
she was grateful for the lull in afternoon traffic and was more than a
little amused—and surprised— by the affectionate whispers coming from
beyond the curtained doorway.
A soft chuckle. "Ben Mullins, what's gotten into you? Someone could walk in on us."
A deeper laugh. "Who's going to come back here into the storeroom? All I
want is a little kiss. Come here, woman, and let me ..."
Rachel couldn't make out the low murmurs that followed, and didn't need
to. Her imagination filled in the blanks just fine. Warmth rose to her
face. Unbidden, her memory skimmed the past two years, and emotions long
buried since Thomas's death, yet never forgotten, slowly reawakened
inside her.
With them came bittersweet memories of the tender way her husband used
to love her, and desires long dormant began to unfurl. She closed her
eyes, recalling what it had felt like to be loved by a man. A shiver
stole through her, though not an altogether pleasurable one. Her smile
slowly faded.
While this wasn't the first time she'd remembered the intimacy she and
Thomas had enjoyed in marriage, it was her first time to feel those
intimate stirrings again. The desire for a man's touch, for that
relationship. But the desire wasn't welcome. She would not—could
not—ever again love a man the way she'd loved Thomas.
Following his passing, there had been moments when she'd questioned
whether she would survive. It had taken so long to find her way out of
that fog, that deep, dark place where she'd known she needed to start
living again, if only for her boys, but couldn't. With the double-edged
gift of time's passing, and the persistent encouragement of family and
friends, she'd finally found her way back into the sunlight.
But loving someone so completely, giving herself to a man the way she'd
done with her husband, it gave them the power to hurt you in a way no
one else could, even when it wasn't their intention.
And she never wanted to hurt like that again. Ever.
More than once, she'd been told she needed to consider remarrying, if
only for her boys' sake. But just as she wouldn't risk her heart a
second time, neither would she risk her sons having to endure the same
hurt they'd gone through with their father's passing. Besides, she and
Mitchell and Kurt were getting along fine, just the three of them.
A not-so-gentle check tugged at her flagging confidence. She fingered
the jar of molasses in her hand. Perhaps fine wasn't the best choice of a
word, but the three of them were managing as best they could. She
smoothed a hand down the front panel of her skirt and forced down a
recurring tide of emotion. With effort, she refocused her thoughts.
School would dismiss within the hour, and she planned on dropping by to
visit with the schoolteacher about Kurt. She didn't have an
appointment—and it wasn't her first "meeting" with Miss Stafford over
her younger son. She just wanted to make sure things were going smoothly
and that Kurt hadn't done something else foolish. Again. Like the
shenanigan he'd pulled two weeks prior involving the school's outhouse.
He hadn't been the only boy involved, she'd learned, but she had a
feeling he'd been the instigator. And she cringed again just thinking
about it, putting herself in Miss Stafford's place. Young and
inexperienced, Judith Stafford was, from all accounts, being more than
patient with Kurt. How embarrassing that must have been. Kurt had
written a note of apology, and she'd written Judith Stafford a note too,
offering her own expression of regret and thanking the teacher for her
understanding. Hopefully a quick visit today would keep things moving in
the right direction.
After dealing with that issue, endless chores awaited on the ranch, not
to mention the meeting about the overdue loan payment. Mr. Fossey, the
bank manager, had been more than lenient, but she sensed his patience
waning.
She returned the jar of molasses to the shelf, considering it a luxury
these days with funds on the scarce side. In the midst of everything,
she was still determined to keep Thomas's dream alive for their two
sons. It was what pushed her from bed each morning and what carried her
through each day until she fell exhausted back into bed long after dark.
That, and the pledge they'd made as a couple to give Mitchell and Kurt a
heritage, a better life than the boys would have had if she and Thomas
had stayed in Tennessee following the war.
She fingered a callus on her palm. Losing the ranch Thomas had worked so
diligently to build wasn't an option, and it hardly defined giving
their boys a "better life." She'd stood over her husband's grave and had
given her solemn oath that she would see his dream—their dream—come to
fruition. And that was a promise she intended to keep. If Mr. Fossey
still considered her a worthwhile risk.
The intimate exchange behind the blue-and-yellow gingham curtain grew
more ardent, and Rachel felt a blush, regretting not having left at the
outset. She made her way to the door, hoping Ben had remembered to oil
the squeaky hinge. Guilty as she felt, it was nice to know that after
twenty-something years of marriage, Ben and Lyda's feelings for each
other were still—
"Ben?"
Hearing the name, and catching the unmistakable alarm in Lyda's tone, Rachel paused, hand on the latch.
"Ben, what's—" A muted gasp sounded from the back storeroom. "Honey, what's wrong? Ben ... are you all—"
A dull thud.
"Ben!"
Rachel raced to the curtain that separated the store from the back part
of the building but stopped shy of continuing on. "Lyda, it's Rachel. Is
everything all right?" She waited, impatient. "Lyda?"
"No, we're— Ben, can you hear me?" Anxiety constricted Lyda's voice.
"Rachel! Something's wrong. I ... I don't think he's breathing!"
Rachel whipped past the curtain and hurried down the hallway, and came to a stilting halt by the storage closet.
Ben lay crumpled on the floor, motionless, his complexion drained of
color. Lyda knelt close beside him. Panic lined her features.
Instinct kicked in and Rachel squeezed in beside them into the cramped
space. "What happened?" She checked Ben's pulse, first on the underside
of his wrist, then on his neck.
Tears rimmed Lyda's eyes. Her hands shook. "We were ..." She looked away
and Rachel felt a pinch of guilt. "We were ... kissing, and the next
thing I knew Ben was clutching at his arm." Panic thinned her tone. "He
acted like he couldn't catch his breath, and then he ..." She bit her
lower lip as tears spilled over. "He just went down."
Rachel closed her eyes and concentrated on finding a pulse, wishing she
had her father's old stethoscope. "Has anything like this happened to
Ben before?"
Lyda shook her head and nudged her husband's shoulder with a trembling hand. "Ben," she whispered, "can you hear me?"
Fingertips pressed against the underside of his wrist, Rachel stilled.
There—finally, she felt something. A pulse. Thready and shallow. Too
much so. "He needs Dr. Brookston," she whispered, touching Ben's brow to
find it cool and clammy. "I'll go find him. You stay here."
Lyda reached for her hand. "You know what's happening ..."
It wasn't a question and Rachel didn't answer. Before Timber Ridge
boasted a physician of its own, she'd served as midwife to women in
town. She'd also treated wounds and sewn up her share of cuts and
gashes. People rarely called on her since the doctor arrived—maybe an
expectant mother every now and then—but she had a fairly good idea of
what was happening to Ben. Yet she wasn't about to state it aloud. It
would only add to Lyda's worry, and her assumption could well be wrong.
She wasn't a trained physician, after all. Medical schools were for men,
not women.
"The important thing, Lyda, is that Ben is breathing and I can feel a
pulse. Whatever you do, don't move him. If he comes to while I'm gone,
make sure he doesn't try to get up. That's very important." She reached
for a towel on a shelf, rolled it up, and gently slid it beneath Ben's
head. "And keep his head elevated until I get back with the doctor." She
stood.
Lyda stared up, fresh tears rising. "Is he ... going to be all right?"
Rachel knelt again, on the verge of tears herself. At forty-nine, Ben
Mullins was almost twenty years her senior—Lyda was half that. Yet in
recent years the older couple had become almost like parents to her. Ben
treated her much like a father would and was like an uncle to her sons.
Lyda was a trusted friend and filled the role of an indulgent aunt to
the boys, which included sneaking them candy in church when they were
younger, and occasionally even now. Yet Rachel still couldn't bring
herself to answer Lyda's question.
She forced a smile she didn't feel. "Did you hear what I said? About
making sure Ben stays still and about keeping his head elevated?"
Shadows of realization darkened Lyda's eyes. "Yes," she choked out,
nodding. "I heard. It's just that—" She drew in a ragged breath. "Rachel
... he's all I have now. I can't lose him too."
A horrible, suffocating wave of grief hit Rachel all over again. Only it
wasn't from memories of Thomas. She knew that pain only too well. This
was different, and it tore at her heart. She reached for Lyda's hand and
gripped it tight, remembering a bitter wintry night eight years ago. A
night she and Lyda had spoken of only a handful of times since.
Filling her lungs, she worked to steady her voice, the image of Ben and
Lyda's children, their expressions so peaceful, so precious, even in
death, making that nearly impossible. She squeezed her eyes shut, but
the haunting images remained. "I'm going to go find the doctor—he'll
know what to do. I won't be long, I promise."
Lyda nodded, her expression communicating what words could not. "Thank you, Rachel. And please ... hurry."
* * *
Rachel ran the short distance to the doctor's clinic and entered without
knocking. Angelo Giordano stood at a worktable inside, pestle in hand.
"Angelo—" She paused to catch her breath, the chilled mountain air still
burning her lungs. "Is Dr. Brookston here?"
The young man shook his head. "The doctor ... he is at—" He lowered his
head. "He is away, Mrs. Boyd." Though his Italian accent was thick and
his word choices careful, Angelo Giordano's diction was flawless. "But
if maybe ... I could be of help—"
"I need Dr. Brookston, Angelo! I think Ben Mullins is having heart failure."
The boy's dark eyes went wide.
Rachel hurried to a bookcase crammed with bottles and metal tins, each
neatly labeled. But the shelves were cramped, and numerous tins sat
stacked on the plank-wood floor gathering dust. She scanned the labels,
finding them a challenge to read in the poor light and with the
containers stuffed in as they were. She exhaled. Could Dr. Brookston not
afford a proper cabinet for his medicine? "Do you know if the doctor
has any foxglove? It's a plant—an herb. It's used with patients who have
heart ailments."
"I do not know, ma'am," Angelo said, joining her in the search.
Rachel shoved a tin aside to view another behind it, and a bottle of
laudanum slipped off the shelf. She tried to catch it, but the bottle
hit the floor with a crack and shattered, splattering laudanum and
sending glass shards in all directions. She bit back a harsh word. "I'm
sorry, Angelo. I didn't mean to break—"
"Dr. Brookston will not be angry." The boy reached for a rag. "I will clean it."
Her panic mounting, Rachel spotted two wooden crates in the corner, but
they held only bottles of lamp oil. Enough to last for an entire year!
What did anyone need with that much oil? An unopened box on the
examination table drew her attention.
Angelo gestured. "It is new medicine. It came today. That is why I am here. Maybe I should—"
She nodded, anticipating what he might say next. "Yes. Go through that
box—quickly please, Angelo—and look for anything that has either of
these words on it." She grabbed the fountain pen and a piece of paper
from Dr. Brookston's desk and scribbled a note. She already knew
firsthand from having assisted Dr. Rand Brookston last fall that he was
an exemplary surgeon—she only hoped he was as conscientious about
keeping medications ordered and in stock.
She pressed the paper into Angelo's hand. "Now, do you have any idea where the doctor might be? Who he was going to see?"
Angelo blinked, glancing downward.
"Angelo, please! There's little time."
Wincing, the young man reluctantly met her gaze. "He spoke of going to ... to Miss Bailey's."
Rachel frowned, confused. "Miss Bailey's ..."
He nodded once. "The woman, she has a house over on—"
"I know where Miss Bailey's house is."
Angelo swallowed and the sound was audible. "The doctor ... sometimes he sees to the ... boarders who live there."
Rachel felt the furrows in her brow. Boarders wasn't exactly the word
she would have chosen to describe the women who lived under Miss
Bailey's roof. Regardless, she needed the doctor, and if that's where he
was, for whatever reason, then that's where she would go. "As soon as
you find either of the items listed on that sheet of paper, bring them
as quickly as you can to the mercantile, to the back storeroom. Will you
do that, please?"
Angelo nodded, his chest puffing out. "Yes, Mrs. Boyd. If what is on
this paper is in this box, I will find it. I will bring it."
She thanked him and took off down the boardwalk at a run.
The April air was brisk, burning her lungs. It held the promise of more
snow, and Rachel pulled her winter shawl tighter around her shoulders,
wishing she hadn't left her coat at the store. A gust of wind disturbed
the layer of fresh-fallen snow lining the rooftops and sent it swirling
downward.
Winter wouldn't leave the Rockies for at least another month, maybe two,
and she prayed the cold wouldn't cost her more cattle than it already
had, or the calves due to drop any day. But especially the calf
belonging to Lady. She'd bought Lady a year ago, her first major
investment for the ranch, and a good one, for a change.
She turned at the next street. Thankfully, foot traffic on the boardwalk was scarce.
School hadn't dismissed yet but soon would—and she wouldn't be there to
meet the boys, or to have that visit with their teacher. When she didn't
show, she knew Mitchell and Kurt would walk to James's office and wait
there until she arrived. The boys loved their uncle James and never
complained about visiting the sheriff 's office, but she worried about
what they saw and overheard there. Still, some days it couldn't be
helped.
Only last fall had she begun to allow Mitch and Kurt to walk to school
on their own again. She still accompanied them in the wagon as far as
Ben and Lyda's store each morning, unable to stomach the thought of them
walking the distance from the ranch like they once had. Not after what
had happened to Thomas, and with the recent reports of cougar sightings.
Winded, she struggled to maintain the hurried pace, her breath puffing
white. Winter-shrouded peaks towered high above Timber Ridge and drew
her gaze upward as thoughts of Ben pressed close. The rush of her pulse
pounded hard in her ears.
If only Ben's heart could beat half as strong ...
If Ben had a history of heart weakness, he'd never mentioned it. Neither
had Lyda. And Rachel felt certain they would have, given her closeness
to them.
A left at the next intersection led her into a part of town she didn't
usually frequent. Saloons and gaming halls lined the thoroughfare. Even
midday the smell of liquor was potent. She spotted Miss Bailey's
establishment at the end of the street and made a beeline for it,
wondering how she knew which building it was. She couldn't recall being
told. It was simply one of those places everybody in town knew of, but
most folks—at least in her circle—never spoke about.
Two women lazed against the railing of the wraparound porch, talking,
dressed in a manner ill-advised for the cold and that might have been
shocking had Rachel been naïve about their occupation. But she wasn't,
and she raced up the porch stairs, the unease over having to visit a
place like this paling in comparison to her concern for Ben. She never
broke stride. "I've come to get Dr. Brookston. It's an emergen—"
The woman on the left, a blonde, stepped directly into her path, blocking the door.
Rachel stopped short.
"I think you mean Rand, don't you?" the woman said, looking her up and
down and smiling, though not in a friendly way. "That's what we all call
him." She crossed her arms over her chest and her ample cleavage lifted
to threaten the already strained buttons of her thin shirtwaist. "He's
inside, visiting with one of the girls. And I don't think he'll take
kindly to being interrupted." She gave a throaty laugh. "I know Patricia
won't. She's been waitin' for this all week." She tossed a wink at the
woman beside her.
"Visiting with one of the girls." Fairly good at reading people, Rachel
knew when she was being goaded. She had no qualms about the doctor
seeing to the health of these women. Her father had been a physician,
and she respected a physician's oath to care for the sick, regardless of
person or circumstance. Yet Dr. Brookston's coming here, to this place,
and his apparent familiarity with these women ... Such behavior hinted
at arrogance. An arrogance with which she was only too familiar when it
came to men of his profession.
An arrogance that often led to their downfall.
"Like it or not—" Rachel squared her shoulders, finding boldness when
picturing Lyda cradling Ben—"Dr. Brookston's visit here is about to be
cut short." She pushed past the woman, yanking her arm free when the
blonde grabbed hold. Once inside, she hustled to close the door and
flipped the lock into place, knowing it wouldn't buy her much time.
The women pounded on the glass-paned door behind her, yelling
obscenities. Surely the building had a back door, so Rachel knew she was
only prolonging the inevitable, but she didn't need long.
The sickeningly sweet smell of perfume hit her full in the face. That,
and stale liquor. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim
light.
Laughter drifted down from the second floor, giving hint as to where she
should begin her search. She hurried up the spiral staircase. The
garish red carpet muted her boot steps. She instinctively reached for
the handrail, then held back, thinking better of it.
Oversized oil paintings covered the walls, detailed in their renderings
and advertising the services bartered in this place. After her gaze
collided with a particularly graphic "portrait," she kept her eyes
averted, but couldn't block out the disturbing memories that came with
being inside a place like this. Not that she'd ever been inside a
brothel before—
But her father had. On numerous occasions. With many women. For many years.
For the thousandth time, she questioned why doctors considered
themselves more highly than they ought, more immune to weaknesses in
character and less prone to fault—when based on personal experience,
with few exceptions, she'd found quite the opposite to be true.
She reached the second-story landing, and the gravel of male voices
blended with female laughter to paint a plurality of mental images
Rachel tried in vain to block out. She looked down the long hallway. So
many doors ... and they were all closed.
The rush of footsteps sounded from downstairs. "She must have gone up there!"
Time running out, Rachel pounded on the first door.
October 5, 2010
I ran the San Jose Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon!
Captain's Log, Stardate 10.05.2010
This was quite an unusual experience for me, and not all of it good.
I wanted to experience an actual race before doing the Honolulu Marathon in December, so I signed up for the San Jose Half Marathon because I thought it would be closest to the experience of a Marathon event. (I wasn't positive a 5K or 10K would be organized the same way as a marathon.)
My problem is that in running this half marathon for "fun" (HA!) I was still doing my marathon training program, which required me to run 20 miles the same week as the half marathon. (Yes, you read that right, 20 miles.)
I'm doing the e-coaching program with Jeff Galloway and he said for me to run the half marathon (which is 13 miles) and then run an additional 6 miles before or after the event (or both) to make up the 20 miles I had to run that day. He said that normally he doesn't like people breaking up their "long runs" that way, but in this case he thought I'd be fine.
So I had to actually hold back during the half marathon so that I could still run an additional 6 miles afterward. This was a bit frustrating. I have realized that I will not do that again—if I enter an event, I'll train for the event so I can go all out during it.
The race itself was really well organized and very positive. There are live bands at every mile marker, playing cover songs that are just very fun and upbeat. There are also high school cheerleaders and cheer squads at sections of the race to cheer the runners on (they were very cute). And in addition, residents from San Jose (the race runs through a few residential areas, and their streets are blocked off for the entire morning, poor people) gather in lawn chairs along the road to cheer the runners on. Some streets had fun block parties with barbeques and people rockin' to the live band playing nearby.
Oh, and the snacks after the race are really good! (LOL You knew I'd focus on the food, right?) We got Wheat Thins and four or five different types of Odwalla energy bars and Cytomax (kind of like Gatorade) and ice cold water and fresh bagels.
And the medal I got for finishing is really hefty! It's rather cool.
Then here is the really embarrassing part, and just to warn you, it might be slightly TMI.
So I have a very small bladder. But the marathon books I read said to drink about 4 ounces of water every hour before the marathon. So, fine, that's what I did. If you think about it, it isn't that much water, but apparently it was too much for my tiny bladder.
I went to the half marathon and used the bathroom twice before the race even started. But then about 1.5 miles into it, I had to go again! I saw a single portapotty at mile 1.5 with a line of 20 people, but I didn't know:
(a) when the next bathroom would be (in half a mile? In 2 miles?)
(b) whether I would even last that long, and
(c) how long the lines would be for the portapotties.
So I stopped to stand in line. It took SO long for me to finally use the bathroom that the Tail Car came up on us. The Tail car is basically the guys who bring up the rear of the race to pick up extra slow stragglers and signal the trucks that remove the barriers that were blocking off the streets from traffic just for the race.
So I had the Horrid Shame of being picked up by the Tail car and driven about 3/4 of a mile further down the marathon to catch up to the rest of the pack. All because I couldn't hold it.
Lesson learned: DO NOT DRINK WATER BEFORE THE EVENT. AT ALL. There was plenty of water all along the course and I would have been well hydrated without drinking water beforehand and overtaxing my @#%$^ bladder.
As it happened, there were THREE portapotties about a mile down the course. Just my luck! Then again, I'm not sure if I'd have made it another mile.
So because I lost about 3/4 of a mile, I ran an extra mile during the extra run after the race to make up for it. It actually wasn't bad and I ran the full 20 miles without problems except for some soreness on the balls of my feet and in my ankles. I soaked my feet in cold water after running and the pain went away the next day.
Overall, it was good for me to experience an official race before the Honolulu Marathon, and I learned a lot that will help me. Not the funnest day of my life, but I felt pretty good knowing I ran almost 20 miles!
This was quite an unusual experience for me, and not all of it good.
I wanted to experience an actual race before doing the Honolulu Marathon in December, so I signed up for the San Jose Half Marathon because I thought it would be closest to the experience of a Marathon event. (I wasn't positive a 5K or 10K would be organized the same way as a marathon.)
My problem is that in running this half marathon for "fun" (HA!) I was still doing my marathon training program, which required me to run 20 miles the same week as the half marathon. (Yes, you read that right, 20 miles.)
I'm doing the e-coaching program with Jeff Galloway and he said for me to run the half marathon (which is 13 miles) and then run an additional 6 miles before or after the event (or both) to make up the 20 miles I had to run that day. He said that normally he doesn't like people breaking up their "long runs" that way, but in this case he thought I'd be fine.
So I had to actually hold back during the half marathon so that I could still run an additional 6 miles afterward. This was a bit frustrating. I have realized that I will not do that again—if I enter an event, I'll train for the event so I can go all out during it.
The race itself was really well organized and very positive. There are live bands at every mile marker, playing cover songs that are just very fun and upbeat. There are also high school cheerleaders and cheer squads at sections of the race to cheer the runners on (they were very cute). And in addition, residents from San Jose (the race runs through a few residential areas, and their streets are blocked off for the entire morning, poor people) gather in lawn chairs along the road to cheer the runners on. Some streets had fun block parties with barbeques and people rockin' to the live band playing nearby.
Oh, and the snacks after the race are really good! (LOL You knew I'd focus on the food, right?) We got Wheat Thins and four or five different types of Odwalla energy bars and Cytomax (kind of like Gatorade) and ice cold water and fresh bagels.
And the medal I got for finishing is really hefty! It's rather cool.
Then here is the really embarrassing part, and just to warn you, it might be slightly TMI.
So I have a very small bladder. But the marathon books I read said to drink about 4 ounces of water every hour before the marathon. So, fine, that's what I did. If you think about it, it isn't that much water, but apparently it was too much for my tiny bladder.
I went to the half marathon and used the bathroom twice before the race even started. But then about 1.5 miles into it, I had to go again! I saw a single portapotty at mile 1.5 with a line of 20 people, but I didn't know:
(a) when the next bathroom would be (in half a mile? In 2 miles?)
(b) whether I would even last that long, and
(c) how long the lines would be for the portapotties.
So I stopped to stand in line. It took SO long for me to finally use the bathroom that the Tail Car came up on us. The Tail car is basically the guys who bring up the rear of the race to pick up extra slow stragglers and signal the trucks that remove the barriers that were blocking off the streets from traffic just for the race.
So I had the Horrid Shame of being picked up by the Tail car and driven about 3/4 of a mile further down the marathon to catch up to the rest of the pack. All because I couldn't hold it.
Lesson learned: DO NOT DRINK WATER BEFORE THE EVENT. AT ALL. There was plenty of water all along the course and I would have been well hydrated without drinking water beforehand and overtaxing my @#%$^ bladder.
As it happened, there were THREE portapotties about a mile down the course. Just my luck! Then again, I'm not sure if I'd have made it another mile.
So because I lost about 3/4 of a mile, I ran an extra mile during the extra run after the race to make up for it. It actually wasn't bad and I ran the full 20 miles without problems except for some soreness on the balls of my feet and in my ankles. I soaked my feet in cold water after running and the pain went away the next day.
Overall, it was good for me to experience an official race before the Honolulu Marathon, and I learned a lot that will help me. Not the funnest day of my life, but I felt pretty good knowing I ran almost 20 miles!
October 4, 2010
Street Team book list excerpt - Red Ink by Kathi Macias
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Red Ink
by
Kathi Macias
A young Chinese woman, Zhen-Li—raised to observe the party line, including its one-child-per-family doctrine—falls in love with and marries a Christian, and adopts his faith. Though the couple downplays their Christianity in an effort to survive, Zhen-Li's family is appalled, and she and her husband are ostracized. When she becomes pregnant for the second time and refuses to have an abortion, the persecution begins in earnest. Zhen-Li's parents, under pressure from the government, pay to have Zhen-Li kidnapped and the baby aborted.
It is then Zhen-Li decides she must live up to her name—"Truth"—and take a firm stand for her faith, regardless of the consequences, and so she begins to regularly teach children about Zhu Yesu ("Lord Jesus") and to distribute Christian literature every chance she gets.
Based loosely on the life of Christian magazine editor Li Ying, currently serving a ten-year prison sentence in China, the story of Yang Zhen-Li tells the desperate tale of her incarceration and separation from her family, as she continues to minister to other prisoners, and even to her guards.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Yang Zhen-Li was nearing thirty but at times felt twice that old. Her back was becoming permanently bent forward from the heavy pails she carried daily, one attached on each end of the thick bamboo rod that stretched across her shoulders, mirroring the heaviness of her heart. There had been a time when she'd been acclaimed as a beauty, but she could scarcely remember why…or imagine that it would matter.
She tried to fight the encroaching darkness, tried to hold fast to what she knew was true, but the constant lies and propaganda were taking a greater toll even than the physical labor and abuse or the burning, gnawing hunger. If her situation didn't change soon, she knew she would never live long enough to see her husband or son again. And with nearly eight years of her ten-year sentence left to serve, the possibilities of her emerging from prison alive grew dimmer by the day.
For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. She forced herself to focus on one of the many scripture verses she'd had opportunity to memorize between the time she accepted Zhu Yesu as her Savior and her arrest by members of the Public Security Bureau (PSB) on charges of teaching religion to children, including giving them papers containing religious writings. Even before her arrest, her parents had written to her—warned her, begged her, threatened her—and finally had her kidnapped in an attempt to convince her to go along with the government rules, especially the one limiting each family to one child. After all, she already had a healthy son. Why would she want another baby when they could scarcely afford to feed the first one? But though her abductors had forcibly aborted her second child, they had not succeeded in convincing Yang Zhen-Li to abandon the faith she had adopted before marrying her Christian husband. If anything, the ordeal had only strengthened her resolve to take a stand for the meaning of her name—Zhen-Li, "Truth,"—and spurred her to begin actively sharing the Good News of Yesu every chance she got. As a trained teacher, that quite naturally included talking with children about the gospel, a practice expressly forbidden by the government.
And now she was paying the price. Separated from her family and sentenced to ten years of hard labor and "re-education," Zhen-Li struggled to survive against pain, exhaustion, and bitter loneliness. Worst of all were the times she felt God had abandoned her. It wasn't enough to know in her mind that He promised never to leave or forsake her. She needed a visible reminder—soon—if she was to continue to remain faithful behind these prison walls.
Chapter 1
Zhou Chi, affectionately known by fellow members of their modest house church as Brother Zhou, struggled within himself each time he left his four-year-old son, Zhou Chan, with his older sister, Zhou Ming. Yet he was grateful for her loving care of the boy. Chi had no choice but to go to work in the fields and try to earn enough money each day to feed himself, his sister, and his only child, but it had been so much easier when Yang Zhen-Li was still there to run the tiny household.
Yang Zhen-Li. Chi's heart squeezed with pain as he mounted his beat-up bicycle with the bent frame and nearly tireless rims to make his way to the nearby farm where he had found temporary employment. Though the morning light was just beginning to pierce the darkness, Chi had been up for more than an hour, praying for his family, particularly his beloved wife who was enduring the unimaginable for her faith. How he continued to beg Yesu to allow him to take her place in the prison camp, but God had not granted his petition. And why should He? Chi knew he had not been a faithful follower of Yesu, though he'd had the privilege of being raised in a Christian home. His halfhearted, lukewarm acceptance of his parents' faith had broken their heart, though they had been encouraged when their soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Yang Zhen-Li, joined their Christian faith so she and Zhou Chi could establish a godly home of their own. But Chi had continued in his mediocre commitment, careful to maintain a low profile and not arouse the suspicions of the government. He would even have been willing to register as a member of the state-approved TSPM—Three-Self Patriotic Movement—the only Christian churches approved by the government. But Zhen-Li had resisted, convincing him to remain in their little house church, though it was technically illegal to do so. Now, his faithful wife behind bars, the brokenhearted husband and father, who wished only to trade places with his beloved Zhen-Li, instead continued to labor in the fields and to care for his son as best he could, even as he pleaded with God to protect Zhen-Li long enough for her to return to them.
His sister's arrival on the scene, just days after Zhen-Li's arrest, had compounded Chi's pain but had also eased his concern over what to do with little Chan during the workday, particularly now that Chi's parents were no longer alive. Chi had despaired over how to care for Chan, and then Zhou Ming's husband had been caught in the melee of a raid on a nearby house church and accidentally killed. The terrified widow had fled to her brother's home, not knowing that he too had just suffered a tragedy of his own. And so the two siblings had banded together to help raise Zhou Chan as best they could, even as they prayed fervently for Zhen-Li's release.
Bumping down the muddy, rutted road, Zhou Chi continued to pray as he tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. As a peasant farm worker, Chi was among the poorest of the poor, and as such, there was often not enough food to go around. That had been the case this morning, and so Chi had left what little there was for his sister and little Chan. God would just have to give him the strength to do his work so at the end of the day he could bring home sufficient food for an evening meal for all three of them.
***
Julia hoisted herself to her feet, thankful for the added support of her familiar walker. She felt rested and refreshed after her afternoon nap, brief though it had been, since she'd spent most of the time in prayer. The routine at the senior home had become second nature to her during the five years she'd lived there, and she looked forward to the quiet time in her room each day following the noon meal. Though a couple of the home's ten residents refused to go to their rooms to take naps, Julia had heard from the caretakers that those who stubbornly stayed in the family room after lunch nearly always fell asleep in their chairs.
Julia smiled. Not only did she not mind the solitude of her room in the early afternoons, she rather looked forward to it. It gave her a chance to recharge her physical batteries for the rest of day, and it also gave her the peace and quiet she needed to spend time alone with God. Though she had once considered herself a morning person who always had her prayer and Bible study before breakfast, her routine had changed drastically when she broke her hip nearly six years earlier. Until then she'd had no problem living alone, though she had often wondered if the old two-story clapboard home she and Joe had bought soon after they were married was a lot more house than one old lady needed. Still, the extra room had been nice when the children and grandchildren came to visit.
The thought of Joe and her former life turned her mood melancholy, as it always did. Her beloved husband had been dead for nearly twenty years now, killed in a car accident just when he and Julia thought they were finally going to be able to enjoy their retirement years together and possibly make that long dreamed-of missions trip to China. Now even the dreams of traveling together had long since faded away, while the memory of Joe's face or the sound of his name flitting through her mind continued to bring back the pain of his death as if it had been yesterday.
Sighing, she pulled herself back from the edge of depression that always seemed to beckon at the reminder of Joe and the life they'd once shared. Instead of allowing herself to peek over the side and risk falling off into an abyss of sadness, she consciously switched her focus to the many undeserved blessings God had given her over the years. Though her marriage to Joe had been cut short by the accident, they'd shared more than forty years of being lovers and best friends, raising four children in their small, pleasant California beach town of Carpinteria and having the joy of seeing all of them make the choice to serve God in their individual lives as well as in their own families. It was more than many people ever experienced or could hope for, so how could she dare feel cheated because she had to live her final years on earth alone?
Her smile was back, as she glanced in the mirror above her dressing table. "You silly old woman," she said aloud. "Have you ever really been alone? Of course not! God is your Husband now, and He's never left you, not even for a moment. Your kids and grandkids visit when they can, and you've got this new family here at River View Manor —wonderful cooks and caretakers, a dear prayer partner, and a whole crowd of lost souls who need Jesus." She laughed and shook her head. "What a mission field! You've got your work cut out for you, Julia Crockett! And from the looks of some of those old folks out there, you haven't much time to get it done. So what are you doing standing here, talking to yourself? Let's get busy!"
With another chuckle, Julia pushed her walker toward her private bathroom a few steps across the room. There was just enough time to wash her face and pat a few short gray curls into place before heading out to greet her fellow residents and see what God had in store for her this afternoon.
***
The guard named Tai Tong was only in his late twenties, but his dedication to the party and efficiency at carrying out his orders had quickly gained the approval of his superiors, practically assuring him of a successful career with multiple promotions. His rock-hard muscles and persuasive tactics hadn't hurt either. Most of the prisoners, and even many of the other guards, feared him. Even his wife and son cowered when he entered the room, though they obeyed him without question.
Tong smiled at the thought. Respect was important to him, even more than to most Chinese. He would rather die a slow and agonizing death than to be publicly shamed. And so he followed every rule, excelled at every undertaking, and tolerated nothing less than complete compliance from those beneath him—whether prisoner or family member. It was a lifestyle that had served him well so far, and he saw no reason to change it. Compromise was simply not an option. If anyone under his authority failed to grasp that fact, he would do whatever was necessary to re-educate them.
The prisoner named Yang Zhen-Li seemed poised to become his next student. He had heard that despite their efforts to punish her crimes and correct her thinking, she continued to pray and to speak of Yesu to any who would listen, including the prisoner who had told Tong of Zhen-Li's indiscretion. As a result, Tong would watch Yang Zhen-Li more closely than the others. If the report was true, she would pay dearly.
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Red Ink by
Kathi Macias
A young Chinese woman, Zhen-Li—raised to observe the party line, including its one-child-per-family doctrine—falls in love with and marries a Christian, and adopts his faith. Though the couple downplays their Christianity in an effort to survive, Zhen-Li's family is appalled, and she and her husband are ostracized. When she becomes pregnant for the second time and refuses to have an abortion, the persecution begins in earnest. Zhen-Li's parents, under pressure from the government, pay to have Zhen-Li kidnapped and the baby aborted.
It is then Zhen-Li decides she must live up to her name—"Truth"—and take a firm stand for her faith, regardless of the consequences, and so she begins to regularly teach children about Zhu Yesu ("Lord Jesus") and to distribute Christian literature every chance she gets.
Based loosely on the life of Christian magazine editor Li Ying, currently serving a ten-year prison sentence in China, the story of Yang Zhen-Li tells the desperate tale of her incarceration and separation from her family, as she continues to minister to other prisoners, and even to her guards.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Yang Zhen-Li was nearing thirty but at times felt twice that old. Her back was becoming permanently bent forward from the heavy pails she carried daily, one attached on each end of the thick bamboo rod that stretched across her shoulders, mirroring the heaviness of her heart. There had been a time when she'd been acclaimed as a beauty, but she could scarcely remember why…or imagine that it would matter.
She tried to fight the encroaching darkness, tried to hold fast to what she knew was true, but the constant lies and propaganda were taking a greater toll even than the physical labor and abuse or the burning, gnawing hunger. If her situation didn't change soon, she knew she would never live long enough to see her husband or son again. And with nearly eight years of her ten-year sentence left to serve, the possibilities of her emerging from prison alive grew dimmer by the day.
For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. She forced herself to focus on one of the many scripture verses she'd had opportunity to memorize between the time she accepted Zhu Yesu as her Savior and her arrest by members of the Public Security Bureau (PSB) on charges of teaching religion to children, including giving them papers containing religious writings. Even before her arrest, her parents had written to her—warned her, begged her, threatened her—and finally had her kidnapped in an attempt to convince her to go along with the government rules, especially the one limiting each family to one child. After all, she already had a healthy son. Why would she want another baby when they could scarcely afford to feed the first one? But though her abductors had forcibly aborted her second child, they had not succeeded in convincing Yang Zhen-Li to abandon the faith she had adopted before marrying her Christian husband. If anything, the ordeal had only strengthened her resolve to take a stand for the meaning of her name—Zhen-Li, "Truth,"—and spurred her to begin actively sharing the Good News of Yesu every chance she got. As a trained teacher, that quite naturally included talking with children about the gospel, a practice expressly forbidden by the government.
And now she was paying the price. Separated from her family and sentenced to ten years of hard labor and "re-education," Zhen-Li struggled to survive against pain, exhaustion, and bitter loneliness. Worst of all were the times she felt God had abandoned her. It wasn't enough to know in her mind that He promised never to leave or forsake her. She needed a visible reminder—soon—if she was to continue to remain faithful behind these prison walls.
Chapter 1
Zhou Chi, affectionately known by fellow members of their modest house church as Brother Zhou, struggled within himself each time he left his four-year-old son, Zhou Chan, with his older sister, Zhou Ming. Yet he was grateful for her loving care of the boy. Chi had no choice but to go to work in the fields and try to earn enough money each day to feed himself, his sister, and his only child, but it had been so much easier when Yang Zhen-Li was still there to run the tiny household.
Yang Zhen-Li. Chi's heart squeezed with pain as he mounted his beat-up bicycle with the bent frame and nearly tireless rims to make his way to the nearby farm where he had found temporary employment. Though the morning light was just beginning to pierce the darkness, Chi had been up for more than an hour, praying for his family, particularly his beloved wife who was enduring the unimaginable for her faith. How he continued to beg Yesu to allow him to take her place in the prison camp, but God had not granted his petition. And why should He? Chi knew he had not been a faithful follower of Yesu, though he'd had the privilege of being raised in a Christian home. His halfhearted, lukewarm acceptance of his parents' faith had broken their heart, though they had been encouraged when their soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Yang Zhen-Li, joined their Christian faith so she and Zhou Chi could establish a godly home of their own. But Chi had continued in his mediocre commitment, careful to maintain a low profile and not arouse the suspicions of the government. He would even have been willing to register as a member of the state-approved TSPM—Three-Self Patriotic Movement—the only Christian churches approved by the government. But Zhen-Li had resisted, convincing him to remain in their little house church, though it was technically illegal to do so. Now, his faithful wife behind bars, the brokenhearted husband and father, who wished only to trade places with his beloved Zhen-Li, instead continued to labor in the fields and to care for his son as best he could, even as he pleaded with God to protect Zhen-Li long enough for her to return to them.
His sister's arrival on the scene, just days after Zhen-Li's arrest, had compounded Chi's pain but had also eased his concern over what to do with little Chan during the workday, particularly now that Chi's parents were no longer alive. Chi had despaired over how to care for Chan, and then Zhou Ming's husband had been caught in the melee of a raid on a nearby house church and accidentally killed. The terrified widow had fled to her brother's home, not knowing that he too had just suffered a tragedy of his own. And so the two siblings had banded together to help raise Zhou Chan as best they could, even as they prayed fervently for Zhen-Li's release.
Bumping down the muddy, rutted road, Zhou Chi continued to pray as he tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. As a peasant farm worker, Chi was among the poorest of the poor, and as such, there was often not enough food to go around. That had been the case this morning, and so Chi had left what little there was for his sister and little Chan. God would just have to give him the strength to do his work so at the end of the day he could bring home sufficient food for an evening meal for all three of them.
***
Julia hoisted herself to her feet, thankful for the added support of her familiar walker. She felt rested and refreshed after her afternoon nap, brief though it had been, since she'd spent most of the time in prayer. The routine at the senior home had become second nature to her during the five years she'd lived there, and she looked forward to the quiet time in her room each day following the noon meal. Though a couple of the home's ten residents refused to go to their rooms to take naps, Julia had heard from the caretakers that those who stubbornly stayed in the family room after lunch nearly always fell asleep in their chairs.
Julia smiled. Not only did she not mind the solitude of her room in the early afternoons, she rather looked forward to it. It gave her a chance to recharge her physical batteries for the rest of day, and it also gave her the peace and quiet she needed to spend time alone with God. Though she had once considered herself a morning person who always had her prayer and Bible study before breakfast, her routine had changed drastically when she broke her hip nearly six years earlier. Until then she'd had no problem living alone, though she had often wondered if the old two-story clapboard home she and Joe had bought soon after they were married was a lot more house than one old lady needed. Still, the extra room had been nice when the children and grandchildren came to visit.
The thought of Joe and her former life turned her mood melancholy, as it always did. Her beloved husband had been dead for nearly twenty years now, killed in a car accident just when he and Julia thought they were finally going to be able to enjoy their retirement years together and possibly make that long dreamed-of missions trip to China. Now even the dreams of traveling together had long since faded away, while the memory of Joe's face or the sound of his name flitting through her mind continued to bring back the pain of his death as if it had been yesterday.
Sighing, she pulled herself back from the edge of depression that always seemed to beckon at the reminder of Joe and the life they'd once shared. Instead of allowing herself to peek over the side and risk falling off into an abyss of sadness, she consciously switched her focus to the many undeserved blessings God had given her over the years. Though her marriage to Joe had been cut short by the accident, they'd shared more than forty years of being lovers and best friends, raising four children in their small, pleasant California beach town of Carpinteria and having the joy of seeing all of them make the choice to serve God in their individual lives as well as in their own families. It was more than many people ever experienced or could hope for, so how could she dare feel cheated because she had to live her final years on earth alone?
Her smile was back, as she glanced in the mirror above her dressing table. "You silly old woman," she said aloud. "Have you ever really been alone? Of course not! God is your Husband now, and He's never left you, not even for a moment. Your kids and grandkids visit when they can, and you've got this new family here at River View Manor —wonderful cooks and caretakers, a dear prayer partner, and a whole crowd of lost souls who need Jesus." She laughed and shook her head. "What a mission field! You've got your work cut out for you, Julia Crockett! And from the looks of some of those old folks out there, you haven't much time to get it done. So what are you doing standing here, talking to yourself? Let's get busy!"
With another chuckle, Julia pushed her walker toward her private bathroom a few steps across the room. There was just enough time to wash her face and pat a few short gray curls into place before heading out to greet her fellow residents and see what God had in store for her this afternoon.
***
The guard named Tai Tong was only in his late twenties, but his dedication to the party and efficiency at carrying out his orders had quickly gained the approval of his superiors, practically assuring him of a successful career with multiple promotions. His rock-hard muscles and persuasive tactics hadn't hurt either. Most of the prisoners, and even many of the other guards, feared him. Even his wife and son cowered when he entered the room, though they obeyed him without question.
Tong smiled at the thought. Respect was important to him, even more than to most Chinese. He would rather die a slow and agonizing death than to be publicly shamed. And so he followed every rule, excelled at every undertaking, and tolerated nothing less than complete compliance from those beneath him—whether prisoner or family member. It was a lifestyle that had served him well so far, and he saw no reason to change it. Compromise was simply not an option. If anyone under his authority failed to grasp that fact, he would do whatever was necessary to re-educate them.
The prisoner named Yang Zhen-Li seemed poised to become his next student. He had heard that despite their efforts to punish her crimes and correct her thinking, she continued to pray and to speak of Yesu to any who would listen, including the prisoner who had told Tong of Zhen-Li's indiscretion. As a result, Tong would watch Yang Zhen-Li more closely than the others. If the report was true, she would pay dearly.
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Excerpt - Red Ink by Kathi Macias
Red Ink by
Kathi Macias
A young Chinese woman, Zhen-Li—raised to observe the party line, including its one-child-per-family doctrine—falls in love with and marries a Christian, and adopts his faith. Though the couple downplays their Christianity in an effort to survive, Zhen-Li's family is appalled, and she and her husband are ostracized. When she becomes pregnant for the second time and refuses to have an abortion, the persecution begins in earnest. Zhen-Li's parents, under pressure from the government, pay to have Zhen-Li kidnapped and the baby aborted.
It is then Zhen-Li decides she must live up to her name—"Truth"—and take a firm stand for her faith, regardless of the consequences, and so she begins to regularly teach children about Zhu Yesu ("Lord Jesus") and to distribute Christian literature every chance she gets.
Based loosely on the life of Christian magazine editor Li Ying, currently serving a ten-year prison sentence in China, the story of Yang Zhen-Li tells the desperate tale of her incarceration and separation from her family, as she continues to minister to other prisoners, and even to her guards.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Yang Zhen-Li was nearing thirty but at times felt twice that old. Her back was becoming permanently bent forward from the heavy pails she carried daily, one attached on each end of the thick bamboo rod that stretched across her shoulders, mirroring the heaviness of her heart. There had been a time when she'd been acclaimed as a beauty, but she could scarcely remember why…or imagine that it would matter.
She tried to fight the encroaching darkness, tried to hold fast to what she knew was true, but the constant lies and propaganda were taking a greater toll even than the physical labor and abuse or the burning, gnawing hunger. If her situation didn't change soon, she knew she would never live long enough to see her husband or son again. And with nearly eight years of her ten-year sentence left to serve, the possibilities of her emerging from prison alive grew dimmer by the day.
For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. She forced herself to focus on one of the many scripture verses she'd had opportunity to memorize between the time she accepted Zhu Yesu as her Savior and her arrest by members of the Public Security Bureau (PSB) on charges of teaching religion to children, including giving them papers containing religious writings. Even before her arrest, her parents had written to her—warned her, begged her, threatened her—and finally had her kidnapped in an attempt to convince her to go along with the government rules, especially the one limiting each family to one child. After all, she already had a healthy son. Why would she want another baby when they could scarcely afford to feed the first one? But though her abductors had forcibly aborted her second child, they had not succeeded in convincing Yang Zhen-Li to abandon the faith she had adopted before marrying her Christian husband. If anything, the ordeal had only strengthened her resolve to take a stand for the meaning of her name—Zhen-Li, "Truth,"—and spurred her to begin actively sharing the Good News of Yesu every chance she got. As a trained teacher, that quite naturally included talking with children about the gospel, a practice expressly forbidden by the government.
And now she was paying the price. Separated from her family and sentenced to ten years of hard labor and "re-education," Zhen-Li struggled to survive against pain, exhaustion, and bitter loneliness. Worst of all were the times she felt God had abandoned her. It wasn't enough to know in her mind that He promised never to leave or forsake her. She needed a visible reminder—soon—if she was to continue to remain faithful behind these prison walls.
Chapter 1
Zhou Chi, affectionately known by fellow members of their modest house church as Brother Zhou, struggled within himself each time he left his four-year-old son, Zhou Chan, with his older sister, Zhou Ming. Yet he was grateful for her loving care of the boy. Chi had no choice but to go to work in the fields and try to earn enough money each day to feed himself, his sister, and his only child, but it had been so much easier when Yang Zhen-Li was still there to run the tiny household.
Yang Zhen-Li. Chi's heart squeezed with pain as he mounted his beat-up bicycle with the bent frame and nearly tireless rims to make his way to the nearby farm where he had found temporary employment. Though the morning light was just beginning to pierce the darkness, Chi had been up for more than an hour, praying for his family, particularly his beloved wife who was enduring the unimaginable for her faith. How he continued to beg Yesu to allow him to take her place in the prison camp, but God had not granted his petition. And why should He? Chi knew he had not been a faithful follower of Yesu, though he'd had the privilege of being raised in a Christian home. His halfhearted, lukewarm acceptance of his parents' faith had broken their heart, though they had been encouraged when their soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Yang Zhen-Li, joined their Christian faith so she and Zhou Chi could establish a godly home of their own. But Chi had continued in his mediocre commitment, careful to maintain a low profile and not arouse the suspicions of the government. He would even have been willing to register as a member of the state-approved TSPM—Three-Self Patriotic Movement—the only Christian churches approved by the government. But Zhen-Li had resisted, convincing him to remain in their little house church, though it was technically illegal to do so. Now, his faithful wife behind bars, the brokenhearted husband and father, who wished only to trade places with his beloved Zhen-Li, instead continued to labor in the fields and to care for his son as best he could, even as he pleaded with God to protect Zhen-Li long enough for her to return to them.
His sister's arrival on the scene, just days after Zhen-Li's arrest, had compounded Chi's pain but had also eased his concern over what to do with little Chan during the workday, particularly now that Chi's parents were no longer alive. Chi had despaired over how to care for Chan, and then Zhou Ming's husband had been caught in the melee of a raid on a nearby house church and accidentally killed. The terrified widow had fled to her brother's home, not knowing that he too had just suffered a tragedy of his own. And so the two siblings had banded together to help raise Zhou Chan as best they could, even as they prayed fervently for Zhen-Li's release.
Bumping down the muddy, rutted road, Zhou Chi continued to pray as he tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. As a peasant farm worker, Chi was among the poorest of the poor, and as such, there was often not enough food to go around. That had been the case this morning, and so Chi had left what little there was for his sister and little Chan. God would just have to give him the strength to do his work so at the end of the day he could bring home sufficient food for an evening meal for all three of them.
***
Julia hoisted herself to her feet, thankful for the added support of her familiar walker. She felt rested and refreshed after her afternoon nap, brief though it had been, since she'd spent most of the time in prayer. The routine at the senior home had become second nature to her during the five years she'd lived there, and she looked forward to the quiet time in her room each day following the noon meal. Though a couple of the home's ten residents refused to go to their rooms to take naps, Julia had heard from the caretakers that those who stubbornly stayed in the family room after lunch nearly always fell asleep in their chairs.
Julia smiled. Not only did she not mind the solitude of her room in the early afternoons, she rather looked forward to it. It gave her a chance to recharge her physical batteries for the rest of day, and it also gave her the peace and quiet she needed to spend time alone with God. Though she had once considered herself a morning person who always had her prayer and Bible study before breakfast, her routine had changed drastically when she broke her hip nearly six years earlier. Until then she'd had no problem living alone, though she had often wondered if the old two-story clapboard home she and Joe had bought soon after they were married was a lot more house than one old lady needed. Still, the extra room had been nice when the children and grandchildren came to visit.
The thought of Joe and her former life turned her mood melancholy, as it always did. Her beloved husband had been dead for nearly twenty years now, killed in a car accident just when he and Julia thought they were finally going to be able to enjoy their retirement years together and possibly make that long dreamed-of missions trip to China. Now even the dreams of traveling together had long since faded away, while the memory of Joe's face or the sound of his name flitting through her mind continued to bring back the pain of his death as if it had been yesterday.
Sighing, she pulled herself back from the edge of depression that always seemed to beckon at the reminder of Joe and the life they'd once shared. Instead of allowing herself to peek over the side and risk falling off into an abyss of sadness, she consciously switched her focus to the many undeserved blessings God had given her over the years. Though her marriage to Joe had been cut short by the accident, they'd shared more than forty years of being lovers and best friends, raising four children in their small, pleasant California beach town of Carpinteria and having the joy of seeing all of them make the choice to serve God in their individual lives as well as in their own families. It was more than many people ever experienced or could hope for, so how could she dare feel cheated because she had to live her final years on earth alone?
Her smile was back, as she glanced in the mirror above her dressing table. "You silly old woman," she said aloud. "Have you ever really been alone? Of course not! God is your Husband now, and He's never left you, not even for a moment. Your kids and grandkids visit when they can, and you've got this new family here at River View Manor —wonderful cooks and caretakers, a dear prayer partner, and a whole crowd of lost souls who need Jesus." She laughed and shook her head. "What a mission field! You've got your work cut out for you, Julia Crockett! And from the looks of some of those old folks out there, you haven't much time to get it done. So what are you doing standing here, talking to yourself? Let's get busy!"
With another chuckle, Julia pushed her walker toward her private bathroom a few steps across the room. There was just enough time to wash her face and pat a few short gray curls into place before heading out to greet her fellow residents and see what God had in store for her this afternoon.
***
The guard named Tai Tong was only in his late twenties, but his dedication to the party and efficiency at carrying out his orders had quickly gained the approval of his superiors, practically assuring him of a successful career with multiple promotions. His rock-hard muscles and persuasive tactics hadn't hurt either. Most of the prisoners, and even many of the other guards, feared him. Even his wife and son cowered when he entered the room, though they obeyed him without question.
Tong smiled at the thought. Respect was important to him, even more than to most Chinese. He would rather die a slow and agonizing death than to be publicly shamed. And so he followed every rule, excelled at every undertaking, and tolerated nothing less than complete compliance from those beneath him—whether prisoner or family member. It was a lifestyle that had served him well so far, and he saw no reason to change it. Compromise was simply not an option. If anyone under his authority failed to grasp that fact, he would do whatever was necessary to re-educate them.
The prisoner named Yang Zhen-Li seemed poised to become his next student. He had heard that despite their efforts to punish her crimes and correct her thinking, she continued to pray and to speak of Yesu to any who would listen, including the prisoner who had told Tong of Zhen-Li's indiscretion. As a result, Tong would watch Yang Zhen-Li more closely than the others. If the report was true, she would pay dearly.
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Street Team Book List excerpt - Surrender the Heart by MaryLu Tyndall
Today's Wild Card author is:
MaryLu Tyndall
Relive the rich history of the War of 1812 through the eyes of Marianne Denton and Noah Brenin, who both long to please their families but neither one wishes to marry the other. Noah is determined to get his cargo to England before war breaks out, and Marianne is equally determined to have a wedding so that her inheritance can be unlocked and her destitute family saved. When their stubborn games get them captured by a British warship, can they escape and bring liberty to their country—and growing love?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King's Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats. Her passion is to write page-turning, romantic adventures that not only entertain but expose Christians to their full potential in Christ. For more information on MaryLu and her upcoming releases, please visit her website or her blog.
Visit the author's website.
Visit the author's blog.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (August 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602601658
ISBN-13: 978-1602601659
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
June 18, 1812, Baltimore, Maryland
"I would rather boil in oil than marry Noah Brenin." Marianne tossed the silver brooch onto her vanity.
"Hold your breath and stay still." Rose said from behind her. "Besides, it is only an engagement party, not a wedding."
"But it is one more step to that horrid destination." Marianne sucked in her breath as Rose threaded the laces through the eyelets on her stays. "Why must women wear these contraptions?"
"To look our best for the gentlemen in our lives." Cassandra appeared on Marianne's left, a lacy petticoat flung over one arm. With shimmering auburn hair and eyes the color of emeralds, Cassandra had no trouble looking her best for anyone.
Marianne huffed. "I have no care what any gentleman thinks of my appearance."
"Which is why you are still unmarried at five and twenty."
"Then what is your excuse at three and twenty?" Marianne arched a brow, to which Cassandra responded with a shrug. "I have not yet met a man worthy of me." She grinned.
"Where on earth is your chambermaid?" Rose grunted as she squeezed Marianne's rounded figure into the stays and tied the final lace tight. "Shouldn't she be doing this?"
"I dismissed her." Marianne waved a hand through the air. "I prefer to dress myself." She hoped they didn't hear the slight quaver in her voice. If only they knew that her mother had been forced to let the entire staff go and the ones here today were hired just for her betrothal party.
"There." Rose finished her work and stepped back as Marianne took the petticoat from Cassandra and slipped it over her head.
"Truth is, I do not wish to marry—ever." Marianne squared her shoulders as Cassandra slid behind her and latched the petticoat hooks.
Rose put her hands on her waist. "Noah Brenin is a fine man and a good catch."
Marianne gazed at her friend and couldn't help but smile at the motherly reprimand burning in her crystal blue eyes. Tall and slender, with honey blond hair, Rose turned many a head in Baltimore. Just like Cassandra.
But not like Marianne.
"He is a boor."
"Why so low an opinion of him? Haven't you and he been friends since childhood?" Rose cocked her head and gave Marianne a look of censure.
"I wouldn't call it friendship, more like forced acquaintance. And my knowledge of him is precisely why I know him for the churlish clod he is."
Gathering a cream-colored silk-embroidered gown from Marianne's bed, Rose and Cassandra tossed it over her head and assisted her as she wiggled into it. She adjusted the ruffled lace bordering her neckline and circling her puffy sleeves. Cassandra handed her a jeweled belt which Marianne strapped around her high waist and buckled in front. She pressed down the folds of her gown, admiring the pink lace trailing down the front and trimming the hemline. After slipping on her white satin slippers, Marianne moved to the full length looking glass and paused to eye her reflection.
Plain. Despite the shimmering, glamorous dress, plain was the first word that came to her mind. Perhaps because that was how she had always been described. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, a bit plump. Nothing remarkable, nothing to catch an eye.
Simply plain.
Which was precisely why, when the other girls her age were being courted, Marianne had preferred to spend her time caring for her ailing mother and younger sister, particularly after their father died. No whirlwind romances, no soirees, no grand adventures lit up the horizon for her. She had resigned herself to lead an ordinary life. An ordinary life for an ordinary girl.
"Come now, it won't be so bad." Rose brushed a lock of hair from Marianne's forehead and then straightened one of the curls dangling about her neck. "You look as though you were attending your own funeral."
"I dare say I feel as though I am." Tired of staring into the mirror with the hope her reflection would transform into that of a beautiful woman, Marianne turned aside, picked up her silk gloves from the vanity and sauntered toward the window.
"I, for one, cannot wait to get married," Rose said. "To the right man of course. He must be a good, honest, god-fearing man. A man who stays home, not a seaman. And he must be agreeable in all respects."
"What about handsome?" Cassandra asked, and Marianne turned to see a blush creep up Rose's neck.
"Well, yes, I suppose I would not be opposed to that." Her blue eyes twinkled.
Facing the window, Marianne slid the white gloves onto her hands and tugged them up her arms. Shouts echoed from the street below, accompanied by the clip clop of horse hooves and the grating of carriage wheels. She brushed aside the curtain to see people running to and fro darting between carriages. A warm breeze, heavy with moisture and the smells of the sea, stirred the curtains. A bell rang in the distance, drawing Marianne's attention to the maze of ship's masts thrusting into the blue sky like iron bars of a prison. A prison that could not constrain the ravenous blue waters from feeding upon the innocent—an innocent like her father.
Rose and Cassandra joined her at the window as more shouts blasted in with the wind. "What is all the commotion about?" Cassandra pushed back the other side of the curtains.
"There have been rumors that President Madison will soon declare war on Britain," Marianne said.
"I hope it doesn't come to that." Rose peered over Marianne's shoulder. "War is such horrid business."
"But necessary if the British insist on stealing our men from land and sea and impressing them into their Navy." Marianne felt her ire rising. "Not to mention how they rouse the Indians to attack us on the frontier."
"They want their colonies back, I suppose." Afternoon sunlight set Cassandra's red hair aflame in ribbons of liquid fire. "England never was good at losing."
"Well they can't have them." Marianne's voice rose with a determination she felt building within. Though she'd been born after the Revolution, she had heard the stories of oppression and tyranny enforced upon them by a nation across the seas whose king thought he had the right to dictate laws and taxes without giving the people a voice. But no more. "We won our freedom from them. We are a nation now. A new nation that represents liberty to the entire world."
"I couldn't agree more." Cassandra nodded with a smile. "Perhaps you should run for mayor?"
"A woman in public office?" Marianne chuckled. "That will never happen."
The door creaked open, and Marianne turned to see her mother and younger sister slip inside.
Lizzie's eyes widened and she rushed toward Marianne. "You look so beautiful, Marianne!"
Kneeling, Marianne embraced her sister. She held her tight and took a big whiff of the lavender soap with which their mother always scrubbed the little girl. "Thank you, Lizzie. I can always count on you for a compliment."
"Now, Lizzie, don't wrinkle your sister's dress." Marianne's mother sank into one of the chairs by the fireplace and winced. The slight reminder of her mother's pain caused Marianne's heart to shrink. She squeezed her little sister again—the one beacon of joy in their house these past three years since Father died—and kissed her on the cheek. "You look very beautiful too."
The little girl clutched her skirt and twirled around. "Do you really think so?" She drew her lips into a pout. "But when can I wear a dress like yours?"
"Come now, Lizzie," Mother said. "You are only six. When you are a grown woman like Marianne, you may wear more elaborate gowns." She gestured toward Rose and Cassandra. "Ladies, would you take Lizzie downstairs for a moment? I need a word with Marianne."
"Of course, Mrs. Denton." Rose took Lizzie's hand. "Come along little one."
Cassandra followed after them and closed the door.
Marianne sat in the chair beside her mother and gently grasped her hands. She flinched at how cold and moist they were. "How are you feeling, Mama?"
"Very well today, dear." She looked down as if hiding something..
But Marianne didn't need to look in her mother's eyes to know she was lying. The sprinkles of perspiration on her forehead, the paleness of her skin, and the tightening of her lips when the pains hit spoke more clearly than any words.
Marianne squeezed her mother's hands. "The medicaments are not working?"
"They will work. It takes time." Her mother attempted a smile. "But let us not talk of that now. I have something more important to discuss with you." She released a heavy sigh then lifted her gaze to Marianne's. Though illness had stolen the glimmer from her eyes, it could not hide the sweet kindness of her soul. "You don't have to do this, you know."
The truth of her words sliced through Marianne. She stared at the floral pattern woven into the carpet. "You know I do."
"It isn't fair of me to ask this of you." Her mother's voice rang with conviction and deep sorrow.
"You didn't ask, Mama. I want to do this." A truth followed by a lie. Marianne hoped the good canceled out the bad.
"Come now. You cannot fool me." Mama said. "I know this is not the match you would choose."
Releasing her mother's hands, Marianne rose from the chair and sauntered toward the window. The rustle of her gown crackled through the air with conviction. "In truth, I would choose no match." She turned and forced a smile. "So if I must marry, why not this man?"
Her mother gazed at her with such love and sorrow that Marianne felt her heart would burst. Once considered the most beautiful woman in Baltimore, Jane Denton, now withered away with the sickness that robbed her of her glow and luster and stole the fat from her bones, leaving her but a frail skeleton of what she once had been. The physicians had no idea what ailed her save that without the medicaments they administered, she would die a quicker and more painful death.
Tearing her gaze from the tragic vision, Marianne glanced out the window where it seemed as though the approaching evening only heightened the citizens' agitation. "Marrying Noah Brenin will save us. It will save you."
"But what of saving you?" Her mother's sweet plea caressed Marianne's ears, but she forced down the spark of hope that dared to rise at her mother's question. There was no room for hope now, only necessity.
"You know if we continue as is, all that is left of our fortune will be spent in one year on your medicaments. Then what will we do? Without my dowry, no man will look my way, since that and our good name is all that has caught this particular fish upon the hook." And without a husband to unlock her inheritance, her father had ensured that the seven thousand dollars would remain as far from her reach as if she did not own it at all.
"Perhaps you will meet another man—someone you love?" Her mother said.
"Mama, I am five and twenty." Marianne turned and waved her hands over herself. "And plain to look at." She gave a bitter laugh. "Do you see suitors lining up at our door?"
"You are too beautiful for words, dearest." Her mother's eyes beamed in adoration. "You just don't know it yet."
Shrugging off her mother's compliment as the obligation of a parent, Marianne stiffened her back before she attempted to rekindle an argument long since put to death. "We could take what's left of our money and fund a privateer, Mama." Marianne glanced out the window at a mob that had formed down the street. "War is certain and our fledgling navy will need all the help it can get."
Her mother's nervous huff drew Marianne's gaze. "It is far too much of a gamble. And gambling destroys lives"—a glaze covered her mother's eyes as she stared into the room—"and families."
Marianne grimaced. "I am not like Papa. I have heard these privateers can make a fortune while helping to defend our country."
A breeze stirred a curled wisp of her mother's hair as she gazed at Marianne with concern.
Marianne twisted the ring on her finger. "Down at the docks, merchantmen are already outfitted their ships as privateers. The call for investors goes out daily." If only she could convince her mother, not only would Marianne not have to marry that clod, Noah, but she could do something to help this great nation of hers.
Her mother's boney hands perched in her lap began to tremble. "We could lose everything. And what of Lizzie? I could not bare it."
Shame drummed upon Marianne's hopes. She had upset her mother when the doctor strictly instructed her to keep her calm.
"Perhaps a trade of some sort?" Mama offered. "I hear that Mrs. Pickersgill makes a decent living sewing ensigns."
A blast of warm wind stirred the gauzy curtains and cooled the perspiration forming on Marianne's neck. "Mama you know I have no skills. I'm not like other ladies. The last gown I attempted to sew fell apart. My cooking would drive the hardiest frontiersman back to the woods, and the pianoforte runs when it sees me coming."
Mother chuckled. "You exaggerate, dearest."
But Marianne could tell by the look in her mother's eyes that despite the humorous delivery, her words rang true. Though a governess in her younger years and her mother in her later years had strived to teach Marianne the skills every proper lady should acquire, she had found them nothing but tedious. She possessed no useful skills, no talents. As her father had so often declared before his death. In essence, Marianne had nothing to offer. If her mother would not agree to fund a privateer, Marianne would have to accept her fate in marriage.
"I'm an old woman and will die soon anyway," Mama said with a sigh. "But I must ensure you and Lizzie are cared for."
Gathering her skirts, Marianne dashed toward her mother and knelt at her feet. "You must never say such a thing."
"Do not soil your beautiful gown." Her mother smiled and wiped a tear from Marianne's cheek. "Perhaps we should simply trust God with my health and let His will prevail."
Marianne laid her head on her mother's lap like she used to do as a child. She had trusted her father, she had trusted God.
And they had both let her down—her and her mother.
Trust no longer came so easily. "I will not let you die, Mother. I cannot." Her eyes burned with tears. "As long as I have my inheritance and a man who is willing to marry me, I promise you will be well cared for. And Lizzie too. That is all that matters, now." Marianne lifted her gaze to her mother's, feeling strength surge through her.
"And mark my words, Mama. Nothing will stand in my way. Especially not Noah Brenin."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
MaryLu Tyndall
and the book:
Barbour Books (August 1, 2010)
Relive the rich history of the War of 1812 through the eyes of Marianne Denton and Noah Brenin, who both long to please their families but neither one wishes to marry the other. Noah is determined to get his cargo to England before war breaks out, and Marianne is equally determined to have a wedding so that her inheritance can be unlocked and her destitute family saved. When their stubborn games get them captured by a British warship, can they escape and bring liberty to their country—and growing love?ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King's Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats. Her passion is to write page-turning, romantic adventures that not only entertain but expose Christians to their full potential in Christ. For more information on MaryLu and her upcoming releases, please visit her website or her blog.Visit the author's website.
Visit the author's blog.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (August 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602601658
ISBN-13: 978-1602601659
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
June 18, 1812, Baltimore, Maryland
"I would rather boil in oil than marry Noah Brenin." Marianne tossed the silver brooch onto her vanity.
"Hold your breath and stay still." Rose said from behind her. "Besides, it is only an engagement party, not a wedding."
"But it is one more step to that horrid destination." Marianne sucked in her breath as Rose threaded the laces through the eyelets on her stays. "Why must women wear these contraptions?"
"To look our best for the gentlemen in our lives." Cassandra appeared on Marianne's left, a lacy petticoat flung over one arm. With shimmering auburn hair and eyes the color of emeralds, Cassandra had no trouble looking her best for anyone.
Marianne huffed. "I have no care what any gentleman thinks of my appearance."
"Which is why you are still unmarried at five and twenty."
"Then what is your excuse at three and twenty?" Marianne arched a brow, to which Cassandra responded with a shrug. "I have not yet met a man worthy of me." She grinned.
"Where on earth is your chambermaid?" Rose grunted as she squeezed Marianne's rounded figure into the stays and tied the final lace tight. "Shouldn't she be doing this?"
"I dismissed her." Marianne waved a hand through the air. "I prefer to dress myself." She hoped they didn't hear the slight quaver in her voice. If only they knew that her mother had been forced to let the entire staff go and the ones here today were hired just for her betrothal party.
"There." Rose finished her work and stepped back as Marianne took the petticoat from Cassandra and slipped it over her head.
"Truth is, I do not wish to marry—ever." Marianne squared her shoulders as Cassandra slid behind her and latched the petticoat hooks.
Rose put her hands on her waist. "Noah Brenin is a fine man and a good catch."
Marianne gazed at her friend and couldn't help but smile at the motherly reprimand burning in her crystal blue eyes. Tall and slender, with honey blond hair, Rose turned many a head in Baltimore. Just like Cassandra.
But not like Marianne.
"He is a boor."
"Why so low an opinion of him? Haven't you and he been friends since childhood?" Rose cocked her head and gave Marianne a look of censure.
"I wouldn't call it friendship, more like forced acquaintance. And my knowledge of him is precisely why I know him for the churlish clod he is."
Gathering a cream-colored silk-embroidered gown from Marianne's bed, Rose and Cassandra tossed it over her head and assisted her as she wiggled into it. She adjusted the ruffled lace bordering her neckline and circling her puffy sleeves. Cassandra handed her a jeweled belt which Marianne strapped around her high waist and buckled in front. She pressed down the folds of her gown, admiring the pink lace trailing down the front and trimming the hemline. After slipping on her white satin slippers, Marianne moved to the full length looking glass and paused to eye her reflection.
Plain. Despite the shimmering, glamorous dress, plain was the first word that came to her mind. Perhaps because that was how she had always been described. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, a bit plump. Nothing remarkable, nothing to catch an eye.
Simply plain.
Which was precisely why, when the other girls her age were being courted, Marianne had preferred to spend her time caring for her ailing mother and younger sister, particularly after their father died. No whirlwind romances, no soirees, no grand adventures lit up the horizon for her. She had resigned herself to lead an ordinary life. An ordinary life for an ordinary girl.
"Come now, it won't be so bad." Rose brushed a lock of hair from Marianne's forehead and then straightened one of the curls dangling about her neck. "You look as though you were attending your own funeral."
"I dare say I feel as though I am." Tired of staring into the mirror with the hope her reflection would transform into that of a beautiful woman, Marianne turned aside, picked up her silk gloves from the vanity and sauntered toward the window.
"I, for one, cannot wait to get married," Rose said. "To the right man of course. He must be a good, honest, god-fearing man. A man who stays home, not a seaman. And he must be agreeable in all respects."
"What about handsome?" Cassandra asked, and Marianne turned to see a blush creep up Rose's neck.
"Well, yes, I suppose I would not be opposed to that." Her blue eyes twinkled.
Facing the window, Marianne slid the white gloves onto her hands and tugged them up her arms. Shouts echoed from the street below, accompanied by the clip clop of horse hooves and the grating of carriage wheels. She brushed aside the curtain to see people running to and fro darting between carriages. A warm breeze, heavy with moisture and the smells of the sea, stirred the curtains. A bell rang in the distance, drawing Marianne's attention to the maze of ship's masts thrusting into the blue sky like iron bars of a prison. A prison that could not constrain the ravenous blue waters from feeding upon the innocent—an innocent like her father.
Rose and Cassandra joined her at the window as more shouts blasted in with the wind. "What is all the commotion about?" Cassandra pushed back the other side of the curtains.
"There have been rumors that President Madison will soon declare war on Britain," Marianne said.
"I hope it doesn't come to that." Rose peered over Marianne's shoulder. "War is such horrid business."
"But necessary if the British insist on stealing our men from land and sea and impressing them into their Navy." Marianne felt her ire rising. "Not to mention how they rouse the Indians to attack us on the frontier."
"They want their colonies back, I suppose." Afternoon sunlight set Cassandra's red hair aflame in ribbons of liquid fire. "England never was good at losing."
"Well they can't have them." Marianne's voice rose with a determination she felt building within. Though she'd been born after the Revolution, she had heard the stories of oppression and tyranny enforced upon them by a nation across the seas whose king thought he had the right to dictate laws and taxes without giving the people a voice. But no more. "We won our freedom from them. We are a nation now. A new nation that represents liberty to the entire world."
"I couldn't agree more." Cassandra nodded with a smile. "Perhaps you should run for mayor?"
"A woman in public office?" Marianne chuckled. "That will never happen."
The door creaked open, and Marianne turned to see her mother and younger sister slip inside.
Lizzie's eyes widened and she rushed toward Marianne. "You look so beautiful, Marianne!"
Kneeling, Marianne embraced her sister. She held her tight and took a big whiff of the lavender soap with which their mother always scrubbed the little girl. "Thank you, Lizzie. I can always count on you for a compliment."
"Now, Lizzie, don't wrinkle your sister's dress." Marianne's mother sank into one of the chairs by the fireplace and winced. The slight reminder of her mother's pain caused Marianne's heart to shrink. She squeezed her little sister again—the one beacon of joy in their house these past three years since Father died—and kissed her on the cheek. "You look very beautiful too."
The little girl clutched her skirt and twirled around. "Do you really think so?" She drew her lips into a pout. "But when can I wear a dress like yours?"
"Come now, Lizzie," Mother said. "You are only six. When you are a grown woman like Marianne, you may wear more elaborate gowns." She gestured toward Rose and Cassandra. "Ladies, would you take Lizzie downstairs for a moment? I need a word with Marianne."
"Of course, Mrs. Denton." Rose took Lizzie's hand. "Come along little one."
Cassandra followed after them and closed the door.
Marianne sat in the chair beside her mother and gently grasped her hands. She flinched at how cold and moist they were. "How are you feeling, Mama?"
"Very well today, dear." She looked down as if hiding something..
But Marianne didn't need to look in her mother's eyes to know she was lying. The sprinkles of perspiration on her forehead, the paleness of her skin, and the tightening of her lips when the pains hit spoke more clearly than any words.
Marianne squeezed her mother's hands. "The medicaments are not working?"
"They will work. It takes time." Her mother attempted a smile. "But let us not talk of that now. I have something more important to discuss with you." She released a heavy sigh then lifted her gaze to Marianne's. Though illness had stolen the glimmer from her eyes, it could not hide the sweet kindness of her soul. "You don't have to do this, you know."
The truth of her words sliced through Marianne. She stared at the floral pattern woven into the carpet. "You know I do."
"It isn't fair of me to ask this of you." Her mother's voice rang with conviction and deep sorrow.
"You didn't ask, Mama. I want to do this." A truth followed by a lie. Marianne hoped the good canceled out the bad.
"Come now. You cannot fool me." Mama said. "I know this is not the match you would choose."
Releasing her mother's hands, Marianne rose from the chair and sauntered toward the window. The rustle of her gown crackled through the air with conviction. "In truth, I would choose no match." She turned and forced a smile. "So if I must marry, why not this man?"
Her mother gazed at her with such love and sorrow that Marianne felt her heart would burst. Once considered the most beautiful woman in Baltimore, Jane Denton, now withered away with the sickness that robbed her of her glow and luster and stole the fat from her bones, leaving her but a frail skeleton of what she once had been. The physicians had no idea what ailed her save that without the medicaments they administered, she would die a quicker and more painful death.
Tearing her gaze from the tragic vision, Marianne glanced out the window where it seemed as though the approaching evening only heightened the citizens' agitation. "Marrying Noah Brenin will save us. It will save you."
"But what of saving you?" Her mother's sweet plea caressed Marianne's ears, but she forced down the spark of hope that dared to rise at her mother's question. There was no room for hope now, only necessity.
"You know if we continue as is, all that is left of our fortune will be spent in one year on your medicaments. Then what will we do? Without my dowry, no man will look my way, since that and our good name is all that has caught this particular fish upon the hook." And without a husband to unlock her inheritance, her father had ensured that the seven thousand dollars would remain as far from her reach as if she did not own it at all.
"Perhaps you will meet another man—someone you love?" Her mother said.
"Mama, I am five and twenty." Marianne turned and waved her hands over herself. "And plain to look at." She gave a bitter laugh. "Do you see suitors lining up at our door?"
"You are too beautiful for words, dearest." Her mother's eyes beamed in adoration. "You just don't know it yet."
Shrugging off her mother's compliment as the obligation of a parent, Marianne stiffened her back before she attempted to rekindle an argument long since put to death. "We could take what's left of our money and fund a privateer, Mama." Marianne glanced out the window at a mob that had formed down the street. "War is certain and our fledgling navy will need all the help it can get."
Her mother's nervous huff drew Marianne's gaze. "It is far too much of a gamble. And gambling destroys lives"—a glaze covered her mother's eyes as she stared into the room—"and families."
Marianne grimaced. "I am not like Papa. I have heard these privateers can make a fortune while helping to defend our country."
A breeze stirred a curled wisp of her mother's hair as she gazed at Marianne with concern.
Marianne twisted the ring on her finger. "Down at the docks, merchantmen are already outfitted their ships as privateers. The call for investors goes out daily." If only she could convince her mother, not only would Marianne not have to marry that clod, Noah, but she could do something to help this great nation of hers.
Her mother's boney hands perched in her lap began to tremble. "We could lose everything. And what of Lizzie? I could not bare it."
Shame drummed upon Marianne's hopes. She had upset her mother when the doctor strictly instructed her to keep her calm.
"Perhaps a trade of some sort?" Mama offered. "I hear that Mrs. Pickersgill makes a decent living sewing ensigns."
A blast of warm wind stirred the gauzy curtains and cooled the perspiration forming on Marianne's neck. "Mama you know I have no skills. I'm not like other ladies. The last gown I attempted to sew fell apart. My cooking would drive the hardiest frontiersman back to the woods, and the pianoforte runs when it sees me coming."
Mother chuckled. "You exaggerate, dearest."
But Marianne could tell by the look in her mother's eyes that despite the humorous delivery, her words rang true. Though a governess in her younger years and her mother in her later years had strived to teach Marianne the skills every proper lady should acquire, she had found them nothing but tedious. She possessed no useful skills, no talents. As her father had so often declared before his death. In essence, Marianne had nothing to offer. If her mother would not agree to fund a privateer, Marianne would have to accept her fate in marriage.
"I'm an old woman and will die soon anyway," Mama said with a sigh. "But I must ensure you and Lizzie are cared for."
Gathering her skirts, Marianne dashed toward her mother and knelt at her feet. "You must never say such a thing."
"Do not soil your beautiful gown." Her mother smiled and wiped a tear from Marianne's cheek. "Perhaps we should simply trust God with my health and let His will prevail."
Marianne laid her head on her mother's lap like she used to do as a child. She had trusted her father, she had trusted God.
And they had both let her down—her and her mother.
Trust no longer came so easily. "I will not let you die, Mother. I cannot." Her eyes burned with tears. "As long as I have my inheritance and a man who is willing to marry me, I promise you will be well cared for. And Lizzie too. That is all that matters, now." Marianne lifted her gaze to her mother's, feeling strength surge through her.
"And mark my words, Mama. Nothing will stand in my way. Especially not Noah Brenin."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Street Team giveaway - Stephanie's scarf!
Congratulations to the winners of copies of Formula for Danger:
Marguerite A.
Sandi A.
Suzanne A.
Nancye D.
Rachel H.
Holly O.
Kimberly T.
Angela W.
Deborah W.
Catherine Y.
(I've already emailed you guys so check your Inboxes!)
If you're not a Street Team member, join today! It's free, and you only have to pass out bookmarks. You get to pick FREE books from a ginormous list for every 80 bookmarks you give away. Just for joining, you get a free ribbon bookmark that my Mom made. Click here for more information.
Current Street Team members:
I'm still giving away lots of prizes to celebrate the release of Formula for Danger! Ongoing contests are:
Three free books for every batch of bookmarks you give away
A drawing for 12 winners of a cabernet sauvignon grape goat's milk soap + a free book
A drawing for a Christmas wall hanging made by my mom
And here's another giveaway for you guys:
Those of you who have read Formula for Danger remember Stephanie, the heroine's lab assistant, right? Stephanie has a fuzzy light blue scarf mentioned in the book (page 92).
Well, I have knitted Stephanie's scarf and now I'm offering it in a drawing for my Street Team members!
In addition to the scarf, you also get to pick a free book from my Street Team book list!
This is a light, luscious scarf in a diagonal lace pattern with garter stitch borders. The yarn is Patons Divine in a pretty Halo Blue color, a light blue that reminds me of paintings of angels. :)
If you are allergic to wool and/or mohair, please be aware that the yarn is 76.5% Acrylic - 10.5% Wool - 10.5% Mohair - 2.5% Polyester.
Care: Hand wash (just swish it in a sink with some shampoo--you can even take it in the shower with you if you're feeling extra lazy) and either lay flat to dry or hang to dry. Do not wash in the washing machine or dryer.
How to enter:
Either email me or Facebook me or leave a comment on this blog post about a person or place or event you left a Formula for Danger bookmark! Easy peasy!
Every Formula for Danger bookmark you give away and tell me about is one entry into the drawing for the scarf and free book!
Formula for Danger bookmarks: Some giveaways will require you to give away my Formula for Danger bookmark, so if you haven't given away your first 80 and don't have Formula for Danger bookmarks, either give away your bookmarks quick or email me and I can send you a few (although not as many as I would if you gave away your first 80 bookmarks).
Marguerite A.
Sandi A.
Suzanne A.
Nancye D.
Rachel H.
Holly O.
Kimberly T.
Angela W.
Deborah W.
Catherine Y.
(I've already emailed you guys so check your Inboxes!)
If you're not a Street Team member, join today! It's free, and you only have to pass out bookmarks. You get to pick FREE books from a ginormous list for every 80 bookmarks you give away. Just for joining, you get a free ribbon bookmark that my Mom made. Click here for more information.
Current Street Team members:
I'm still giving away lots of prizes to celebrate the release of Formula for Danger! Ongoing contests are:
Three free books for every batch of bookmarks you give away
A drawing for 12 winners of a cabernet sauvignon grape goat's milk soap + a free book
A drawing for a Christmas wall hanging made by my mom
And here's another giveaway for you guys:Those of you who have read Formula for Danger remember Stephanie, the heroine's lab assistant, right? Stephanie has a fuzzy light blue scarf mentioned in the book (page 92).
Well, I have knitted Stephanie's scarf and now I'm offering it in a drawing for my Street Team members!
In addition to the scarf, you also get to pick a free book from my Street Team book list!
This is a light, luscious scarf in a diagonal lace pattern with garter stitch borders. The yarn is Patons Divine in a pretty Halo Blue color, a light blue that reminds me of paintings of angels. :)
If you are allergic to wool and/or mohair, please be aware that the yarn is 76.5% Acrylic - 10.5% Wool - 10.5% Mohair - 2.5% Polyester.
Care: Hand wash (just swish it in a sink with some shampoo--you can even take it in the shower with you if you're feeling extra lazy) and either lay flat to dry or hang to dry. Do not wash in the washing machine or dryer.
How to enter:Either email me or Facebook me or leave a comment on this blog post about a person or place or event you left a Formula for Danger bookmark! Easy peasy!
Every Formula for Danger bookmark you give away and tell me about is one entry into the drawing for the scarf and free book!Formula for Danger bookmarks: Some giveaways will require you to give away my Formula for Danger bookmark, so if you haven't given away your first 80 and don't have Formula for Danger bookmarks, either give away your bookmarks quick or email me and I can send you a few (although not as many as I would if you gave away your first 80 bookmarks).
October 1, 2010
Street Team book list excerpt - The Mayan Apocalypse by Mark Hitchcock and Alton Gansky
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
The Mayan Apocalypse Harvest House Publishers(September 1, 2010)
by Mark Hitchcock & Alton Gansky
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Mark Hitchcock is the author of more than 17 books related to end-time Bible prophecy, including the bestselling 2012, the Bible, and the End of the World. He earned a ThM and PhD from Dallas Theological Seminary and is the senior pastor of Faith Bible Church in Edmond, Oklahoma. He has worked as an adjunct professor at DTS and has served as a contributing editor for the Left Behind Prophecy Club for five years.
Alton Gansky is the author of 30 books—24 of them novels, including the Angel Award winner Terminal Justice and Christie Award finalist A Ship Possessed. A frequent speaker at writing conferences, he holds BA and MA degrees in biblical studies. Alton and his wife reside in Southern California.
ABOUT THE BOOK
On the heels of Mark Hitchcock's prophecy bestseller 2012, the Bible, and the End of the World comes a suspenseful novel (coauthored with bestselling novelist Alton Gansky) about the supposed expiration date of planet earth—December 21, 2012.
Andrew Morgan is a wealthy oil executive in search of the meaning of life. In his quest for answers he encounters the ancient Mayan predictions that the world will end in 2012. That the claims seem supported by math and astronomy drives him to check on them. Then he meets Lisa Campbell, an attractive Christian journalist also researching the Mayan calendar. When he learns that she is a Christian, he quickly dismisses what she has to say.
As the time draws closer to December 21, 2012, a meteorite impact in Arizona, a volcanic eruption, and the threat of an asteroid on a collision-course with earth escalate fears. Are these indicators of a global apocalypse? Will anyone survive? Does Lisa's Christian faith have the answers after all? Or has fate destined everyone to a holocaust from which there is no escape?
Watch the book trailer:
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
JULY 8, 2011
Andrew Morgan was pretty sure he was still on Earth, although the
number of extraterrestrials surrounding him made him wonder. To his left
was a six-foot-tall gray alien with bulbous black eyes that reflected
the glare of streetlights overhead. As an alien, he would have been more
believable if he weren't handing out fliers for a barbeque joint two
blocks down the main drag. And the woman with green skin, an extra eye
glued to her forehead, and a pair of wire antennae sprouting from her
coal-black hair would have been more convincing if she weren't wearing a
worn pair of New Balance sports shoes.
Morgan had expected to see people dressed in homemade costumes wandering
the streets of Roswell, New Mexico. He had done his homework, and like
everyone in the United States, he knew about the 1947 alleged UFO crash
in the nearby desert and the ensuing cover-up.
Entertaining as the tourists were, and fascinating as Roswell's history
was, Andrew didn't care. He wasn't there for aliens or crashed UFOs. He
cared nothing for such nonsense. His mission was serious. He had come
because the end of the world was less than a year and a half away. Then
the world would change for him and a few billion others.
December 21, 2012, or 12-21-12, would arrive, and everything would be different—assuming anyone survived.
Sixty-three years earlier, a flying saucer supposedly crashed
seventy-five miles outside of town—all UFO aficionados knew the crash
was closer to Corona, New Mexico. Roswell, however, got all the credit.
Over the last two decades, the city of less than 50,000 had become Mecca
to every kind of oddness, cult group, and paranormal adherent.
Morgan had been to the town before, but never during the annual UFO
festival. Watching the costumed tourists crowding normally quiet streets
made Morgan shake his head. Roswell could well be remembered for many
things. Rocket pioneers did much of their work here. Former Dallas
Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach played football at New Mexico
Military Institute. Demi Moore, John Denver, and other famous people
were born in Roswell. Does anyone remember that? Nope.
Morgan was a man of science as well as business. Being CEO and president
of Morgan Natural Energy made him wealthy and able to pursue his
passions, a passion that narrowed from a spotlight to a laser beam. He
enjoyed mysteries, and he had done his share of investigation in UFOs,
cryptozoology, and other fringe subjects. He didn't believe the stories,
but he did find them entertaining. That was before he learned the world
was coming to an end. Such truth tended to push other thoughts from the
mind. He had many thoughts he wanted pushed away.
Struggling to move through the crowds, Morgan pressed forward like a
salmon swimming upstream. He reminded himself to be patient and enjoy
the ambience. He was a man on a mission.
Five blocks from the parking lot where he left his Beemer, Morgan
arrived at a movie theater built in the early sixties. This week, Morgan
imagined, the owners were making far more money renting the facility to
groups bringing in experts from the far regions of the world (and of
reason). One, however, was different.
Morgan was here to see Robert Quetzal, the last Mayan priest.
###
Marcus McCue was a drunk, but he was a dedicated drunk. He took to
drinking like Mozart took to music—like Michelangelo took to canvas and
marble. Rare was the man who understood his skills and his limitations
like Marcus understood his. Marcus had many limitations but only one
skill: He could hold his liquor, at least most nights.
It was still early in the evening when Marcus pushed open the marred
blue door leading from the Tavern on the Green bar and into the Arizona
evening. The door was the only thing in Tacna, Arizona, that bore more
scars than he.
Marcus glanced at the bar's sign: TAVERN ON THE GREEN. The name always
amused him. There was nothing green around the bar, and aside from the
occasional lawn in front of some home, there was no green in Tacna: just
sandy dirt, pitiful-looking desert plants, dust roads, sidewalks, and
tumbleweeds.
Overhead, a bejeweled, cloudless sky returned his gaze. This part of
town had few streetlights, allowing the stars to shine without
interference. The only art Marcus could appreciate was that created by
the constellations.
As a boy, he spent many of his evenings staring through a telescope at
the twinkles in the sky. The small refractor lacked enough power to
render the rings of Saturn, but that didn't matter. Marcus's imagination
filled in what was missing. The warmth of memory rose in him, and he
smiled at the moon. Good times. Good times until the old man got home.
Marcus's father had also been a dedicated drunk. Marcus came by it
honestly. He started drinking when he was thirteen, following an
especially severe beating from his dad. At first, he would sneak sips
from his old man's stock, but Marcus Sr. would catch him, and he would
communicate his displeasure with his fists.
His mother, a saint with graying red hair, begged him to stay away from
booze. He promised to do so. That was when he became a dedicated liar.
She left six months later, and he never heard from her again. His father
said she died in Phoenix. He had no idea if that was true. Forty years
later, he wasn't sure he cared.
His gaze drifted across the street to the auto repair shop he inherited
from his father. He hated that shop. He hated its origins. It smelled of
his father. Still, it provided enough income to pay for his mobile
home, frozen dinners, and Jim Beam. He worked during the day, just as
his father had, in a slight fog and with a persistent buzz. He had been
staining his hands with grease since he was sixteen.
"Too many years," he told the night.
He felt depression coming on. He scolded himself for the thought. Of
course he was depressed. He'd been depressed since his eighth birthday
when he realized his family was nothing but trash. Drinking a depressant
didn't help.
"You ain't so bad." This time he mumbled to himself. "You kicked drugs,
and you didn't bring any kids into the world that might turn out like
you. Nope, you ain't so bad. Just two more battles to win."
The first battle was his chain smoking. Marcus had quit smoking many
times. He was quitting again, just as soon as he finished this last pack
of Marlboros. Maybe after he finished the carton. The last battle would
be the booze, but there was no sense taking on too much at one time. He
had time. He had nothing but time.
He pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept in the front pocket of his
stained overalls and placed the filtered end in his mouth, and then he
drew a lighter from another pocket and flicked on the flame.
The glow seemed brighter in the dim light. He squinted, blocking out the glare and the twisting smoke of tobacco.
He released the lighter's starter, but the glare remained. Odd.
A distant glow in the sky captured his attention. A falling star? No. He
took a drag on the cigarette then pulled it away from his lips, his
eyes frozen on the greenish light hanging in the sky.
"Nova. That's gotta be it."
Marcus thought he heard a distant roar. That's when he realized the spot of light was moving—and growing.
"It can't be."
Over the years, Marcus had seen meteors streak the sky. It was one of
the few benefits of living in a town that was little more than a wide
spot on the road. The kind of place people passed but never visited.
He had only been drinking for a few hours, so most of his brain cells had yet to be pickled for the night. There should be a tail. Where's the tail?
As if on cue, a short green and white tail appeared. So did fiery globs
that dropped from the moving object and trailed behind it, creating
their own tails.
Should be longer. Tail's too short.
A boom rolled along the desert as the object broke the sound barrier.
Yup. Tail should…be…longer.
A frightening realization wormed through the alcohol-induced haze: The
tail wasn't too short—Marcus couldn't see it because the object was
coming right at him.
Nah. Can't be.
A second later, he changed his mind.
"Boys. Boys! You gotta see this." A voice in the back of his mind tried
to remind him that no one in the bar could hear him over the raging
country music and loud conversation.
Another boom. This one rattled the bar's blackened windows and the blue
door. The light had grown from distant star to plummeting fireball.
Smaller pieces rained from the main body.
"Hey, Marc, what'd ya do? Bump into the building?" It was Gary's voice, a
trucker who broke up his routine drive with two beers every night. Not
even Marcus was that stupid. "If you can't stand on your own two
feet…What is that?"
"Meteor." His voice was so low he could barely hear himself.
"It's a UFO, ain't it?" Gary stepped to Marcus's side.
"Don't be a fool, Gary. It's a meteor."
The light doubled in size. "It looks like it's headed right for…" Gary
was gone. Marcus heard the blue door open and shut. A muted shout that
sounded a lot like Gary pressed through the walls and windows.
The object was close enough that its light blocked out the stars.
What remained of Marcus's instinct for survival screamed in his head.
"Uh-oh." Marcus threw himself to the ground, pressing himself against
the wall. If he could, he would have started digging through the
concrete walkway.
He could hear it approaching. He thought of a train. The ground shook. Or maybe it was Marcus who shook.
He felt it. The concrete seemed to lift a foot off the ground. The
sound—a bomb-sized explosion—stabbed his ears and vibrated through his
body.
There was light.
There was heat.
There was ear-pummeling noise.
So this is it. This is how I die. Drunk. On the ground. Crushed by a big rock from the sky. At least it has class.
Marcus didn't die. He lay curled like a fetus, his hands covering his head, arms protecting as much face as possible.
Glass broke. A thousand bits of space shrapnel pounded the parking lot
and pummeled the wall next to him. It sounded like someone had pulled
the trigger on an automatic rifle and refused to let go.
"Marcus! You okay, dude?" Big Bennie the bartender stood over him. "Talk to me, man."
Slowly, Marcus opened his eyes and then sat up. Behind Bennie stood the rest of the pub's patrons.
"You hurt, pal?" Gary's voice. It sounded distant. Marcus's ears rang
and felt as if someone had packed a pound of cotton in each ear.
Without speaking, Marcus stood, wobbled, and looked at his auto shop
across the street. Its roof and two walls had collapsed. The sheet-metal
wall facing the street that separated the bar and shop bowed out.
Turning, Marcus saw dozens of holes in the wall of the bar and several
broken windows. Fragments had hit the wall like pellets from a shotgun
blast. That raised a concern with Marcus. He looked at his arms, legs,
and body. No blood. No pain.
"It missed me. Not a scratch."
"You're one lucky drunk," Bennie said. "You fared better than my bar."
"Not so lucky, guys." Gary pointed at the shop. "You won't be salvaging
much from that mess, Marc. That big rock ruined you. What are the odds?"
Marcus felt something well up inside of him. It took a moment to realize
what it was. He bent and placed his hands on his knees. His shoulders
began to shake. His head bobbed.
"It's all right, dude." Gary put a hand on Marcus's shoulder. "Let it out. Ain't no one here gonna blame you for crying."
Marcus straightened, unable to hold back the emotion. A loud guffaw erupted from deep inside him.
"What're you laughin' at?" The bartender seemed offended. "Maybe you're drunker than I realized."
Another roaring laugh filled the night. Marcus wiped a tear from his
eyes. "Don't you bums get it?" He pointed at the burning remains of his
shop. "I'm rich, boys. I am rich."
