Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 433

Desiree Holt: Ride a Cowboy!

Now out: Ride a Cowboy!

What’s better than one cowboy? Why two cowboys, of course. So take your pick, saddle up and get ready for a wild, hot ride.

Pick your favorite cowboy from the excerpts below taken from the two novellas inside Ride a Cowboy, and leave me a comment.

I’m giving away two prizes: one signed print copy of Ride a Cowboy and one digital copy (that I’ll sign through Amazon’s Authorgraph). And each winner gets a Ya Gotta Love a Naked Cowboy Button.

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From “Back in the Saddle”

When Molly Hayes’ marriage fell apart, she ran home to Hayes Ranch to lick her wounds. What she really wants to lick is foreman Chance McDaniel, the star of all her erotic fantasies. But he had never given her the time of day. Why would he give her his nights?

Kink is a mild term for the kind of sex Chance McDaniel enjoys. But he’s learned the hard way not all women can handle his darker desires. He aches to give Molly the ride of her life but fears she’ll shy away from his wilder ways. Will the past become a stumbling block or will both Molly and Chance, once wounded, climb back in the saddle?

“Dance with me, Molly.”

Danger! Danger!

She opened her mouth to refuse him, but somehow instead, found herself rising from the booth and following him to the dance floor. Only two other couples were making use of the music. Chance tactfully led her to a corner where the lights didn’t hit them. She was stiff within the circle of his arms, moving like a windup doll, until one hand slid up her back to hold the nape of her neck.

“Relax, Molly.” His mouth was at her ear, his breath a warm breeze against her skin. “It’s just a dance. Sometimes it helps to shut out everything else and just fall into the music.”

She was trying, but his body was so warm against hers and there was no mistaking the hard thickness of his cock pushing against her through the denim of his jeans. His scent teased at her nostrils, a heady blend of something woodsy and the smell of leather and horses. She was sure he’d showered but somehow, for men who worked at ranching rather than playing, the aroma burned its way into their skin. She loved it. Always had. If she wanted to be truthful, it was almost an aphrodisiac. She pressed herself just a millimeter closer.

What she would have given all those years ago to be where she was right this minute. But a lot of water had washed over the dam since then, and the last thing she wanted was to have Chance McDaniel feeling sorry for her.

“I…haven’t danced in a while,” she said lamely as she tried to relax in his grip.

God. Could I sound any more idiotic?

He chuckled, a low rumbling sound. “I think it’s like riding a horse. You never really forget. I think you could probably say that about everything.”

His lean fingers massaged the knot at the nape of her neck, his arm holding her against him as they shifted their bodies minimally in place. The stroking of those fingers sent shivers down her spine, but they also coaxed her to relax and move in rhythm with him. She actually found herself leaning her head against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “I learned music can make you forget just about any damn thing.”

 From “Eight Second Ride”

Jessie Wade is a tough as nails sheriff until bull rider Kyle Mitchell ends up in her jail. With his bone-melting good looks and seductive voice, he knocks Jessie’s defenses down one by one and awakens the sensuous woman she’s hidden beneath her uniform. But Jessie can’t afford to be soft. Or allow herself to fall for a cowboy who’s never in one town longer than it takes to ride a bull. Kyle never backs down from a challenge, but after a passionate night with Jessie, he realizes there’s a hell of a woman behind the handcuffs and badge.  Can Kyle convince Jessie he can take her for more than an eight-second ride?

 Kyle Mitchell wanted to pry his eyes open but someone was pounding a drum inside his head so hard he was afraid to see daylight. Not only that, but whatever he was lying on was harder than a concrete floor and killing his back. He needed aspirin and coffee in large supply. He tried to raise his hands to press them against his aching temples but something jerked his right hand and prevented him from lifting it. Now he opened his eyes. And wished he hadn’t.

Unfortunately this wasn’t the first jail cell he’d been in, but he was pretty sure it was the worst. And he was pretty sure it hadn’t been modernized in the last fifty years. One wall consisted of the usual arrangement of bars with a portion of it hinged for a door. The sleeping arrangement, rather than a crummy cot that would have been a vast improvement, was a flat piece of wood with a mattress on it so thin he was sure he’d be able to see through it. And it was the kind that pulled down from the wall on chains.

And speaking of chain, he yanked at his right hand again and discovered he was handcuffed to one length of chain.

Damn! What the hell had happened? What had he gotten himself into now?

Squinting against the brightness of the light from the ceiling lights he looked down the length of his body.

Boots. Check.

Jeans. Check.

He clapped his left hand over his waist in a sudden panic.

Champion belt buckle! Okay! Check.

Shirt. Check.

He rubbed a hand over his square jaw, feeling the stubble of yesterday’s beard growth. Testing everywhere on his face he discovered his nose was tender but not broken, but the rest of his face felt as if a bull had stomped on it.

Wait. Was that what had happened? The last thing he remembered was lasting the full eight seconds on Sodbuster before landing in the dirt of the rodeo arena. Everything else was a blur.

“Well. It looks like you’re finally awake.”

The voice was pure music, soft, with a faint drawl. Squinting through the bars he thought for a minute his heart was going to stop beating. In the hallway looking in at him was about five-foot-four of the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen. Dark blonde curls tumbled down to her shoulders, framing a lightly tanned face with emerald green eyes peeking out from thick, thick lashes. The stiff fabric of the uniform shirt she wore couldn’t conceal the lush ripeness of her breasts any more than the pants hid her mouthwatering curves.

But what really shook him up was the star gleaming from its place of prominence on her shirt, right over one of those nicely rounded breasts.

Holy hell! This was the sheriff?

He looked at her and something inside turned over. He had an urgent need to see this woman naked in his bed, but not the way he did with the usual women he rolled in the sheets with. Not an eight-second ride and done. No, even in his pitiful condition he could imagine making slow, soul-searing love to her. Everything from his balls to his brain went on instant alert.

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Trying to catch up after my cruise…

This week, I’ve had a boatload of things to catch up on after my cruise. I’m still trying to unbury my desk, but I’ve had appointment after appointment. I really needed a vacation after my vacation—time to unwind and empty my head, so I could start fresh with shiny new thoughts, and a shiny, rested new me. Ah well.

Thought I’d share a few photos. For some reason, I didn’t take a lot of pics this trip. This cruise was a little more restful than usual because I went with my mother, and other than the first night’s musical show, she decided to pass on more in favor of sleep—and since she needed lights out, I went to bed early, too. We also napped quite a lot. So why am I so worn out, you ask? I think it’s because I’m an introvert, and every time I stepped out my door there were strangers all around me. It dragged on me. I need to get rich and famous and buy my own yacht because I really do love sailing—just not the host of strangers.

I wish my little travel camera had better focus for this shot, but I love the splash of yellow beside the cruise boat in the distance. If ever I learn to paint well enough, I’m going to paint this scene.

What’s a cruise if you don’t spend some time on a beach, right? This was taken on the Caribbean-facing side of Cozumel Island.

And while the Mayan ruins on Cozumel are smaller than the pyramid at Tulum, I liked the fact the complex they are uncovering in the middle of the island is dedicated to the Moon Goddess. She provided their fertility magic. I know there’s a story in there someplace. No crazy blood-soaked rocks where they practiced human sacrifice. Instead, maidens came there to receive blessings from the goddess in hopes of conceiving…

Every day when I returned to my cabin there was a little friend waiting on my bed. I just love towel pets.

What I should do is take a pic of my desk right now. The stacks of letters and crap is 3 inches deep and spread across my workspace. But amid the chaos there is a bright note. Yes, I bought jewelry and t-shirts on my trip, but honestly, my favorite purchase is my new little friend. He bobs side to side, flapping his leaves. Such a happy little thing.

A Question… and a Winner!

I’ve got a very full day in front of me. None of it will be spent sitting at my desk. I’m headed to the big city of Little Rock. Okay, so it’s only considered ”big” around here. I will be checking in, I hope, on my phone. Depends on how long the appointment there takes, and then how long we spend at the comic book store.

Yes, at my age, I’ve developed a love for certain comic books. I love the colorful artwork, the concise language, the big “Save the World” plots. And it’s cliché, but Thor has become my obsession. If you watch The Big Bang Theory, I laughed my ass off when the women got into a huge discussion over Thor’s hammer. I could so relate.

But you guys want to know who won the lapis and silver ankh earrings. And I do have a winner…

The winner, chosen by random number generator, is…Toni Whitmire! Toni, congrats! And please email me with your snail mail address so that I can get a package into the mail. For the rest of y’all, don’t forget I have a contest running through the end of the month for an Amazon gift certificate. The details can be found on my Contest page.

Another quick note. Thanks to everyone who bought Crescent Moon or who plans to buy it. If you have finished reading it, I’d greatly appreciate reviews. Other readers do take a look at  reviews before they decide to part with their hard-earned cash. Let them know what you thought about the story!

Now, onto today’s important question…

What do you think about comic books? Do you think they are complete junk reading? Bad for kids and adults? If you enjoy them, what characters do you love the most? 

CRESCENT MOON, in Print Today! (Contest)

Post a comment and you’ll be entered to win a pair of pretty handmade (by me!) ankh earrings I’ll gift to one person tomorrow! If you posted a comment on every day of my release countdown blogs, you’ll have several chances to win them!

If you’ve pre-ordered your print copy of Crescent Moon, it will ship today! I hope you enjoy it! I’m sharing a sexy scene from the book with you. There’s so much packed into this story, I wish I could snippet every little thing. There’s magic and monsters, gods and possessions, cop drama and sexiness… The kind of story I love to read. That’s exactly what I wrote. Oh, and there are mummies!

From ancient Egypt to present-day New Orleans, a woman of exceptional strength is called to protect against an unspeakable evil…and to experience an unforgettable seduction…

Justin Henry Boucher stayed in the shower so long Khepri knew he was avoiding her. The thought was disappointing. With so little experience deciphering sensual clues, she’d obviously read him wrong. He considered her a responsibility. Someone to keep safe. Perhaps someone he wanted to keep close because he didn’t trust her. That was all.

So when the water ceased trickling behind the closed bathroom door, she turned on her side, giving him her back to make the situation easier, and to keep her disappointment hidden should he glimpse her before extinguishing the light. She held her breath as he entered the room.

Not looking fed her imagination and made her heart race. Would he be naked? Or would he be wearing sleeping clothes, like the pajamas Denise had given her? Although sleeveless and short and made of an airy, stretchy cotton, the garment was still restrictive. She preferred sleeping in the nude. Something she didn’t think her grumpy protector would approve.

The bathroom light went out. Footsteps padded nearer…and then paused beside the bed.

She breathed deeply, letting the sound fill the silence and hoped he was fooled. Would he choose the bed as he had reluctantly promised? Or would he leave her for the uncomfortable couch too short to accommodate his tall frame?

The bed dipped and she smiled, relief making her feel lighter. Even if he was here under duress, she needed him close by. Someone solid and real, warm and breathing. Someone who tethered her to this place and this time. As he settled, shifting this way and that, she almost resented the wide, soft mattress because they could both sleep comfortably and never touch, which was his apparent goal since he never scooted nearer.

Truth be told, she should be grateful he didn’t want to press his attentions. Her willpower was at low ebb. However, she craved contact—just the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek would do. That would be enough to make her feel safe, enough to let her relax and rest, if not sleep. No, she wasn’t ready to close her eyes. Her heartbeat trembled and raced again at the thought of the last time she’d lost herself to darkness.

After a drawn-out moment, she turned, carefully rolling to her back and then her other side, her gaze finding the outline of his large torso in the darkness.

“Go to sleep,” he growled.

At his testiness, a smile tugged at her mouth. The texture of his voice was rasping, almost physical in the way it caused goose bumps to rise on her arms. “I can’t.” She bit her bottom lip, then gave into the impulse. She edged closer.

He drew a breath. “What are you doin’?”

“I’ve decided I want to be held.”

“Not a good idea.”

She scooted again until the tips of her breasts touched his chest and his sweet breath gusted against her face. Heat warmed the narrow space between them.

Khepri slipped a hand beneath her cheek and whispered, “I’m afraid to close my eyes.”

He swallowed then cleared his throat. “Why’s that? Afraid of nightmares, cher?”

Nightmares would be welcome. She shook her head, the sound rustling on her pillow. “I’m afraid of falling into darkness again. Afraid that when I waken, I’ll be somewhere else. Not here…with you.”

“Now, where else would you be if not here?”

She heard the note of doubt in his voice. Knew he hadn’t believed her the first time she’d told him, but she persevered. “When I was smothered to death, I was in a cave, far away and long ago.”

The mattress jerked and his breath hitched again. “Smothered?”

“Yes, the vizier took pity on me after he had wrapped me. He placed his hand over my nose and mouth to take my breath.” She shuddered at the memory.

Juste spat a soft curse then moved, his arm slipping over her hip, his hand cupping her lower back to draw her body closer. He pressed a kiss against her forehead. “You don’t have to be scared of fallin’ asleep. I’m right here, Khepri. I’ll keep you safe.”

The comfort was just that—offered selflessly and without motive, she knew, despite the firm column trapped between their bodies.

“Ignore it,” he whispered.

She’d never felt an erection before, and to have it pressed against her intimately was so tempting she couldn’t pretend the hard shaft wasn’t there. The tips of her breasts hardened, poking at his bare chest. Her breaths shortened. The urge to nuzzle, to rub against him, was overpowering.

Husband, give me strength or give me a sign.

She moved closer, at last nuzzling the side of his neck.

Sweat sprouted on his skin, and her lips brushed it. A tingle vibrated against her lips, and she drew back slightly before again pressing her mouth against his skin. Another tingle, one that shivered through her body, surprised her. She rubbed her mouth against him, opening to lick his skin, and light exploded behind her closed lids, rocketing her beyond herself.

Images flashed. Of her…and him. Locked together. His lips against her neck, his hand cuddling her breast. His length thrusting deep inside her body. Her own expression, wracked with exquisite, painful joy, caused tears to prick her eyes. She gasped, raised her eyelids, and tipped back her head. “Did you feel that?”

He didn’t answer, but his hand was tight on her arm, nearly bruising her; his body was tense, head to toe. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Did you feel that?” she repeated. “The spark. Like heat lightning. Did you see?”

Another swallow, and his hand eased its hold. “Dammit, Khepri. This isn’t good.” He glided his hand up her arm to her face. He cupped her cheek; his thumb rubbed her lower lip. “You make me want…”

The desperation in his voice matched the feelings whirling inside her. Oh, she wanted too. And this time, Khepri didn’t resist the new urge. She licked the hard pad and drew his thumb into her mouth. She wasn’t sure where she’d found the courage, but heat was curling in her belly, tightening. Her legs shifted restlessly, her knees bumped his thighs, and then her uppermost thigh glided over his to bring her body closer still.

Closer, but still a gaping chasm loomed between what she needed of him and what he seemed willing to give.

He grasped her shoulder and gently held her away. “This can’t happen.”

“It must. I burn, Justin Henry—”

“Stop. You’re afraid. You want comfort, but tomorrow, we’ll both be sorry.”

“I won’t.” Her heart pounded at his words.

“Your husband—”

“You don’t believe he exists.”

“But you do.”

“He gave us his blessing. You felt it too. I can’t turn aside from his gift.”

“What gift?”

“You. You are my gift.”

A groan sounded, followed by a hoarse laugh. “I’m nobody’s gift, but if you don’t stop movin’ like that…”

She hadn’t realized she was undulating her hips until he spoke the words. The movement seemed to ease the restlessness. No, not ease—it strengthened her desire, stoked the fire in her belly. Flexing her hips, she pushed against his clothed erection and groaned at the sweet pressure.

His hand clamped a hip. “Woman, don’t move.”

He said it between clenched teeth, which told her his desire was just as strong. Triumph swelled. So did her confidence. “Mate with me, Juste. I’ve waited for so long.”

“You’re not in your right mind.” He pushed away her hips and retreated, putting space between them.

Her whole body clenched at his rejection. “Please.”

“I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here. You’re in my custody.”

“I am a woman in your care. You have seen to my needs—washed me, fed me, clothed me. How can you not love me? Men are driven by their desires. Am I so unattractive—”

“Fuck no. But you said yourself. You’re married.”

“To a god. Who has given his blessing.”

His head rustled on his pillow. A gusted sigh blew hot.

“Has he ever done that before?” he asked, his words slowing. “Given you his blessing to sleep with a man?”

“No.” She held her breath at the thought he relented.

Another soft curse gusted. “Are you a virgin?”

She drew a swift breath. Was that his objection? “You will not hurt me. I have used fingers and a sacred phallus to appease my lust.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“My maidenhead isn’t an issue. It is gone. You won’t hurt me.”

“A sacred phallus?”

She nodded. “Made of smooth marble. I used it to assuage my desires.”

“Jesus Christ.” A soft chuckle, one that didn’t sound amused, shook the bed.

He held her back, so she reached out, tentatively touching the part of him that proclaimed him proudly male. With her fingertips, she stroked him through thin cotton pants.

His phallus was much larger and warmer than her stone instrument, but nearly as rigid, and it jerked as her fingers skimmed up the shaft.

His breath hissed between his teeth, but that was the extent of his protest. He held still, not breathing as her fingertip traced the edge of the broad, soft cap poking insistently against his garment. A shudder shook the bed.

A choked growl emanated from his throat.

At the sounds, she knew she had won.

Insistence no longer necessary, she settled beside him, staring into the darkness and wishing she could see his expression as she explored with languid caresses the thick, hard length of him. “I have dreamed of loving a man.”

“You should wait for someone special, cher. I’m too rough around the edges. Too old for you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

Her mouth curved. Age was not an issue. She’d been born millennia ago. “I will defer to greater wisdom, and let you choose how we do this, Justin Henry Boucher.”

His hand curved around hers, which lightly gripped him. For a second, she thought he would push her away again, but the hesitation was followed by his fingers squeezing around hers, firming her grip to ride the long column up and down. The soft cotton separating her fingers from the evidence of his desire was no barrier at all.

As they glided together, their breaths deepened. “I want to see you,” he said, his gravely tone deepening.

“A light,” she said. “Something soft.”

He withdrew and she sat up on the mattress as he strode away. The bathroom light ignited. He disappeared inside for a long moment, the sound of a drawer opening then sliding closed. Silence followed, and then he pulled the door partway closed after he reentered the bedroom. Just enough light remained to see the grim set of his jaw, the wildness in his eyes.

Khepri liked the hint of violence restrained in his flexing, bare chest. Her gaze trailed downward to his undergarment—shorts, the word echoed inside her head.

“Remove them, please,” she said, her voice thin, high…nearly breathless.

His mouth curved up at the corners. His fingers tucked into the waistband and he shoved the shorts down his thighs until they fell to the floor. Then he stood still while she stared.

“Turn,” she said, sliding her legs over the side of the mattress.

When he turned sideways, light gleamed on the taut skin stretched by his burgeoning erection.

“I never thought a man’s part could be beautiful. Of course, I’ve seen men naked…” Something thin was stretched over him. She fingered the edge.

“It’s a condom,” he said.

Condom. Sheath. Birth control. Something inside her cringed. Still she touched him, noting the thin sheath did little to prevent her enjoyment of the silky feel of his skin, the heat emanating from his core. Her fingers encircled him, but her thumb didn’t meet her longest fingertip. “Are all men made like you?”

“You aimin’ to find out?”

She liked the hard edge of his voice. It hinted at possessiveness.

But she didn’t want to anger him. “I’m thinking that if it’s true, then I needn’t worry we’ll…fit.” She glanced up and caught a flare of heat in his dark blue gaze.

And because she wanted to see that flare again, she stood, pulled the top of her pajamas over her head, and then pushed the bottoms off her hips. He’d already seen her nude, no surprises there, but she wanted nothing between them. Not fabric. Not space.

She stepped closer. Moisture glazed her belly, but she didn’t look down as her gaze locked with his. She’d seen wetness glinting on the tip of his sex. Her gaze greedily followed his as he glanced down, attention narrowing on the mound of her sex and sweeping upward to snag on her breasts.

Cupping them, she lifted both, offering herself. “My body burns for you, deep inside.” With quick flicks, she thumbed her nipples. “These ache for your kiss. Please, Juste. Take me.”

His jaw tightened, his nostrils flared. When he moved, his hands cupped the notches of her hips and drew her closer. “Last chance. Tell me to go, sweetheart.”

She smiled, moisture filling her eyes. “I have no desire to send you away. Take me. Teach me. I am yours.”

CRESCENT MOON (in print!) in one day… (Contest & Winners!)

I finished unpacking from my trip. Laundry’s done–that’s the worst, right? All the work you have to do after a trip. I shouldn’t complain. I had a vacation.

I promised prizes from last week’s Texas Surrender countdown, and I have winners to announce! All the winners may choose one download from among my Triple Horn Brand stories. And here are the names:

Michelle Willms (Nov. 30)

Enikö (Dec. 1)

Sarah DeShields-Bass (Dec. 2)

Jamie L (Dec. 3)

So back to Crescent Moon…The book releases in print on Tuesday. Yesterday, you briefly met Khepri, The God’s Wife. The opening chapters describe her frightening journey that lands her wrapped as a mummy in Ancient Egypt. In today’s excerpt, you will see the scene where Juste and Khepri first meet. I promise, I’ll get to the sexy tomorrow.

In the meantime, you get a taste of Juste’s bad attitude, but hints of his true, heroic nature shining through. Juste has suffered a demotion, lost a close personal friend, and he’s just going through the motions with a new partner he doesn’t trust or like. And he’s no longer working homicide and resents the hell out of the museum robbery investigation. He’s hunting missing mummies? He really could give a rat’s ass less, until something happens that piques his interest. Enjoy! 

Post a comment and you’ll be entered to win a pair of pretty ankh earrings I’ll gift to one person after Tuesday’s release. If you post a comment on every day, including Tuesday, you’ll have several chances to win them!

From ancient Egypt to present-day New Orleans, a woman of exceptional strength is called to protect against an unspeakable evil…and to experience an unforgettable seduction.

Khepri still isn’t used to being The God’s Wife. The daughter of a common farmer, she’s more comfortable being friends with servants than employing a whole team of them. Being the wife of Amun affords her luxuries she only dreamed of, but her dreams are not always a haven…they are also filled with demons. Lately she’s had doubts about the role she’s been thrust into. She’s had yearnings for another sort of life, one where she’s loved intimately, rather than only adored from afar.

When a powerful man lures her away from her temple, she’s thrilled at the chance for an adventure. Her adventure quickly becomes a nightmare when the handsome vizier mummifies her alive. Pure of heart and body, she’s the warrior he foresees will battle a demonic pharaoh if ever he awakens. Khepri’s sure he’s insane, until she awakens in a distant future. Alone and needing a guide in this strange and garish new world, she turns to the troubled man who set her free…

When New Orleans police detective Justin Henry Boucher is called to the Garden Museum to investigate stolen Egyptian artifacts, it’s not exactly the adrenaline rush he used to get working a homicide. But with a reprimand on his record and a sorrow he can’t shake, he will take what he can get – as long as he can keep his badge. What he doesn’t count on is having to keep his cool when he finds one of the priceless artifacts—a golden-skinned goddess wrapped in fabric like a mummy, left to die and needing his help. She’s a mystery he’s determined to unravel. She might also be the cure for his lonely heart.

When Juste returned to the museum, the sky was darkening with clouds. It looked like rain would soon fall, and from the forecast, the storm might produce some flooding. He hoped like hell they could wrap up soon so he wouldn’t spend the night there.

Inside the door, he donned latex gloves. The crime techs were still in the warehouse. One was on a ladder dusting the camera in the corner for prints. Good idea. He looked around for his partner.

Mikey stood beside a crate with a clipboard while museum workers carefully swept away straw before pulling out bubble-wrapped artifacts. His partner gave him a nod. “With the storm comin’ in, I told the two guards we’d see ’em here in the mornin’.”

Juste grunted, irritated he’d made that call. The sooner they wrapped this one up, the better.

Mikey lifted his shoulders. “It’s mummies, not shooters,” he muttered under his breath.

Not liking the reminder he wasn’t in homicide anymore and that robbery investigations didn’t proceed with the same urgency, Juste smothered a curse. “I’m gonna take a look around the back.”

Mikey gave him another nod and then returned his attention to the items. By the look of all the empty crates, they were nearing the end of the inventory anyway.

Juste felt a moment’s guilt for leaving Mikey with the bulk of the tedious work, but only a moment’s. He scanned the room, found Dorman and Haddara sitting beside the white table, talking quietly.

Because he wasn’t ready to make nice with either man, Juste strode deeper into the storage area, away from the activity, through crates and metal racks where less important items, or perhaps ones that were rotated in and out of the museum’s displays, were stored. The lighting was poor and so far from the faded daylight spilling through the cargo bay door that he withdrew a small flashlight from his jacket pocket and flicked it on.

Toward the very back, he found rolled-up rugs and emptied boxes. And a crate nearly buried in refuse. A crate that didn’t look to be nearly as dusty as everything else around it. By the painted arrows on the plywood, the box sat on its side, the lid facing him.

Juste glanced around, but no one was watching. He gently knocked on the box and listened to the sound. By the dull, muffled rap, he knew the crate wasn’t empty. Curious, his belly knotting in the way it always did when he had a hunch, he gripped the nailed face of the crate and tugged.

There weren’t enough nails to keep the crate closed. The lid gave slightly beneath the second tug. And then he heard a sound. A soft mewling cry. His heart stopped, and then thudded dully against his chest.

He leaned close pressing his ear against the lid and listened again.

The noise came from inside the box.

Juste pulled harder on the lid, prying it back. The wood splintered, then gave, and he carefully pulled it off to lean against a rack, trying to keep down the noise because he didn’t want anyone else alerted. Maybe it was just an animal trapped in a crate.

He shone the light into the crate. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

A bundle lay on the floor, covered in black plastic trash bags. The bundle was moving, and from the outline, there was something inside. His heart hammered. By the shape, it wasn’t any small animal.

“Sonofabitch.” He hunched down and entered the crate, kneeling beside the struggling figure to begin pulling at the bags to tear them away. Once he’d cleared away the plastic, he sat back, shock rendering him still.

The wriggling body was wrapped in dirty strips of fabric. A fucking mummy with the exact same drawings covering its body as the mummy he’d seen pictures of. Not that he thought for a minute this was some dead thing coming to life. No, some bastard had played a horrible trick, leaving a living person like this to die. Anger swept through him, but also caution.

This wasn’t a simple robbery anymore. And he didn’t know who’d had the misfortune to wind up in the crate. Better to proceed with caution.

Again, he bent over the figure and noted the sounds of short gasping breaths. “I’ll get your face freed first so you can breathe. Hold still.”

After wedging the flashlight high in a corner to free both hands to work, he stripped off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his keys and the short pocket knife attached to the ring. Opening a blade, he wedged it beneath one of the stiffened strips, cut it, and then peeled it slowly away.

The mouth beneath it was soft, feminine. Opening for air.

With her tongue, the woman pushed out something lodged inside her mouth. A round stone. She swallowed hard, and then opened her mouth fully to gasp.

He worked faster, peeling strips from the woman’s eyes.

They remained closed, but he noted the thick black eyeliner rimming the upper lids, the long dark lashes lying in a fringe along the lid. He lifted her head, unwinding more of the strips, peeling them off to reveal soft, brown hair matted with moisture.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay,” he whispered more to himself, because he still couldn’t believe this. What sort of monster would do this to someone else?

As her breaths became less jagged, her quiet sobs faded.

He went to work tucking his finger under the cloth at her neck and hacking through the stiffened fabric, hardened by some resin-like substance. He couldn’t imagine how she’d lived, because the strips were tight and constricted her chest.

He sliced a line down one arm and then turned to the other. From the side of his eye, he saw her free arm raise and something glinted. Out of instinct, he reached up to deflect the wild swing and caught her wrist.

A blade clattered to the floor.

He glanced toward her face. Her eyes were wide open and staring wildly back at him. They gleamed golden and sparkled ferociously.

Juste didn’t know if she had meant to kill him, but he couldn’t take the chance. Not when he only had her partially freed. Moving his right leg, he straddled her body, careful not to give her his weight, and pressed her arm to the floor. “I’m here to help. Let me help you.”

She shook her head and said something in a language he didn’t understand, something guttural but soft, sounding Arabic perhaps.

“I don’t understand you,” he said more loudly, but realized shouting wouldn’t make her understand him any better.

With his free hand, he cupped her cheek, finding it soft and moist with tears. From what he could see of her features, she was young…and hauntingly beautiful.

His breath caught as her gold-flecked gaze locked with his. “Let me help you,” he repeated, then eased his hand from her wrist. He raised his short blade to show it to her, and then climbed to the side and resumed slicing the fabric.

This time he started talking, a monologue of nonsense, just making sounds to soothe her as he worked. She had to be frightened out of her mind. He could only imagine the horror she’d been through. And then he made himself stop that line of thinking and start thinking like a cop.

She was wrapped like a mummy; her skin was olive and her eyes were shaped like almonds. She might well have something to do with the exhibit, might have been involved with the theft. Or she could be a witness. How she’d run afoul of the thieves… Well, he wouldn’t know until he got her to the station.

At her collarbone, he stuck his fingers under the fabric to lift it high enough to run the knife beneath it and was further surprised to slide his fingers along naked skin. Juste pulled in a deep breath and shot another glance at her face.

Her features were still, not a blush or a grimace crossing her face. Perhaps she was too shocked to realize she’d be naked as the day she’d been born by the time he was done. But what could he do? He wasn’t leaving her in this death shroud—evidence or not, he was ridding her of the wrappings.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the body he revealed inch by inch was achingly lovely—slender, with skin the color of golden honey. He tried not to think of what he uncovered, tried to keep his gaze busy with what he was doing, and not lingering on her pretty breasts with their soft, tan nipples. More breathtaking was her feminine mound, which was completely bare. Her long silky legs were gently curved. Crusts of the resin, which had hardened the wrapping, stuck to her skin but failed to detract from her beauty. From the tip of her head to her slender toes, Juste had never seen a more perfectly formed female.

The woman barely breathed, staring upward from her plywood bed. Realizing he’d studied her body a little too long, he shrugged out of his jacket. “Wear this until I can get you out of here. I have a blanket in my car.” He held out the coat.

But she didn’t move to take it. She laid there, her gaze studying him. And then she opened her mouth. “Say…that…again,” she said slowly.

Her words held no hint of an accent, as he would have expected. Her voice was raspy, as though she’d shouted herself hoarse. And perhaps she had. “You understand me?”

“I do now.”

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. “Who are you?”

She got her elbows under her and slowly raised her torso.

Her gaze darted around the crate. “Where am I?”

Trying to ignore what that raised position did to her breasts, he muttered, “In the Garden Museum. The storeroom near the cargo bay.”

A frown dug a wrinkle between her brows, and her lush lips thinned. “I’m not in the Duat?”

What the hell? “Duat?” He shrugged.

“The Land of the Dead.”

“A cemetery? Is that where you expected to be?”

Her breaths came faster, and she rolled slowly to her knees.

He tried not to stare at her perfect breasts, shaped like apples and quivering with her movements swaying beneath her as she glanced up, her expression wild and wary. “You should put on my jacket.”

She glanced down at her body. “Am I living then?”

Wondering if her strange actions and words were a sign of her mental state, he frowned. “As alive as I am, sugar,” he said softly, not wanting to alarm her, because her features were hardening, her expression losing the last vestiges of fear and shock.

Her gaze speared him. “Has Selk risen?” she asked, each word as hard as a bullet.

“Who the hell is Selk?”

“The other body. The one I was entombed with.”

“The second mummy?”

“Mummy,” she repeated and slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Haven’t found it yet. Was he like you? Wrapped alive?”

She shook her head. “He was strangled before he was brought to the tomb.”

“Strangled and in a tomb.” His mind sharpened. This might be a real case after all. “How long do you think you’ve been like this?”

“I am thinking it must have been a while,” she said, eyeing his clothing.

“Not so long. You don’t look any worse for wear.”

Her dark brows drew together. “Do not ogle me.”

“Then put on the damn jacket.”

Her chin lifted. Again, her gaze studied him, lingering on his face and then scanning his body. “You said you are here to help me. Perhaps my husband has sent you.”

Juste didn’t like the sting of disappointment that settled in his gut. The gorgeous woman was married. “I don’t know who your husband is. But he didn’t send me.”

Her lips curved.

He really wished she hadn’t smiled. If she was beautiful before…

“Given I will need a guide, I accept your offer. We must work quickly.” She pushed up, bending over to avoid crashing against the upper wall of the crate, but swayed on her feet.

Still on one knee, he caught her before she fell. Holding her against his chest, he kept his gaze straight ahead rather than at the woman whose delicate curves molded against his body. “Cher, you shouldn’t have stood so quickly,” he murmured against her hair.

She clung to him, her delicate hands wrapped around his biceps.

He glanced down and her eyes were closed tightly.

Her emotions were seesawing between anger and horror.

Something he totally got.

Moisture gleamed at the base of her lashes. A tremor racked her body. “I thought I would remember. Something,” she whispered. “Not simply wake.”

“Remember? About how you wound up wrapped like a mummy?”

“I remember that,” she whispered and shivered again.

“I just don’t know what happened after…”

“Should you?” he murmured, liking the way her body curled against his, catching a waft of her natural feminine scent.

“I guess not. But I am no closer to understanding the battle I must wage.”

Battle? “You don’t have to fight. Let me do that for you. I’ll figure this out.”

Her head tilted back and her gaze roamed his face.

“Then you are a warrior?”

He wondered whether she’d been drugged before she’d been bundled. Her word choices were strange. And she didn’t seem to notice her naked state. “Lady, I’m a policeman. Guess that’s as close to a warrior as you’re gonna find here.”

She leaned back her head. “I am Khepri.”

“Just Khepri?”

“Amun’s wife.”

“No last name?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“It is my first and only name. Should I have more? I was born to farmers, not kings.” Her head tilted and her gaze narrowed, as though listening to something far away. “You have more names. Three?”

Juste wasn’t sure why, but he smiled. Yeah, she was a strange one. “Well, Khepri, I’m Justin Henry Boucher. I do  have three names.”

“You must be very important.”

“Only if you think so.”

She smiled, and Juste’s chest tightened. He decided then and there, whatever had happened here, whoever had touched her would pay dearly. Khepri, Amun’s wife, was now his problem.

CRESCENT MOON (in print!) in two days… (Contest)

For those of you who love your full-length novels in a version you can hold in your hands and fan those pages, Crescent Moon releases in its print version on December 10th—this Tuesday!

And for those of you who gave it a skip because it was originally a serialized (delivered by installment) book, now you can read it as it was intended to be read—as one big, fast-paced book, full of energy, mysticism, and smoldering sensuality. Yes, it’s a strange book. Who writes about mummies and ancient Egypt? Who writes about the Land of the Dead? I do. I have a fascination with the underworld, something I visited in the last Dark Realm story, Darkness Captured. Yes, that one was based more on Sumerian lore, but Sumerian and Egyptian, as well as Christian lore, is inextricably linked. I studied Coffin Texts to learn about Egypt’s mythology and braided it in with a lot of what ifs.

What if a woman from the past is mummified, and then resurrected in present time? Is she human? Is she a goddess? And then I discovered the story about the oracle at Karnak, The God’s Wife, and my story wrote itself. And where better for her to awaken than in New Orleans where a local detective who is going through his own crisis of faith finds her…

Here’s a snippet. Hope you enjoy. I’d love to hear your thoughts when you’ve read the story. This book was one of those “stories of the heart” writers love to share. 

Post a comment and you’ll be entered to win a pair of pretty ankh earrings I’ll gift to one person on Tuesday. If you post a comment on every day, including Tuesday’s release, you’ll have several chances to win them!

CRESCENT MOON

From ancient Egypt to present-day New Orleans, a woman of exceptional strength is called to protect against an unspeakable evil…and to experience an unforgettable seduction.

Khepri still isn’t used to being The God’s Wife. The daughter of a common farmer, she’s more comfortable being friends with servants than employing a whole team of them. Being the wife of Amun affords her luxuries she only dreamed of, but her dreams are not always a haven…they are also filled with demons. Lately she’s had doubts about the role she’s been thrust into. She’s had yearnings for another sort of life, one where she’s loved intimately, rather than only adored from afar.

When a powerful man lures her away from her temple, she’s thrilled at the chance for an adventure. Her adventure quickly becomes a nightmare when the handsome vizier mummifies her alive. Pure of heart and body, she’s the warrior he foresees will battle a demonic pharaoh if ever he awakens. Khepri’s sure he’s insane, until she awakens in a distant future. Alone and needing a guide in this strange and garish new world, she turns to the troubled man who set her free…

When New Orleans police detective Justin Henry Boucher is called to the Garden Museum to investigate stolen Egyptian artifacts, it’s not exactly the adrenaline rush he used to get working a homicide. But with a reprimand on his record and a sorrow he can’t shake, he will take what he can get – as long as he can keep his badge. What he doesn’t count on is having to keep his cool when he finds one of the priceless artifacts—a golden-skinned goddess wrapped in fabric like a mummy, left to die and needing his help. She’s a mystery he’s determined to unravel. She might also be the cure for his lonely heart.

One last time, her mind drifted, peacefully content…no shadows or disquiet to disturb her…allowing her to separate the parts of herself, first body from spirit…and then the mournful, dying part of her soul to dwell forever in the pit, while what remained, the part that would be born again, floated upward on golden wings.

Her sprit ba left her mortal shell and spread its wings, flying through the small bright hole in the ceiling, leaving behind her swaddled human form, which lay on a bare wooden bench. One, two, three strong surges of her fluttering wings and she flew toward the sun, free at last and feeling grateful to her husband for his generous gift. Her wings caught an updraft and she held them still, floating on the wind, the glorious waning sun warming her back.

Her spirit flew above white limestone cliffs and past a deep quarry littered with enormous blocks of carved stone. A sudden gust riffled through her feathers, forcing her to fly west, high above a barren valley.

But at last, her ba tired, circling downward, searching for the great river to lead her home. But no familiar white-washed city dwellings, no temple walls lay below. No fields of cotton and wheat.

Confused, she made her way back to the dismal pit. Not wanting to enter, she flitted around the opening, feeling weary and afraid.

Something dark awaited her. Some horror in the shadows.

And then she spotted the man with the dark, watchful gaze standing beneath the opening, his arms outspread to catch her…

Her heart pounded against her chest, the sound intruding on the vision. Khepri’s eyes slammed open.

Freedom was only a dream, a memory. How long had she been sleeping?

Slowly, Khepri grew more aware of her surroundings. Pressure enveloped her from head to toes. Frayed edges of linen strips surrounded her eyes. An ache centered in her head made her want to gasp, but when she tried to draw a deep breath, the constriction around her chest made the movement impossible. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Her body, other than her head and chest, was numb. Something was terribly wrong. Short, panicked breaths huffed in the silence.

She blinked, bright sunlight streaming through a hole in the rock ceiling above, blinding her, making her eyes tear. Unable to turn her head, she peered beneath the fringe of her dark lashes, through the openings left in the fabric, gazing upward. Her sight cleared slowly, but was filtered as though looking through the gauzy curtains that surrounded her bed in her tiny house inside the temple walls. But the haze obstructing her sight wasn’t merely physical. It was a thin curtain pulled over her mind. One placed there, purposely, to confuse.

Her head reeled, not understanding, not recognizing where she lay. The sickly sweet scent of frankincense tickled her nose.

“Precious little warrior, you are awake.”

If she could have drawn a deep breath, she would have spit. Sudden fury trembled through her body. She didn’t understand what was happening, but knew he was the one to blame. She wanted to rage against him, ask how he dared abduct her. She was Amun’s wife, his mortal consort. But the only sound that scratched from her throat was a tiny whimper.

“You have questions,” he crooned from beside her. “We have little time. Pharaoh’s army marches. They will find us soon. We must bury the nameless one, hide him before they can entomb him. No one must ever find his body. He will not sleep in a sarcophagus. No texts will be written to reawaken him, no mask placed over his head so that he may recognize himself in the afterlife. He must not rise.”

Her lashes drifted downward. She remembered the moment the handsome, lying vizier stepped off the plank lowered from the side of the barge.

“Pharaoh is dead,” he’d said, his voice uninflected.

Her heart had grown still. The news was devastating to be sure, but why had he traveled so far from Luxor to tell her?

And then snippets of memories bombarded her mind.

Khepri moaned, spreading her lips and baring her teeth to catch the edges of the strips surrounding her mouth, but they were stiffened and wouldn’t give. Her eyes rounded in fear as she realized how dire was her predicament.

He bent closer, his dark eyes alight with sympathy. But then he moved away. Taking with him his masculine scent, musk she’d once found attractive. The odor mocked her now.

Although she feared him, she wanted to cling to the sight of him, didn’t want to feel so alone, so trapped and helpless. Perhaps she could reason with him. But he was insane. Would no one stop him?

Deep in her throat, she gurgled, nearly choking on the tears that leaked from her eyes and burned the back of her throat. “Please,” she whispered.

From a distance, she heard his footsteps. He drew nearer, holding in one hand a slender reed with one end frayed and trimmed to form a brush and dripping red paint, and in the other a palette, red pigment swirled. He leaned over her and made strokes on the coverings enclosing her chest, down her belly, splitting over her thighs and moving down to her toes.

“What are you doing?” she rasped, as some of the cool liquid seeped through to touch her skin.

“Painting spells, Khepri, Amun’s wife. Introducing you to Anubis, the protector of souls, entreating him to keep you close until you are needed. To hide you from Osiris so your soul will not be judged. Not yet.”

“Until I am needed? I am needed at the temple.”

He tsked and continued to paint, accompanied by the soft chuffing sounds of bristles rasping on resin-hardened fabric.

Her tears quickened, soaking her skin beneath the wrappings and leaking into her hair. “I am The God’s Wife. You have no right.”

He sighed and strode back into view. When he leaned over her, sympathy no longer shone in his eyes. A deep furrow dug between his sharp dark brows. “I need quiet to think,” he said, his words peppering her like hard pellets.

He placed a hand over her nose and mouth, cutting off her air.

Panic made her gurgle, but she was unable to fight. She stared upward at his gleaming eyes until darkness closed over her vision.

Edie Ramer: Christmas at Angel Lake (Contest)

Post a comment today for a chance to win the first book in 

Edie Ramer’s Rescued Hearts series, Hearts in Motion! 

For me, the real meaning of Christmas isn’t presents and decorations and cookies – no matter how lovely and delicious all of that is. It’s about having a home and a place to stay – even if it’s just one night in a barn. And to have people around you who care and who you care for.

All of that is in Christmas at Angel Lake, and it’s odd that I just realized it as I wrote this for Delilah’s blog. So thanks to Delilah for her generosity to me and many other writers for giving our books this temporary home!

Tell me, what does Christmas means to you?

 

**25 cents from every CHRISTMAS AT ANGEL LAKE book sold will go to the Washington County Humane Society in Wisconsin.**

A kitten saved her…

Broke, pregnant and deserted by her boyfriend, Maddie Barrymore swerves to avoid a kitten while driving in a Wisconsin blizzard—and her life takes another turn. Like Puss in Boots, she stays in an empty house. She has the baby, the kitten, gets a job and a degree…yet every day she’s ready to flee if the real owner shows up.

Five years later, he does…

Dumped by the woman he loves, film producer Logan MacLeesh’s heart is as dark as one of his movies. He plans to hole up in his grandmother’s old mansion and throw himself into his work…until he discovers the sexy squatter and her four-year-old son. Before he can call the sheriff, Maddie’s tale of how she ended up there entertains him. They make a deal that as long as she tells him a story every night, she and her son can stay. Even the cat, though Logan’s always been a dog person.

A dog in need of saving…

Far away in another state, a homeless dog lifts his head, sniffs…and smells him. The human who’s meant for him. As he heads through the snow toward the scent, his journey seems impossible, even though it’s Christmas, a time when miracles happen.

Amazon | Apple/iBooks | B&N | Kobo | Smashwords 

Excerpt:

The other shoe fell.

That was the thought in Maddie’s mind when he came downstairs as she was trying to find a show on TV in which men were not saying stupid things to each other in the mistaken belief that it was funny; in which woman were not being assaulted, chased, or horribly killed; in which housewives in full makeup and five-inch heels were not bullying each other.

She’d finally found her comfort station as he stepped into the living room, where he obviously was taking up too much air, because she felt a whoosh of oxygen leave her body. And she did not like it.

“HGTV?” he asked. “You planning on renovating a house?”

“Not this one, so don’t worry.” She spared him a glance then nodded at the TV. “That’s my perfect man.”

“A contractor?”

“A hunky contractor. He fixes things and has better taste than I do.”

“He’s probably gay.”

If it were anyone else saying that, she would wonder if he was jealous. Though why not him?

The thought cheered her, even as she wished it wouldn’t. If not for Zach, she would pack up and leave this place. She was only staying here because she didn’t want to uproot him. “Are you ready for your story for the night?”

“When your heartthrob is on TV?”

She leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair then rested her chin in her palm. She was so tired she might fall asleep in the middle of tonight’s story. “I’ll settle for seeing him in my dreams.”

“We don’t have the same dreams.”

“I can imagine what yours are like.”

He raised his right eyebrow and lowered his voice. “If you could, you would be running scared.”

“Did anyone tell you you’re a drama queen?”

He stilled. For a second, she wondered if she’d gone too far.

But what the hell. If she’d gone this far, why not go further?

“Why are you trying to scare me away?”

“Because you’re a mother who cares for her son. And because that son is tucked in his bed, sleeping.” He leaned in closer. “And because you want me as much as I want you.”

She sat back. But not too far back. She didn’t want him to think he frightened her. Didn’t want him to think he was right. “I couldn’t do anything with you, either. You’d always know you’d be second choice.”

His eyes narrowed, and she could’ve sworn she felt a freezing blast of wind whistle through the room. “And who’s first?”

“You forgot about the hunky contractor already?”

He blinked, as if he’d gone to a dark place and, in that instant, he stepped out of it. “If you’d like”—he lowered his voice so it curled around her—“I could show you my saw and hammer.”

“That would impress me so much. Will you let me hold them as you undress?”

His lips didn’t curve, but laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “What do you plan on doing with the hammer and the saw?”

“You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?”

He straightened. “You are something else. I’m getting a drink.”

“A cold one, I hope. With lots of ice. Next time, don’t try to seduce me.”

Edie

http://edieramer.com

https://www.facebook.com/edieramer.author

https://twitter.com/edieramer

A Question…

Today, I’m sailing. No stops at exotic locales. I’m likely on the upper deck in a lounge chair, working on a tan. Don’t hate me!

It’s the last day of our cruise. Early tomorrow morning, we’ll be debarking in Miami and flying home. Sometime tomorrow night I’ll be downloading a boatload of email to see what’s been happening while I was gone.

I hope you had a great week, and that you had fun reading the excerpts I left for you to read. If you haven’t entered the contests and posted comments, there’s still time. I won’t be selecting winners until I return.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a question…

If you took a cruise, what do you think would be the most

enjoyable aspect of the journey?

Catch Me at Wild & Wicked Cowboys!

For one more chance to win a free book, join me at Wild & Wicked Cowboys today!

#4 — A Taste of TEXAS SURRENDER

If the boat hasn’t sunk and the toilets continue to flush, we’ll be basking in the sun, heading down to Cozumel, Mexico for the last leg of our short cruise! Don’t hate me. I’m thinking about you! Today is the official release date for TEXAS SURRENDER. I hope the glimpses I’ve given you of the four novellas that make up this fat anthology have tempted you to head straight to Amazon. I’ll be back online sometime Friday. See you then!

Post a comment and you’ll be entered to win a free download from another Western series, the Triple Horn Brand books!

This snippet is from the last novella in the collection, Two Wild for Teacher…

“Ms. Devlin’s writing is so well done that the experience was seamless. I will definitely be looking for more of Ms. Devlin’s books for my ‘keeper shelf’… TWO WILD FOR TEACHER is highly recommended reading for a quick escape.”

5 Stars and Book of the Month, Long and Short Reviews

It’s double the trouble when two ornery cowboys come courtin’, Texas-style…

Sam Logan’s hell-raising twin sons have a bad rep in Two Mule, Texas. All of it earned. When it becomes clear those two troublemakers won’t settle down without another nudge—make that a boot to their butts—Sam reissues his challenge. Find a wife.

There’s only one woman who’s ever held Mace and Jason Logan’s attention for more than one night. Molly Pritchet, their former teacher. She’s been too worried about a pesky morals clause to let them close, but they’re older now and ready to prove to her that some rules are meant to be broken.

Molly thought her path was clear: always a teacher, never a mother or a wife. Until she finds those two Logan “boys” in her backyard, all grown up and digging around in her business. More accurately, starting her koi pond for her without asking. Well, it’s about time someone taught the Logan twins some manners.

A little mud, a lot of yearnings she thought she’d suppressed, and Molly realizes she’s the one being schooled in the art of indulging in forbidden desires.

Warnings: Two hot-as-sin twins romance their former high school teacher. Things are bound to get down and dirty quick as two bad boys tag team to sweep one curvy, sexy woman off her feet.

Sam Logan couldn’t sleep. He had one last chore to take care of. One he’d been putting off. No time like now to get ’er done.

He walked softly on bare feet down the long hallway, past the master bedroom he’d given up when Johnny married Ellie and moved both his new wife and his brother Killian into the large room to share it. He shook his head, a glimmer of a smile tugging at his mouth. Sounds that hadn’t been heard in this old house in over three long years echoed up and down the hallway.

Sexy sounds—happy sighs and laughter, slick slaps, an occasional yelp from Ellie. He could only imagine what his two oldest boys were doing to the girl. But they all seemed happy with the arrangement and both men were gaga for Mean Ellie Harker. Who would have thought one simple pronouncement would produce such lightning-fast results?

It’s time you boys found yerselves a wife.

That’s all it had taken. Sam had disappeared for a long weekend to attend a cattle auction and give them time to think about what he’d said, what was missing from all their lives, only to return and find all four men looking as though they’d been wrung through a wringer and put up wet.

His sons hadn’t told him everything, but he’d heard the rumors—from Ole Win at the diner who’d witnessed how the oldest two had swarmed Ellie like bees around a hive, and then from Wade Luckadoo whose daughter had witnessed Ellie’s kidnapping by the twins, but for some inexplicable reason hadn’t called the sheriff.

So they hadn’t wooed Ellie in a traditional way. Didn’t much matter to Sam. A pretty woman stood in the kitchen every morning, a happy smile on her face, and all the boys had perked up, falling over themselves to please her.

These days, meals were an event. Ellie had been running the town’s only diner and knew how to cook a mean chili, sear steaks to perfection and bake glorious pies.

The pies had become a bit of a joke in the house over the last month.

Ellie had figured out right off that Johnny loved apple pie. However, Killian wouldn’t commit, sampling the varieties she lined up on the counter every Sunday and sighing, but never telling her which one was his favorite.

Sam thought he knew why.

Killian wasn’t sure about his place in Ellie’s heart. She’d melted first for Johnny, but had accepted Killian in her bed too, and even told him often that she loved him. Killian only half believed her, and given his upbringing, living in a house with two people who’d hated each other’s guts and whose anger had spilled over onto him, Sam understood why Killian had doubts anyone could love him.

Ellie’s unending search for the perfect pie to please Killian was her way of proving she loved him. From the way his second adopted son beamed each time Ellie introduced a new set to sample, Sam didn’t think Killian would ever tell her which pie he loved most.

Pie was taking on mystical properties, a true elixir of love in every bite. And pie was what the twins, the youngest of his brood, huddled over now.

A single light shining from the stove was all that lit the kitchen. The boys sat, bleary-eyed, blond heads in need of a good haircut and a comb, with elbows propping up their chins while they shoveled sweet pie into their mouths.

Sam crept in silently, opened a cabinet door and gave it a good slam.

Both boys jumped, startled stares swinging his way.

Mace gave Sam a tired grin. “Hey, Pa.”

Sam never tired of hearing that. The two older boys still called him Sam. The twins had been eager to accept him and Gracie as their parents when they’d first arrived for fostering. Something Gracie had loved as well. She’d always wanted to be someone’s mama. He felt a pinch in his chest at how happy she’d been—all the way to the end—surrounded by her boys. “Why aren’t you two in bed?” he snapped, his voice gruff. “You’ll be fallin’ off your horses tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Mace grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Why’s that?” Sam asked, although he had a pretty good idea why.

Mace grunted. “Too much damn noise. People gettin’ happy. Wish’t I was that damn happy.” He lifted his fork and turned to take another bite.

Sam came closer and peered over Mace’s shoulder. “That the cherry pie?”

“Mmm-hmm,” the younger twin groaned. “S’good.”

Sam arched a brow. “Think we should tell Ellie that Killian’s not a pie man?”

Both boys’ heads jerked up, eyes rounding.

“Hell no!” Jason said around a mouthful of peach pie. “She might stop bakin’.”

“We’d still get lots of apple,” Sam said with a dry chuckle. “Girl wears herself out tryin’ to please y’all.”

“That ain’t what has her all wore out,” Jason muttered, then grimaced from the audible whack his brother gave his leg.

“You know,” Sam said, “there’s a simple solution to your problem…”

“Earplugs?” Mace quipped.

Sam shook his head. “Seems all y’all need is a little somethin’ to keep your minds off what you’ve got no business hearin’.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re gonna say. We need to find ourselves a wife.”

“A wife?” Mace quipped, his mouth stretching into a wide grin.

Both boys shared a glance then dipped their heads to continue milling into their pie. In that one glance, they seemed to share the same thought. And maybe they did. No two boys could be closer.

Men, Sam amended in his mind. They weren’t scrawny teenagers anymore. A woman, a good woman, would have herself a fine husband—if they could ever decide which would marry her.

“Strange times we live in,” Sam murmured, thinking about how the town was changing. Multiple men taking up with a single woman. He’d never have imagined it, but then, for him, there had only been Gracie. And she’d had eyes only for him.

On that melancholy note, he turned. Pie wasn’t going to satisfy his yearning. Sleep, a chance to dream about a golden-haired girl with freckles on her nose—that’s what he needed. “I’ll say good night. My job’s done. ’Night, boys.”