Prologue from Book 4 in the Voice of the Wind series

Jantz.

She had lost. Her life lay in charred ruins. She carelessly kicked aside the scattered rubble of her life. From such destruction, she regrouped, salvaged and began again.

Burying deep the pain gnawing her heart, the sorrow of tumultuous emotions and the bitterness her of anger, she turned the key upon forgetfulness ― and gazed toward the new horizon of her life.

Bethana Tourney did not surrender. She did not bow her head in humble defeat. She lifted her chin. Proud, defiant, she sucked life-sustaining air deep into her lungs. She faced the wind, shook the fiery tendrils of her hair loose, and recharged her spirit from the hot yellow sun and the wholeness of the Cloisters, green and abundant with life. The land belonged to her; the land remained forever although people walked in and out of her life. The Cloisters remained steadfast and unchanged, and, like the vintage, purified by the passage of the seasons.

Men were like the seasons; each one purified and strengthened her, much like the magical aging of a fine wine.

Yes, men were like the seasons. Just as each season’s vintage contained its own special bouquet, so too did the men in her life. Yet, after the first sip of the rarest of wines, no other wine compared and forevermore spoiled the desire for any but the rarest. So, too, were the men in her life.

She knew many imitations. None possessed either the quality of smoky flavor, the clarity of color or aromatic bouquet. The imitations scored close to the rare original, yet the essential ingredients were either missing or lacking. She knew brief flirtations, she knew chance encounters, and she knew casual tasting, but all led to continual disappointment.

No man ever compared to her first sip of love.

The essential, indescribable ingredients blended only once in perfect proportion, that after tasting and the full knowledge of intimacy, left an unquenchable thirst ― a hunger of hapless desire.

Bethana Tourney was not helpless. Oh, never helpless! She, too, was born and blended of the rarest ingredients nature bestows once in a thousand lifetimes.

Fire in purest element, a flame, she burned and consumed the sustaining elements that kindled her soul ― the air, the wind, and Jantz Fayerfield.

There were no others — only pale imitations.