tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-251135662024-02-02T03:49:10.596-07:00The O.L.D. Blog - Other Literary DabblingsMrs. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08028963139413797372noreply@blogger.comBlogger268125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-71086926121835443502014-11-22T23:44:00.002-07:002014-11-22T23:50:35.832-07:00Blog Tour: Better to See You by Gail Gaymer Martin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i style="font-weight: normal;">Better to See You: A Romantic Suspense </i></h3>
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<i style="font-weight: normal;">Based on a Fairytale b</i><i style="font-weight: normal;">y Gail Gaymer Martin</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVgWvQyWnah8GNZo9sFf-wuCVTAj6A-eL0cSAf1GYFE7ow4EpQuGy4NfjLzhVqQONp3ha49-r_QdSQh_ypcI9I7zXNsFi6hG2gZo23dV3vBbkpCVV66nhNJlylKNf8V7QbSs-/s1600/BettertoSeeYou2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVgWvQyWnah8GNZo9sFf-wuCVTAj6A-eL0cSAf1GYFE7ow4EpQuGy4NfjLzhVqQONp3ha49-r_QdSQh_ypcI9I7zXNsFi6hG2gZo23dV3vBbkpCVV66nhNJlylKNf8V7QbSs-/s1600/BettertoSeeYou2.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><i><b>Synopsis:</b> Visiting her ailing grandmother in the fairytale-like German town, Lucy Blair plans to be a caregiver during her grandma’s illness and attend the world-renowned theater production of the Passion of Christ. What Lucy did not plan was to run into her old college boyfriend, Ron Woodson, who is in Germany to learn woodcarving for his furniture making business. Will their meeting rekindle the old flame or will the past smother the new spark?</i><br />
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What People Are Saying...</h3>
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<i>"I thoroughly enjoyed this story. I grew attached to the characters, and I found it entertaining and captivating! Gail does a superb job in writing this inspiring love story. You will not be disappointed, but blessed, if you read this love story of Lucy and Ron." -- J. Smith</i><br />
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<i>"Fairy tales are all about happily ever afters. I love Gail Gaymer Martin's fairy tale inspired story because the hea and the journey there is better than any fairy tale. Mrs. Martin's characters come to life and Lucy and Ron are much deeper than any fairy tale heroine or hero. It's a perfect story for the Christmas season or to read while sunning on the beach." -- H. Harden “cowgirl”</i></div>
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<i>"I absolutely loved this book. It was a sweet story about rediscovered love and redemption. I highly recommend it to anyone, especially Christians who will especially enjoy this tender story." -- D. Lopatka</i></div>
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<i>"I just love fairy tales! Don't you? Sweet story of romance and the happily ever after. I loved the characters and felt like Gail did a great job in creating them. I loved her love of the Lord showed throughout the book. This is a great Christian romance. Look forward to more by Gail Gaymer Martin." -- Diana Montgomery</i><br />
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<b><span style="color: #351c75;">~ Interested? Guess what! <i>Better to See You</i> is only $0.99 as an e-book! Buy it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00P08PMC8/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00P08PMC8&linkCode=as2&tag=novgaigaymar-20&linkId=C4ZUQXYH7ZIHY6R5">here</a>! ~</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtvAXp_JwUY6cdsdrfePDNfmlCNdojvi8hSlh_3roHJ5CI-SFl7w2NcUSy_NkC8lR2j3AigJqpN4E-OUvvw6lZlinVKzbnIc1Mpsdl5DkTiqfsenApFpJTMX2oIRfX5IpsC29/s1600/Wall+photo+of+Gail+-+ld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtvAXp_JwUY6cdsdrfePDNfmlCNdojvi8hSlh_3roHJ5CI-SFl7w2NcUSy_NkC8lR2j3AigJqpN4E-OUvvw6lZlinVKzbnIc1Mpsdl5DkTiqfsenApFpJTMX2oIRfX5IpsC29/s1600/Wall+photo+of+Gail+-+ld.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></a><i><b>About the Author: </b>Multi-award winning, Gail Gaymer Martin, named one of the best novelists in the Detroit area by CBS local news, has fifty-five published novels and four million books sold. Gail is the author of Writers Digests Writing the Christian Romance. She is a keynote speaker and teaches writing fiction throughout the U.S. Gail is a co-founder of American Christian Fiction Writers and a member of Christian Author Network, Advanced Writers and Speakers Association and Romance Writers of America. </i></div>
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<a href="http://www.gailgaymermartin.com/">Website</a> | <a href="http://www.gailgaymermartin.com/category/writing-fiction/">Blog</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/gail.g.martin.3">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/GailGMartin">Twitter</a> | <a href="http://www.linkedin.com/in/gailgaymermartin">LinkedIn</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83354.Gail_Gaymer_Martin">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://plus.google.com/109587381229322171655/posts">Google+</a> </div>
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Noellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09231272215269606314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-88352692683097433072012-10-03T16:05:00.001-06:002012-10-03T16:05:08.033-06:00The Amish Bride <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">THE AMISH
BRIDE<o></o></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">By
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Mindy Starns
Clark<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">And Leslie
Gould<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">A beautiful
coming-of-age tale about the headstrong Mennonite-raised Ella Bayer <br />and the
handsome young Amish man she thought she would love
forever.<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"TOP PICK! This wonderful Women
of Lancaster County novel gives outsiders a glimpse at what life is like for
Amish and Mennonite young people. There are twists and turns and even a
mysterious journal that will keep readers interested. The characters are well
rounded and well thought out by two amazing authors."</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o></o></span></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">--RT Book Reviews
Magazine<o></o></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"> EXCERPT<o></o></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Chapter One</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o></o></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">My grandmother was
stalling like a little kid at bedtime. I bent down to kiss her a second time.
"<i>Mammi</i>, I really need to go. Ezra's waiting for me." He was at the end of
the lane on his motorcycle. <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"But I have
something for you." She forced her recliner down and struggled to a standing
position. "It's important."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Afraid she might
fall, I hurried to her side. "Tell me where it is," I said. "I'll get it
myself." <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She plopped back
down into her chair. "Let me see…it's a book…" <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh, boy. This wasn't
a good time from <i>Mammi</i> to start on a new topic. I sent Ezra a quick text
as she spoke, telling him to give me another minute, knowing it was bound to be
even longer than that.<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I think it's in my
room," she said. "On the dresser. Or maybe the
nightstand."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm on it." I
hurried down the narrow hall, darting into her bedroom. It was tidy as a pin,
and the dresser was bare except for <i>Mammi</i>'s hairbrush. On the nightstand
was her Bible and another leather-bound book. At first I thought it was a second
Bible, it was that big and thick.<span> </span>But when I picked it up, I noted
there was nothing written on the front. I opened the worn cover.<span>
</span>On the first page was the name "Sarah Gingrich."<i> </i>If I was
recalling my family history correctly, that was the name of <i>Mammi</i>'s
mother. <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I carefully flipped
through the book as I moved back up the hall, intrigued by the quirky things I
saw inside. It held a mix of drawings both large and small, recipes, an
occasional journal entry, and other miscellaneous writings, many of the entries
bearing dates that spanned decades in total. <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">The whole book was
offbeat, but some of the pages were especially so. They held an odd mix of
numbers and letters—or at least I thought they were letters at first glance.
Pausing in the hallway to take a closer look, I realized they weren't letters at
all but instead some sort of intricate, squiggly lines.
Bizarre.<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"<i>Mammi</i>, this
is so cool," I said as I closed the book and entered the living room. "Did this
belong to my great-grandmother?"<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Yes, and I want you
to have it." <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>"Seriously? Wow. Thanks, <i>Mammi</i>." I held the book
against my chest. "I can't wait to read it."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">My phone beeped.
Ezra! I'd forgotten all about him. Trying not to feel guilty, I told
<i>Mammi</i> I was sorry but I really had to go.<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She nodded. "Next
time you're over, I'll tell you more about my mother. She was quite the…oh, how
would you say it?" She was quiet for a moment then her faded blue eyes lit up.
"Free spirit."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Free spirit," I
echoed, looking at her. My time there was up, but I made no move to go as she
continued.<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"She was stubborn
and feisty too. Sound familiar?" Her eyebrows raised, but when I chose to ignore
her implication, she added, "Just like<i>
you.</i>"<i><o></o></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm not sure that's
a compliment."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, it is. You're
also smart like she was, and oh, so pretty. You have her thick hair and lovely
skin. You're even gifted creatively. Mostly, though, you have her
spunk."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I wasn't used to
receiving compliments from family members and felt too awkward to respond.
<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mammi</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> didn't seem to notice, though.
Instead, her eyes moved back to the book in my hands. Gazing at it, her face
began to cloud over, and I could see she was troubled. <span>
</span>"There's another thing, about the book," she said. "Just between us.
Something unique about it that you have to understand. And there's something
important I need you to do for me."<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Curious, I lowered
myself to the chair on her left and waited for her to elaborate. She gestured,
so I opened up the book, angled it so that she could see the pages, and began
flipping through.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"All of those tiny
drawings at the tops and bottoms…" Her voice trailed
off.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"These nifty little
doodles?" Glancing down, I tilted the heavy tome my way. "It's funny, but they
kind of remind me of icons. You know, like for a phone
app?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She stared at me
blankly. Of course she didn't know what a phone app was.
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"They're symbols,"
she said. "Each one represents something."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I flipped through
more pages and saw that the various icons weren't just random—they were repeated
the exact same way in different places. She was right. Symbols.
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"What are they
for?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm not sure. But
there's more."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She again gestured
with her hand, so I tilted the book back toward her and continued flipping until
she placed a pointed finger on the page to stop me.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Glancing down, I saw
that she was indicating one of the pages of weird squiggly lines. They reminded
me of letters or numbers but were unreadable, like a foreign language that used
a completely different alphabet.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"What is
this?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She sat back and
clasped her hands in her lap. "It's a code. My mother didn't want just anyone
reading her journal. So she invented a code to keep parts of it
private."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Cool." I was really
starting to like my great-grandmother Sarah.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I was studying the
squiggles more closely when I realized <i>Mammi</i> was leaning toward me in her
chair, her expression intense.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Ella, I need you to
decipher that code. Figure out how to make sense of it. The symbols too. I want
you to translate the code and the symbols into words. I need to know what it
says."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">My first reaction
was to giggle, but her face was so serious I held it in. What was this, James
Bond or something? <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm not exactly
good at this sort of thing. I mean, Zed's way smarter than I am. Why don't you
ask him?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mammi</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> placed a hand on my arm and gave
it a firm squeeze. "Never mind him. I'm asking <i>you</i>, Ella. You can do
this. You <i>have</i> to do this."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"But why?" I looked
into her eyes and was surprised to see pain there. Deep pain. "What is it,
<i>Mammi</i>? Why is this so important to you?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Without responding,
she broke our gaze, released my arm, and let herself fall back against the
chair. Eyes brimming with sadness, she turned her face away and spoke in a soft
voice. "Just let me know when you figure it out, will you? It's important to
me." Clearly, she wasn't going to elaborate. <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I sat there for a
long moment, resisting the urge to insist she explain. It was no big surprise
that she wouldn't tell me, nor that she'd asked me not to tell anyone else. Our
family was known for its secrets. I hadn't imagined there were any left, but it
looked as though I was wrong. <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"I…I'll give it a
shot, <i>Mammi, </i>but I'm not making any promises."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">She nodded. "If it
would help, maybe you could even go visit the Home Place. It's still in the
family, you know. One of your distant cousins lives there now, and I'm sure
she'd be happy for you to come out."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Visit the Home
Place? In<i> </i>Indiana? It was a neat idea, but there was no way I could take
a trip like that any time soon. There were other things in my life that were
much more pressing.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"My mother grew up
there, you know," she said dreamily, not catching the reluctance in my
expression. "You'll see she drew it in the book a lot. Sometimes the whole farm,
sometimes just a particular tree or piece of furniture or view from a certain
window. I don't know the significance of those drawings, but they are obviously
tied in with the symbols and the code somehow. Maybe if you went there yourself,
it would be easier to figure it all out."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I looked down at the
book in my hands, feeling the weight of my grandmother's request—and her
memories—pressing down on me. <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Let's take this one
step at a time, okay? I'll see what I can do here first. You never know. I might
just crack this baby wide open without having to go anywhere at
all."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mammi</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">'s eyes met mine. "Thank you,
Ella" she whispered. <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"No problem."
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">My cell phone buzzed
yet again. Poor Ezra had to be going stir-crazy by now. I closed the book and
carefully squeezed it into my backpack for safekeeping. Then I stood and gave
<i>Mammi</i> a quick kiss on the cheek. As I turned to go, she wrapped a cold
hand around my wrist. I paused and looked down at her.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">"Do whatever it
takes, Ella," she said, her voice tinged with desperation. "I'm an old woman,
and the Lord has numbered my days, but before I go to my grave, I simply
<i>have</i> to know what my mother wrote in that book."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">AUTHOR INFO</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o></o></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Mindy Starns Clark
is the #1 bestselling author of twenty books, fiction and nonfiction, including
<i>Whispers of the Bayou, Beauty to Die For, </i>and<i> </i>the ever-popular
nonfiction guide<i> The House that Cleans Itself</i>. She and her husband John
live with their two daughters near Valley Forge, PA. Visit her website at
www.mindystarnsclark.com. <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Leslie Gould is the
award-winning author of fifteen novels, including <i>Beyond the Blue, </i>winner
of <i>RT Book Club Magazine's</i> Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Inspirational
Novel. Leslie received her master of fine arts in creative writing from Portland
State University in 2009 and has taught fiction as an adjunct professor at
Multnomah University. She, her husband, Peter, and their four children live in
Portland, Oregon. Visit her website at
www.lesliegould.com.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Books in the Women
of Lancaster County Series include:<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Amish Midwife</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">, winner of the Christy Award for
Best Contemporary Novel in a Series<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">The Amish
Nanny<o></o></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Amish Bride</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Amish Seamstress,
</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">to be released
in 2013<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Amish Bride </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">is available wherever books are
sold, including christianbook.com, barnesandnoble.com, and
amazon.com.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Copyright ©2012 by Mindy Starns
Clark and Leslie Gould</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o></o></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o></span></div>
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<img height="1" src="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000160/!x-usc:http://geo.yahoo.com/serv?s=97359714/grpId=6088697/grpspId=1705737293/msgId=590/stime=1349019475/nc1=4025304/nc2=3848644/nc3=5008815" width="1" /> <br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-16471883071393809872012-09-28T13:40:00.000-06:002012-09-28T13:40:22.418-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Bm8PdC+GL._AA160_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Bm8PdC+GL._AA160_.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Where the Trail
Ends<o></o></span></span></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span> </span>"A
lovely, well-paced novel with enchanting characters and surprising plot twists.
This is not your typical Oregon Trail story—there is more love than loss and
more hope than grief on this wagon train west. Melanie Dobson gives her readers
the delight of what happens after people arrived in the Oregon Territory, with
the assurance that the end of the trail is really not the end after all."—Jane
Kirkpatrick, bestselling author of <i>All Together in One
Place</i><o></o></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: Cambria;">"… this book will have
readers feeling like they are part of the harrowing wagon train heading west on
an exciting, amazing journey that they won't want <br />to end." —RT Book
Review</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> <o></o></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">A young woman traveling
the Oregon Trail in 1842 must rely on a stranger to bring her to safety. But
whom can she trust with her heart? <o></o></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">For two thousand miles along the
trail to Oregon Country, Samantha Waldron and her family must overcome
tremendous challenges to reach the Willamette Valley before winter. But when
their canoe capsizes on the Columbia River, they must rely on handsome British
exporter Alexander Clarke to rescue them from the icy water. Samantha is
overwhelmed with men vying for her affections at Fort Vancouver, but the only
one who intrigues her—Alex—is the one she cannot have.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Melanie Dobson is the award-winning
author of twelve novels. She recently won ACFW Carol Awards for <i>Love Finds
You in Homestead, Iowa </i>and <i>The Silent Order</i>, and in 2010, <i>Love
Finds You in Liberty, Indiana </i>was chosen as the Best Book of Indiana
(fiction). Born and raised in the Midwest, she has lived all over America and
now resides with her husband and two daughters near Portland, Oregon. <i>Where
the Trail Ends</i> is her first novel set in Oregon, and she and her daughters
had fun exploring the Oregon Trail together as she researched for this novel.
Approximately three hundred thousand Americans traveled West on the Oregon
</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Trail. About thirty
thousand of them lost their lives to accidents, drowning, and cholera—one grave,
it is said, for every eighty yards of the trail.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>Where the Trail Ends</i>
is available at </span></span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000178/!x-usc:http://www.christianbook.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">www.christianbook.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000178/!x-usc:http://www.amazon.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">www.amazon.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">, and bookstores
across the country. The author's website is </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000178/!x-usc:http://www.melaniedobson.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">www.melaniedobson.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Where the Trail Ends<o></o></span></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Melanie Dobson</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Excerpt from Chapter One</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">September
1842<o></o></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Come
on," Samantha whispered.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">On past
river crossings, their company had waited for hours until one of their gentle
but often stubborn oxen decided to move forward. They couldn't afford to wait
here for hours—it would be dark soon, and they needed to set up their camp and
cook supper while it was still light. If their oxen wouldn't budge, the
thirty-two people already on shore would have to continue on and circle up for
camp without them. The Waldrons would catch up once the oxen decided to
move.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Boaz
nipped at the hindquarters of the nigh ox, George, and he bellowed, stepping
forward with Abe, the ox yoked beside him. Then they stopped again.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Jack
rode back into the river, steering his horse toward their raft. Samantha
couldn't see his dark brown hair under his wide-brimmed hat, but she could see
the focus in his face, the strength of his arms as he guided his
horse.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">When he
glanced over at her, she blushed. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Micah
elbowed her. "Someone's sweet on you." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Hush,"
she whispered. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Papa
says you're going to marry him." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
elbowed him back. "I told you to hush." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Micah
tipped his hat low over his shaggy hair, but she could still see the grin on his
face. Jack whipped the oxen, yelling at them to move. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
winced every time the whip hit their backs. She knew it was necessary to prod
them forward—an ox refused to be led—but she hated seeing any animal in pain,
especially these oxen that had pulled almost two tons of weight for more than a
thousand miles.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Mama
believed in angels—the fiery messengers mentioned in the book of Hebrews who
were sent to care for those on the road to salvation. Mama would have asked God
to send these angels to help both the oxen and the men, so Samantha did as well,
quietly asking God to send help in nudging the oxen forward.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">The two
men continued shouting, goading with their whips and sticks, but the oxen fought
them, almost as if they were afraid of dangers on the other side of this river.
More men joined them, trying to coax the animals to move.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
breathed with relief when the oxen stepped again, heaving as they moved toward
the shore. She'd spent much of this trip holding her breath, not knowing what
might happen next, but with Papa and Jack and perhaps a host of angels at the
helm, they would make it safely to the end of this journey.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">The
wagon shook, the hitch chain clanking, as the oxen tugged again. This time they
didn't stop pulling until they reached the other side.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Micah
hopped off the wagon with a loud cheer and waded beside Boaz through the shallow
water and up the bank. Before she jumped to the ground, Samantha slipped off her
moccasins and dropped them into her apron pocket. Jack dismounted, and she took
his proffered hand, thanking him as she slid off the bench.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
tried to focus, dipping her feet into the blessed coolness of the river before
wading to shore. "I think our oxen are afraid of you."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">He
laughed. "Not me as much as my stick." "They certainly obeyed you." He helped
her climb up the muddy bank. "We had a dozen oxen back home." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
glanced over at him. "You miss your farm, don't you?" </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"It was
my parents' farm, not mine. And no, I don't miss it." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
stepped onto the land and turned toward him. "But you miss your family."
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">He
released her hand with a slight bow of his head. "Very much." </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
wished they had hours to linger, talk. But Jack moved away quickly, back among
the company of the other men as they prodded the Waldrons' oxen forward again.
Their wagon clamored, the contents banging, as the oxen heaved it up the
bank.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Boaz
rushed down to her, like he was needed to escort her now that Jack had gone, and
she bent to pet him before they joined more than a dozen women, four children,
and a swarm of animals on the flat land.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Get
that dog out of here," the captain barked behind her.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
turned around, glaring at the man down the bank. She wished Boaz would bark
back.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"We're
going," she said, but she didn't think he heard, as he ordered the men to stock
up with water. Even after five months on this journey, she didn't believe the
captain knew the name of her dog...or even Samantha's first name, for that
matter. She supposed she should be glad he was keenly focused on the details of
the journey rather than the names of the people and their pets, but he could at
least try to be polite.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Lucille
McLean waved, but Samantha thought she saw a trace of jealousy behind her
friend's smile. She waved back, trying to shrug off the feeling that she'd done
something wrong. It wasn't like she'd asked Jack Doyle for help off the wagon.
The man did make her heart flutter a bit, but she hadn't determined whether she
liked the fluttering, nor had she confided her conflicting feelings to Lucille.
Her friend was convinced that she would be changing her name to Lucille <i>Doyle
</i>when they reached the end of their journey.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Lucille
lifted the muddy hem of her skirt, but not a single strand of blond hair escaped
her pink bonnet as she moved toward Samantha. "I'll be perfectly fine if I never
have to cross another river again."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
grinned. "You didn't enjoy the ride?"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Hardly." Lucille nodded toward the Waldrons' wagon as it emerged
on the hill. "Did you fill your barrel with water?"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
shook her head. "Papa will fill it."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Oxen and
dogs milled around the people and the contents from the wagons scattered among
the sagebrush. After boxes and barrels were jostled in the river crossing, most
of the emigrants wanted to repack their loads before they continued.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"I need
to fill my canteen," Gerty Morrison said, holding out her two-year-old daughter
to Lucille. Lucille welcomed the child into her arms.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">As Gerty
climbed into the back of her family's emptied wagon, wind stole over the river,
rustling the canvas bonnets on the wagons. Colt barked, and Mrs. Kneedler hushed
him.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
scanned the barren hills around them, but she didn't see anything unusual.
Several companies of Indians had followed them along their journey—curious, she
supposed, about the white men and women who traveled through their lands. The
captain had traded shirts and fishhooks for food, and one of the Indians had
tried to barter with Papa to exchange Samantha for three horses. Fortunately,
Papa declined.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Two more
dogs began barking, and then one growled. Her skin prickled. If the dogs had
spotted a rabbit or a prairie dog, one of them would have chased it down by
now.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Something else was wrong.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
didn't know exactly what happened next, but Colt charged at an ox as if it were
a wolf or bear. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"No!"
Mr. Kneedler shouted, chasing after his dog, but it was too late.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">The ox
lumbered forward, no one to guide him. And then another ox followed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Dust
billowed into a maddening cloud and Samantha waved her hands in front of her
face, trying to see. The oxen bellowed in unison as a thundering sound rippled
across the company.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Stampede!" someone yelled.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">People
scattered as the oxen pushed toward the hills. Clods of dirt flew off the
ground; bows cracked as oxen broke loose of their yokes.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
couldn't see. Couldn't breathe.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">All the
dogs were barking now, and the oxen harnessed to the Morrisons' wagon took off
after the others. Gerty screamed, and through the dust, Samantha saw Gerty
peeking out of the back flap as though trying to determine whether she should
jump.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Men ran
toward the oxen. Lucille and the other women ran away from the wagons, their
screams echoing in Samantha's ears.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Samantha
ran toward her father.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Steady," she heard Papa say as he clung to the oxbow on the lead
team, his voice a controlled calm in the midst of the chaos.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Where's
Micah?" she shouted.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Hold on
to them!" Papa yelled. She reached for the bow on the other side, trying to
anchor the large animals to the ground.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">A child
cried out from the storm of dust, and she turned around, searching for her
brother. "I have to find Micah!"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Steady," Papa said again before he looked across at her. "Go,
Samantha."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">A horse
raced past her, and she jumped back, coughing as she scanned the chaos. She
glimpsed her brother's blond hair close to a rock, but then he was
gone.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">"Micah!"
she yelled as she tore through the confusion. God help all of them.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande";">© </span></b>Melanie Dobson,
2012</span></span></div>
Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-85055760608832588532012-09-21T12:55:00.001-06:002012-09-21T12:55:23.819-06:00A Hidden Truth<div id="ygrp-text">
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> </div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a Home to Amana
novel<o></o></span></div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXas9w0GqaRCLSq-_-kDoIVBa9x1vVwwROS6K0PwbrXk5OZmz2nCRvpG6oU9vKhKv17O7YNcz2LOuAXxKDWHziXUAzahfxYG_H7-7FyIh4qs6n1U8JEzenS7BJCvi36995dthM/s1600/hidden+truth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXas9w0GqaRCLSq-_-kDoIVBa9x1vVwwROS6K0PwbrXk5OZmz2nCRvpG6oU9vKhKv17O7YNcz2LOuAXxKDWHziXUAzahfxYG_H7-7FyIh4qs6n1U8JEzenS7BJCvi36995dthM/s320/hidden+truth.jpg" width="206" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">by
<span style="color: #660000;"><strong><st1>Judi</st1>th Miller<o></o></strong></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Released
September 1, 2012</span></div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o></o></span> </div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ABOUT THE
BOOK</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">:<o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In the closed
communities of the Amana Colonies, hidden truths are about to change everything
for two young women...<br /><br />When Karlina Richter discovers that a new shepherd
will be sent to her village, she fears she'll no longer be allowed to help her
father with the sheep. She'll be relegated back to kitchen work, stuck inside
all day. Her fears increase when the new shepherd shows little interest in the
flock--or in divulging why he's suddenly been sent to East. Is he keeping
secrets that will impact Karlina's family?<br /><br />Dovie Cates visits the Amana
Colonies to learn more about the place where her mother grew up. But when Dovie
begins to ask questions about her mother's past, no one seems willing to reveal
anything, so she decides to take matters into her own hands. Will the answers
she finds spell disaster for her future plans and the longings of her heart?
<o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000078/!x-usc:http://www.melaniedobson.com/"></a><o></o></span><br /></div>
<div align="left" class="textfirst" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="textfirst" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Chapter
1<o></o></span></div>
<div align="center" class="textfirst" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Saturday,
October 29, 1892<o></o></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="textfirst" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Over-the-Rhine
District, cincinnati, <st1><st1>Ohio</st1></st1><o></o></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="textfirst" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dovie
Cates<o></o></span></i></div>
<div class="textfirst" style="text-indent: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="textfirst" style="text-indent: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>"I
won't be going with you."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="textfirst">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My breath
evaporated in thin, ghostlike whorls as I uttered the words.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The skirt of my
black mourning dress whipped in the brisk breeze, and I pressed a gloved hand
against the fabric before turning to meet my father's steely
gaze.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Never before had
I spoken with such authority. But life had changed. And not for the
better.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I had questions.
Questions that couldn't be answered by my father.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Dovie Cates,
you become more like your mother every day." My father's eyes
softened.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">His
reaction surprised me. I was nothing like my mother. At least not in my mind. We
had shared the same thick chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes, but my mother had
been quiet and unassuming, unwilling to speak of her past or consider the
future. Traits that were nothing like my own. I fought back tears and the lump
that threatened to lodge in my throat. In retrospect, it was likely best Mother
hadn't worried about the future, for her life had been shorter than most. A
future cut short nearly two months ago when she'd succumbed to the ravages of
influenza.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Death had robbed
her of a future, and it had robbed me of answers. Answers I'd been seeking.
Answers about her past—her life before she'd left <st1><st1>Iowa</st1></st1>,
before she'd met my father, and before I'd been born. Answers about her time in
the Amana Colonies.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Father and I
progressed along a sidewalk that fronted the narrow brick-and-frame houses built
flush with the streets in the Over-the-Rhine district of Cincinnati. Sidewalks
mopped or scrubbed clean each day by the German immigrants who lived in the tidy
houses with backyard flower and vegetable gardens. Houses similar to the one in
which I'd lived all of my twenty-two years.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My father
reached inside his coat and withdrew his pipe. "Well, you can't remain in
<st1><st1>Cincinnati</st1></st1>. I've arranged for the sale of the house, and a
single young woman with no means of support, alone in the city . . ." His
unfinished sentence hung in the wintry air, defying argument.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Hoping to gain
his accord, I nodded my agreement. "I don't want to remain in
<st1><st1>Cincinnati</st1></st1>, either."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He slowed his
step and cupped his hand around the bowl of his pipe. Holding a match to the
bowl, he puffed until the tobacco glowed red and smoke lifted toward the azure
sky. "If you don't want to go to <st1>Texas</st1> with me and you don't plan to
remain in <st1><st1>Cincinnati</st1></st1>, what is it you have in
mind?"<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There was no
telling how my father would react to the idea. Before speaking, I clenched my
hands and sent a silent prayer heavenward. "I want to go to
<st1><st1>Iowa</st1></st1>—to the Amana Colonies—and learn of Mother's
past."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His jaw went
slack and the pipe slipped a notch before he clamped his lips tight around the
stem. Confusion clouded his dark eyes, and he shook his head.
"Foolishness."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"It isn't!" I
argued. "I've given the matter a great deal of thought, and I believe it is an
excellent idea."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Could my father
not realize how lonely I would be in <st1><st1>Texas</st1></st1>? While he would
be at work during the day and even out of town for short periods of time, I
would be left alone in a strange city with nothing to occupy my time, without
any friends—and without my mother.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Tell me, how
did you come to such a conclusion?"<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Mother would
never tell me about her past—nothing before her marriage to you. Only once did
she mention she had lived in the Amana Colonies, but whenever I tried to learn
more, she refused to tell me. What can you tell me about her life back
then?"<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Not much. And
maybe your mother didn't talk about the past because it wasn't of any importance
to her." My father blew a ring of smoke into the air.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When I didn't
respond, he sighed.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"She did have a
cousin, Louise, and they wrote to each other for a number of years." His brows
furrowed. "Your mother and this Louise lived in the village known as <st1>East
Amana</st1>, and they were as close as sisters—at least that's what your mother
told me. When your grandparents decided to leave <st1><st1>Iowa</st1></st1>,
your mother was forlorn. I was never certain what caused them to leave, but I
know it had something to do with your grandfather. I didn't ask a lot of
questions."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Why? Weren't
you inquisitive?" A strand of hair escaped, and I tucked it beneath my black
bonnet.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A house
<i>Frau</i> with bucket in hand opened her front door and prepared to scrub the
steps leading to the border of sidewalk. She smiled a toothy grin. <i>"Guten
Morgen."<o></o></i></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Guten Morgen,"
my father and I replied in unison.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He took another
puff from his pipe as we continued onward. "No, I wasn't particularly curious,
and your mother never had any desire to discuss the past. Still, I knew her
German roots were important to her. When she asked to settle in the
Over-the-Rhine district rather than in another section of
<st1><st1>Cincinnati</st1></st1>, I didn't argue. My work kept me away long
hours, and I knew that until she learned English, she would be more comfortable
among other Germans." He shrugged. "I knew there was no way to change anything
that had happened in her past."<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His answer
surprised me. "Maybe not change it, but perhaps you could have better understood
her, if you'd learned of her past." He shook his head as if to disagree, but I
didn't stop. "What we learn from the past can help us form the future, don't you
think?"<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">WHAT PEOPLE ARE
SAYING:<o></o></span></b></div>
<div class="text" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Miller's
Daughters of Amana is historical romance at its best. The characters are
determined to find where they belong, sometimes with unanticipated results."
–Romantic Times<o></o></span></div>
<div class="text" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="text" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Steeped in
period details that only a seasoned historical novelist can provide, this
heartwarming story will meet the expectations of her fans as well as please
critics. Extensive research backs every page of this meticulous, well—crafted
work." –ForeWord Reviews on <i>More Than Words</i><o></o></span></div>
<div class="text">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ABOUT THE
AUTHOR:<o></o></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Visit
<st1>Judi</st1>th's website at <a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000078/!x-usc:http://www.judithmccoymiller.com/"><span style="color: #247cd4;">www.judithmccoymiller.com</span></a><o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Visit her blog
at <a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000078/!x-usc:http://www.judithmccoymiller.com/blog"><span style="color: #247cd4;">www.judithmccoymiller.com/blog</span></a><o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Visit her on
Facebook at <a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000078/!x-usc:http://www.facebook.com/judithmccoymiller"><span style="color: #247cd4;">www.facebook.com/judithmccoymiller</span></a><o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A Hidden
Truth</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> is available
</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">wherever
books are sold, including christianbook.com, barnesandnoble.com, and
amazon.com.</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Copyright 2012
by <st1>Judi</st1>th Miller<o></o></span></div>
<br /></div>
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Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-83809072277223029322012-09-06T14:35:00.000-06:002012-09-06T14:35:21.151-06:00Dying to Read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/173120000/173126503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="320" src="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/173120000/173126503.JPG" width="206" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
DYING TO READ</div>
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<br /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Book 1, The Cate Kinkaid Files </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Lorena McCourtney</div>
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<br />
"Lorena McCourtney's lively cozy mysteries hit all the right notes for me, and her newest doesn't miss a chord. A quirky, likable heroine, a handsome guy, and oh, a murder. Don't miss Cate Kinkaid's first case as a PI. It's a killer."--Lyn Cote, author of La Belle Christiane<br />
<br /><br />
Cate Kinkaid, desperate for a job, goes to work as an assistant private investigator. Her first assignment is supposed to be easy and uncomplicated, no danger or mayhem, and murder isn't even a possibility. Instead, she finds herself up to her elbows in Whodunit ladies, a paint-blobbed hunk, a deaf white cat - and killers.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Chapter One
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Cate glanced at the identification card her Uncle Joe had printed out just before she left his office. Cate Kinkaid, Assistant Private Investigator. Complete with the photo he'd snapped, which showed a spike of red hair growing out of her left ear, and the address and phone number of Belmont Investigations.<br />
An identification card that made her – what? An overage Nancy Drew? An underage Jessica Fletcher? A clueless Stephanie Plum? <br />
Whatever, she was getting desperate, and the job was only temporary, not a lifetime commitment. She was, as Uncle Joe had put it, just dipping her toe into the world of private investigation. Just until one of the many résumés she had floating around brought results. All she had to do today was check on a woman named Willow Bishop living at an address on Meisman Street here in Eugene, Oregon, and then write up a brief report for the files.<br />
Although Cate hadn't expected the house to look as if it had jumped off the cover of some old Gothic novel. She parked at the bottom of the steep driveway and stared up at the unlikely old place sitting on an oversized parcel among a subdivision of modest homes. Not dilapidated, but weathered and brooding, with oddly-shaped windows tucked into unlikely nooks , and several upper windows painted over. A witch, or maybe a vampire or vulture, wouldn't look out of place peeking over the peaked roof of a corner turret.<br />
No witches, vampires, or vultures lurking today, Cate decided as she walked up the driveway. Not unless they'd taken to using Lincolns or Buicks as transportation. A handful of older women milled around the front porch. One woman was punching the doorbell with open-up-or-else ferocity. Another had her hands pressed to the sides of her face as she peered in a window. <br />
A plump, blond woman in pink spotted Cate and immediately charged out to meet her. "Willow, thank goodness you're here! We've been waiting twenty minutes and—" She stopped and peered at Cate with disapproval. "Oh, you're not Willow, are you?" <br />
"Actually, I'm looking for Willow myself. Willow Bishop?"<br />
"I don't know that I've ever heard her last name. Are you her sister?"<br />
"Does she have a sister?"<br />
"I don't know. You look like a sister." <br />
Cate had realized the description Joe had given her for Willow Bishop, age 26, 5'4", 120 pounds, red hair, blue eyes, came close to fitting Cate too, but apparently the similarity was even closer than the numbers suggested. Although she was nearer the dreaded 30 than 26. <br />
"No, I'm no relation. It's a business matter." Joe had emphasized that the work Belmont Investigations did was strictly confidential. "And you are?"<br />
"Fiona Maxwell." <br />
Another woman, tall and gaunt and clothed in more purple than Cate had ever seen on one person, said, "We're the Whodunit Book Club. We read a mystery and meet every other week to discuss it. Today we're meeting here at Amelia's house."<br />
<br />
"She's our club president this year," a short woman with a squeaky voice added.<br />
<br />
"Someone named Amelia, not Willow, lives here?" Cate asked.<br />
"Willow lives here, but she works for Amelia.," Fiona said. "We're supposed to have lunch here at 12:00, and it's already—" <br />
Purple Woman filled in a time. "12:30." The broad brim of her purple hat flopped with indignation as she spoke.<br />
"Amelia can be so rude. Making us wait out here like this." This woman, in a long, suede skirt, cowboy boots, and spur earrings, waved the book in her hand. "And insisting we read Wuthering Heights was ridiculous. It's no whodunit."<br />
<br />
"It wasn't any worse than that awful spy thing you suggested last month, Texie," Fiona snapped.<br />
"At least I had lunch on time," Texie snapped back. <br />
Cate decided a prudent retreat was advisable before she found herself in the crossfire of a book war. Cowgirl-garbed Texie, more toned and tanned than the other women, looked as if she could be a tough adversary. Maybe she had a six-shooter tucked away in that outfit.<br />
<br />
"Could Amelia be ill, and that's why she isn't answering the door?" Cate asked.<br />
The women exchanged glances. What seemed a logical thought to Cate apparently hadn't occurred to them.<br />
<br />
"I suppose it's possible," the woman in purple said, although the agreement sounded reluctant. "She's never sick, but she's always complaining about her fluttering heartbeat."<br />
"It's her eyelashes that flutter. Whenever any good-looking male comes within flutter distance. And it doesn't matter who the male belongs to." Texie planted her fists on her hips. The venom in her voice suggested personal experience.<br />
What Cate couldn't figure out was why this group bothered to meet, given the hostility billowing around them. Not her concern, however. She turned to go. She could come back tomorrow. Although it did seem odd that neither Amelia nor Willow was around to feed what was apparently an expected horde of hungry mystery readers.<br />
<br />
"Is there someone you could call who would have a key so you could go in and see if everything's okay?" Cate asked.<br />
"Actually," Fiona said slowly, with a wary glance at the others, "I have a key. I didn't want to mention it because when Amelia gave it to me she said not to let anyone else know I had it."<br />
"But she gave me one and said the same thing!" Purple Woman dug in an oversized purple purse and whipped out a key on a metal ring.<br />
Almost instantly, five identical keys on five identical metal rings dangled from five not-so-identical fingers. Purple nails on the gaunt woman. Short, bitten-to-the-quick nails on Texie. Elegant, silvery-pink on another woman who now said, "Well, isn't that just like Amelia?" <br />
<br />
"Why is that like Amelia?" Cate asked.<br />
Texie took a step forward to answer. "Because she's underhanded and sneaky, that's why." Texie sounded triumphant, as if this were something she'd wanted to proclaim for a long time.<br />
Purple Woman tilted her head thoughtfully. "It's a psychological thing. A power play. She wants to make you feel special, so you'll be indebted to her."<br />
<br />
"I was in a garden club that broke up because of one awful woman," Texie said. "So then we got together and reorganized without her." She glanced around as if looking for support for a reorganization.<br />
<br />
"Amelia'd find out," Fiona said, her uneasy tone suggesting the consequences could be dire. <br />
In spite of the dangling keys, the women didn't seem inclined to make use of them. When Cate suggested someone unlock the door, a discussion followed, the consensus being that Amelia would be outraged if she unexpectedly found them all inside her house.<br />
Cate impatiently grabbed a key. "Tell her to blame me then." She marched up the front steps and stuck the key in the lock.<br />
With the door open, the Whodunit ladies swarmed inside. They headed for the dining room, apparently hoping lunch would materialize there, but Cate took a moment to glance around the living room.<br />
Unlike the Gothic-gloom exterior of the old house, the interior held sleek, Danish modern furniture, an oversized flat-panel TV, and recessed lighting. Bookcases winged out on either side of a white marble fireplace. A curtain of wooden beads hung over the entrance to the turret room. A curved staircase, more southern-plantation than Gothic, swept to the second floor. A flamboyant painting of three green eyes immersed in what looked like a cauldron of boiling beans hung over the fireplace. Cate wasn't knowledgeable enough about art to identify what style the painting represented, but this was definitely a house with a split personality.<br />
"The table isn't even set for lunch!" the squeaky-voiced person squeaked from the dining room. <br />
Another voice suggested they move the meeting to a nice tea-room over near the university.<br />
<br />
"But it's Amelia's turn to provide lunch! She shouldn't get to just wiggle out of it. Sometimes she can be so cheap," Fiona said. "Remember that time she said she was serving lobster, but it turned out to be that imitation kind?"<br />
<br />
"She's not cheap when she's buying shoes. Have you ever priced those Jimmy Choo's she likes?"<br />
"Hey, wait." This voice came from farther back in the kitchen. "This is odd."<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
(Published by Revell. Copyright 2012, Lorena McCourtney. Do not reproduce without permission.)<br />
DYING TO READ is available in both print and e-book editions in many bookstores and at:<br />
Barnes and Noble<br />
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Christianbook.com<br />
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For more information about Lorena and her books, see her website at <a href="http://www.lorenamccourtney.com/">http://www.lorenamccourtney.com</a><br />
<br />
Or join her on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/lorena.mccourtney <br />
Happy Reading!<br />
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Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-24549911212986530052012-08-30T15:44:00.000-06:002012-08-30T15:44:09.501-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://g.christianbook.com/g/product/6/672934.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" src="http://g.christianbook.com/g/product/6/672934.gif" /></a></div>
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BEAUTY TO DIE FOR<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
By Kim Alexis</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and Mindy Starns Clark</div>
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This exciting new cozy mystery goes to a luxurious spa—and behind </div>
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the scenes of the beauty industry—as it weaves a fascinating tale </div>
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of betrayal, intrigue, and murder.</div>
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"With Alexis' knowledge of the modeling world and Clark's mastery at mysteries, this is a novel not to be missed.--RT Book Reviews Magazine<br />
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Former supermodel Juliette Taylor is on her way to Palm Grotto spa when she runs into Raven, an old colleague known for her fiery red hair and even fierier temper. Two hours later, Raven is found dead. Now Juliette must try to learn who killed her old modeling rival and why—before she becomes the prime suspect.<br />
<br />
Or the next victim.<br />
<br />
<br />
EXCERPT<br />
<br />
From Chapter One<br />
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<br />
Kill me now.<br />
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Juliette froze at the end of the jetway, staring at the vivid flash of red hair in the crowd up ahead. The woman was just one of many pouring out from a nearby gate, but all it took was a glimpse of those distinctive red waves for Juliette to know exactly who she was. <br />
<br />
Not today, not when Juliette was already dealing with so much. Please, not her. <br />
<br />
But it was her, it had to be. Juliette would know those flaming tresses anywhere. Only one person on earth could carry off that height and color and style with such absolute flair.<br />
The great Raven herself. <br />
<br />
Juliette ducked, hiding among the throng spilling out around her, then worked her way to one side and moved behind a wide pillar. Cheeks burning, she adjusted a strap on her carry-on as the crowd swept past. <br />
<br />
What were the odds of ending up in the same gate area of the same airport on the same day as her former cohort? Yet it had happened, even way out here in the middle of the California desert—a near-encounter with a fellow supermodel, one who'd been in the business at the same time as Juliette, back in the '80s. Raven, of all people. Ugh.<br />
<br />
The phone in Juliette's pocket gave off the signal for a text, so she pulled it out and checked the message. It was from Didi, her best friend and business partner, who had flown out two days before to prepare for the big event they would be hosting over the weekend at one of the spas that carried their "JT Lady" line of beauty products. The message said: Am in cell lot. Text when you get in. <br />
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Thumbs flying, Juliette replied: I'm here, but u'll never guess who else is. <br />
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Didi's response was quick: ?<br />
<br />
Smiling to herself, Juliette typed, THE RED DRAGON<br />
<br />
Didi's reply—!!!!!!!—was followed by a second text: RAVEN? No way! <br />
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Juliette nodded to herself as she typed. Yep, am hiding now. Can't come out till coast is clear. <br />
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Didi's final response: No prob, take ur time. Oh yeah, be sure to check out billboard at carousel 3. <br />
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Juliette slipped the phone into her pocket and shifted around the pillar to take another look. Scanning the crowd, she spotted the regal redhead moving through the exit at the end of the long hallway. Glad to have dodged that particular bullet, she gripped the handle of her carry-on and moved from behind the pillar then made her way to baggage claim and carousel three. <br />
<br />
The moment she spotted the sign, her face eased into a smile. Mounted on the back wall, the huge billboard featured an inviting photo of Palm Grotto Spa's world-famous mineral pool, a handsome couple floating side by side in its turquoise waters. In the lower half of the sign, in blazing white text against even deeper blue water, were the words: <br />
<br />
It's Your Turn . . .<br />
<br />
A Juliette Taylor Event<br />
<br />
Under that was her company's brand new slogan: <br />
<br />
Isn't it time someone took care of you for a change?<br />
<br />
The whole thing was just so striking. She sent Didi a text that she was ready and waiting at baggage claim then spent a minute a two taking in the gorgeous new sign from various angles. She was snapping a final photo with her phone's camera, about to head outside, when she was startled by a nearby scream.<br />
<br />
Juliette spun around to see Raven standing not ten feet away, yelling and cursing at an elderly luggage porter who seemed to have dropped one of her bags. <br />
<br />
Time for a quick getaway, before Raven spotted her. Juliette scanned the area for a hiding place, but even as she saw a restroom she could duck into, she hesitated. The poor old man didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. It wasn't right. Juliette let loose a sigh. She couldn't run and hide. In the past she'd seen Raven go on like this for a full five or ten minutes, but she'd also seen the woman's attitude change on a dime, even in the midst of her most vicious rant, if she felt like it. Hoping that would be the case here, Juliette took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and strode forward.<br />
<br />
Time to slay the fire-breathing dragon—or at least keep her from burning someone else. <br />
<br />
Marcus Stone stood in the doorway of the old warehouse, looking around at the near-empty space inside. For the past six months this had been command central for JATFAT—the Joint Atlanta Task Force Against Terrorism. Filled with personnel and equipment, it had served as a top-secret beehive of activity, everyone working together toward a singular goal: the seizure of a newly activated terrorist cell based in metro Atlanta. That goal had been achieved last month with the arrest of all the cell's members, and now, after several weeks of processing, investigating, and debriefing, things had finally begun to wind down. <br />
<br />
At this point the place held only a few workstations and a handful of people, the core members of the team. Marcus spotted the man he was there to see, Special Agent in Charge Nate Anderson, near the back of the room, trying to close a window. <br />
<br />
He headed that way. "Need some help?" <br />
<br />
Nate turned. "Hey, Stone, how you doing?" <br />
<br />
The two men shook hands. "Fine. You?" <br />
<br />
Nate gestured toward the window. "Not too good at the moment. Somebody thought we needed some fresh air in here today, and now it's stuck open." With a shrug, he added, "It's the crickets. Still can't tolerate that sound." <br />
<br />
Marcus could hear the cacophony of chirps outside, typical in Georgia for this time of year. He stepped forward to lend a hand, and the two men wrestled with the stubborn windowpane until frame met sill with a thud. <br />
<br />
"It's been eleven years." Nate's voice was guttural and low. "But the minute I hear the chirping, might as well have been yesterday. Three hundred and forty-three of 'em under the rubble, all going off at once, and not a thing we could do about it." <br />
<br />
Marcus could feel a tightening in his chest as he, too, remembered. "You're talking about the PASS alarms after 9/11." Short for Personal Alert Safety Systems, the distress signals were designed to go off whenever the emergency workers wearing them became immobile for more than thirty seconds, to indicate they were in trouble. After the towers fell, more than three hundred firefighters had been trapped, immobile, below the rubble. <br />
<br />
Less than a minute later, their alarms began to go off. <br />
<br />
Nate nodded. "Those alarms sounded just like a bunch of crickets to me. It was bad enough at the beginning, when there were so many and we couldn't get to any of them. But it was even worse when things started quieting down. Batteries dying one by one." <br />
<br />
Marcus remembered. It had taken more than a day for the last of those beeps to stop. He'd hated the silence even more than the noise. <br />
<br />
Nate grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. "Anyway, what's up? Can I do something for you?" <br />
<br />
Marcus took a deep breath and blew it out, not sure how to broach the topic he'd come here to discuss. "I need to talk with you for a minute. It's about that list of names we found among the papers recovered from the terrorist cell."<br />
<br />
"Oh?" Nate moved toward his desk and gestured for Marcus to have a seat on the other side as he dug through the file drawer and located a copy of the paper in question, the name list. Among the evidence that had been collected in the wake of the capture of the terrorist cell last month had been a typed list of ten names, most of them recognizable to those on the task force. Three were public figures who spoke out against the counterfeiting of designer goods, such as knock-off purses, counterfeit DVDs, and fake perfumes and cosmetics. Four were members of Congress who were working to toughen federal anti-counterfeiting laws. The connection for the remaining three names was less clear, but with some investigation it was determined that the list was comprised of ten people whose actions could be financially detrimental to the cell's counterfeit-based money raising activities in one way or another. <br />
<br />
Marcus skimmed the names upside down now, remembering the first time he'd seen that list, just a few weeks before, and shock he'd felt when he'd come to her name<br />
<br />
"Number six," he said gruffly. <br />
<br />
Nate ran his finger along the list and stopped there. "Oh yeah, the former supermodel?" <br />
<br />
Marcus nodded, swallowing hard. "Yep, that's the one. I'm here because I need to talk to you about her, about Juliette Taylor." <br />
<br />
AUTHOR INFO<br />
<br />
<br />
Mindy Starns Clark is the #1 bestselling author of 20 books, fiction and nonfiction including the Christy award-winning The Amish Midwife, the ever-popular nonfiction guide The House that Cleans Itself, and more. Visit her website at www.mindystarnsclark.com. <br />
<br />
Kim Alexis was an original supermodel of the 80's, appearing on more than 500 magazine covers and in numerous beauty advertisements. Today she is a television host, author, speaker, and fitness enthusiast. Visit her website at www.kimalexis.com.<br />
<br />
Beauty to Die For is available wherever books are sold, including christianbook.com, barnesandnoble.com, and amazon.com.<br />
<br />
Copyright ©2012 by Mindy Starns Clark and Kim Alexis Pro. Inc.<br />
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Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-30550953135685608622012-08-21T09:50:00.003-06:002012-08-21T09:50:55.698-06:00House of Mercy<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By <span style="color: #660000;"><strong>Erin Healy</strong></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpCKup8AEbxzl4MSjnVYEvRVXPzPbqsyuYwnP_uFQ_xw412sfHJIFxJcCwtPRL-okgKFY949symBbhiaDaAzFMmuHQ0NBNwWvJm6qiyhAgkBGwPvTxMEqQDA-nrnOXstSamcY/s1600/house+of+mercy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpCKup8AEbxzl4MSjnVYEvRVXPzPbqsyuYwnP_uFQ_xw412sfHJIFxJcCwtPRL-okgKFY949symBbhiaDaAzFMmuHQ0NBNwWvJm6qiyhAgkBGwPvTxMEqQDA-nrnOXstSamcY/s320/house+of+mercy.jpg" width="208" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>House of Mercy</i> is a
supernatural suspense novel about an aspiring large-animal vet, Beth Borzoi, who
has a healing gift. But when she is sued for a terrible mistake, the judgment
devastates her family's ranch and leads to a loved one's death. It seems God
ignores her prayers for mercy. Guided by a mysterious wolf, the heartbroken Beth
embarks on a journey to find the only person who can help her save the ranch,
not knowing that he too has recently lost everything. Set in the stunning and
rugged terrain of Southern Colorado, <i>House of Mercy </i>follows Beth through
the valley of the shadow of death and into the unfathomable miracles of God's
grace.</span></span></div>
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<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Supernatural and spiritual
elements about in Healy's novels, and this one is no exception. Unusual
storytelling helps to make the message stronger and more thought-provoking." RT
Book Reviews, 4 Stars</span></div>
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<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">***</span></div>
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<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Phil was grinning at Beth, standing
in the barn's alley next to the tallest, glossiest, most beautiful Thoroughbred
horse she'd ever seen. She felt her lips form an O as admiration filled her next
breath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span> </span>"Beth, meet
Java Java Go Joe. Joe, meet Beth."</span></span></div>
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<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The horse's name was appropriate,
considering the sheen of his coat, an oily dark-roasted coffee bean. The stud's
track record at the races and in siring winners had lived up to the moniker
too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Your reputation precedes you,
sire," Beth said. The stallion before her, the Kandinskys' guest, was more than
seventeen hands high and glistening, majestic. It took Beth a long time to
notice that Joe was saddled and ready to ride.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"No," her mouth said, while her
heart cried yes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Phil gestured to the blocks at
Joe's side. "A small gesture of our appreciation," he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth stroked the animal's neck, and
his muscles flickered under the skin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"I shouldn't. I can't."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Sure you can," Phil
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth shook her head. "It's
wrong."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"What's wrong with giving a
champion like him any excuse to relive the glory days? He resents that they only
love him for his stud fees anymore. He told me so."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth laughed and found herself
standing on the blocks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"I guessed at your stirrup length,"
he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Then we should see how good at
guesswork you are," she said, and she was astride Joe's strong back before she
could decide not to be. Beth felt him shift, evaluating her size and weight. She
inserted her feet in the stirrups. Phil's estimate was perfect. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Ten minutes," Phil urged. "No
harm, no foul. In the three days he's been here he's blazed a trail all his own
around the center pasture. Let him show you around."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Taking the horse out to the pasture
at this midnight hour was a risky and maybe even stupid idea. And yet she had
often dreamed of riding a horse like this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span> </span>"Here." Phil
handed her a helmet.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"I don't need one of those for a
little canter."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Yeah yeah. I know how these things
start."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She snatched up the helmet and
strapped it under her chin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"I hope you don't lose your job
over this," she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"I won't. This is you: Her Majesty
the animal whisperer. I'm not worried about a thing."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Her understanding of an animal's
spirit was what would make her a great veterinarian some day, Beth's father
often said. She could sense, in the light dance of Joe's feet as she leaned
forward in the saddle, that the creature was happy to go for a ride this
evening. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">With a gentle heel, she nudged Joe
toward the fresh air. He needed no other prompt. They passed through the wide
doors and then navigated a few gates, and Joe told her with his confident stride
that his heart would be a reliable compass on this sky-lit night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In the Thoroughbreds, God had
married strength and grace and created a magnificent breed that few people could
appreciate firsthand. Beth closed her eyes. There was little for her to see, and
her efforts to guide the horse might lead him into dangers worse than mere
shadows cast by the moon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In seconds his walk shifted to a
trot and then to a canter, and then to a gallop as pleasant as a swiftly flowing
creek. Joe was an eagle born to glide above water. The surface of the pastures
fell away. She leaned into the horse's neck and tucked her head and couldn't
remember any sensation as wild and reckless as this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">His neck stretched out and so did
his stride. Together they picked up speed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She wondered how much faster than
this Joe had gone in his youth, on a refined racetrack, with the jockey he
trusted most. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The horse soon reached a pace that
Beth understood was beyond her ability to contain. A flicker of fear passed over
her but then flew away from her mind like a rooftop in a high wind. She
surrendered to Joe's confidence, and to the thrill of being out of
control.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">But Joe's mood shifted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth noticed it first in a sudden
deviation from his course, a quick and not-so-graceful dig into the earth that
thrust his weight off center. The angle of his ears changed as he moved off the
perimeter of the fence; they stood erect now and resisted the rushing air. And
though Beth hadn't thought it possible on this unrefined terrain, the
Thoroughbred accelerated, fueled by an energy that came off his back like
fear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The muscles on the inside of her
thighs began to burn as she held her weight off the saddle. She took back the
reins, but Joe did not respond to them. Her fingers, entwined in the leather,
found the saddle horn. Her eyes, squinting and dry and unexpectedly disoriented,
looked for the light of the stables. She thought they might be behind
her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Joe changed course again, zigging
to the previous zag. Beth slipped an inch before she recovered her center.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">"Whoa," she instructed. She didn't
share his fear yet. He might respond to her steady calm. "Settle down,
boy."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She attuned her own ears to the
surroundings, trying to get a clue for what had upset Joe. Excitement no longer
energized the horse. It was replaced by panic, frantic and panting. Beth
couldn't imagine what, on this secure and sheltered land, would be so
terrifying. The sounds of her soothing tongue clicks were trampled by the
pummeling of hooves tearing up the ground, thumping like helicopter blades.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">A ghost-gray form floated into the
periphery of Beth's vision. She glanced twice, and then a third time. The
hulking spirit hovered just above the ground, gliding with a swift and
otherworldly intention toward Joe's flank.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">That rooftop of fear crashed back
down on Beth's mind, knocking the breath out of her. She felt Joe's terror as if
it were her own. His foaming sweat flew off his neck and spattered her arms, and
into the vacancy of her imagination rushed Wally's wolf.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>It can't be a wolf,</i>
she told herself. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Whatever it was dashed behind Joe,
there and gone like the memory of a dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She tried to twist in the saddle,
wanting to see what it really was and where it was going, but the power of the
horse's speed forced her to stay forward, low above the Thoroughbred's back. All
she could do was hold on, with weakening thighs and floppy ankles and fingers
soft as cooked spaghetti. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Joe's desperate footwork jerked
Beth awry again. Clods of dirt were flying up from behind his hooves, smacking
her in the back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Then the ghost she had lost sight
of snarled, and the noise pierced all the other sounds bouncing around her ears.
This sound, this primal shriek, declared that this wild dog was no phantom. It
was physical, and it was robust, and it had performed the astonishing feat of
predicting how the horse would move to evade the hunt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The wolf had overtaken them and now
came from the front, head-on. It was lunging for Joe's neck, taking an
impossible leap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The wolf's weight struck her in the
face. One second Joe was solid under Beth and the next she was plunging,
gasping, choking on a mouthful of fur. The leather rein caught hold of her wrist
and snapped taut, shocked by the weight of her falling body as she left Joe's
back. She felt the joints in her arm and wrist popping as her insignificant mass
yanked against Joe's, which was a bullet train moving in the opposite
direction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She stayed connected to him by that
stubborn strap. And the wild animal stayed connected to her, its claws curled
into her collarbone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth and beast hit the ground and
bounced. She heard rocks connecting with the helmet Phil had insisted she wear.
Her body flipped over onto the dog as they rolled, her distended arm still
tangled in the reins, and then the animal emerged on top, teeth snapping so
close to her face. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Joe might have dragged her to her
death if the sudden impact hadn't jerked his neck sideways and led his hooves
into a terrible misstep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">His mountainous body toppled inches
from hers, but by now she was deafened by firecrackers in her skull, and she
didn't hear Joe's collapse. Instead she felt the vibrations of his fall, and his
heaving body pulsed atop her forearm, the one roped and pinned under Joe's
shoulder like a calf tossed by a cowboy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Beth's mind piled up sandbags
against the rising flood of pain. She couldn't move.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She expected the wolf to tear into
her, to finish her off. And it was a wolf. The weight, the coat, the claws—it
could be nothing else. It stood on her chest, its padded feet the size of her
own hands, but the animal didn't rip into her jugular or try to dig out her
heart, if that was normal wolf behavior. Beth had no point of reference. If
she'd been asked before this moment, she would have said no wolf could unseat a
rider from a fully extended horse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His concentrated weight bore
down on her ribs so that she couldn't take a full breath. Beth prayed. <i>God
have mercy. </i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The beasty breath, full of heat and
moisture and the scent of blood, caressed her chin and floated over her lips and
rose through her nose into the panic centers of her mind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She heard a voice within her
ringing head say <i>I will show you mercy.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She decided the voice belonged to
God.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">She thought it would be a mercy to
die.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">© 2012 by Erin Healy. All rights
reserved. No portion of this excerpt may be reproduced or transmitted by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher. For more
information about the book, including reader comments and information on where
to buy it, please visit
http://www.erinhealy.com/2012/06/06/house-of-mercy/</span></div>
Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-58629444707734356462012-08-06T14:03:00.000-06:002012-08-06T14:03:00.692-06:00Her Surprise Sister<br />
Her Surprise Sister, Book One in the Texas Twins continuity series from Love Inspired Books, is out now. If you love twin stories, you won't want to miss this new series which has not one, but two sets of twins, family secrets, missing parents, and a mystery that spans two decades. For more information, check out http://www.martaperry.com. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /> </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">
HER SURPRISE SISTER</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Marta Perry</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTEZUgc11rcBNLboemXDiJi3lHHJ45ggqVDO9N4Osw_HalQd9SxByrfZwmbL8_KKyYFnyuxO4Dti4WwssdwD0bCaEHItE7E3hNPjmYUz0zAsGg45lchvT_uJxhhALUWPWMyIp/s1600/sis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="475" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTEZUgc11rcBNLboemXDiJi3lHHJ45ggqVDO9N4Osw_HalQd9SxByrfZwmbL8_KKyYFnyuxO4Dti4WwssdwD0bCaEHItE7E3hNPjmYUz0zAsGg45lchvT_uJxhhALUWPWMyIp/s1600/sis.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
Chapter One<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
What could she possibly say to a father who had walked out of her life when she was an infant? Hi, Dad, it's me, Violet? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Violet Colby's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. What was she doing miles from home in Fort Worth, trying to follow an almost non-existent clue to her birth father?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A sleek sports car cut in front of her SUV, horn blaring. Shaken, Violet flipped on the turn signal and pulled into the right lane. City traffic had frazzled whatever nerves she had left.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A coffee shop sign ahead beckoned to her. That was what she needed…a short respite, a jolt of caffeine, and a chance to reassess her actions.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She found a parking space, fed the meter, and pushed open the coffee shop's glass door, fatigue dragging at her. The aroma drew her in irresistibly, and in a few moments she was sitting at a small round glass table, a steaming mug and a flaky croissant in front of her. She hadn't bothered to read through the long list of specialty coffees the shop offered. All she wanted was caffeine, the sooner the better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A woman brushed past her, the summer print dress and high platform sandals she wore making Violet uncomfortably aware of her faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. It wasn't that she hadn't been in Fort Worth before, but she'd usually taken time to dress appropriately for a trip to the city, a five-hour drive from the Colby ranch. This time she'd bolted out of her mother's hospital room, exhausted from nights of waiting and praying for Mom to open her eyes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She hadn't been able to take it any longer. That wasn't the Belle Colby everyone in the county knew, lying there motionless day after day. Belle Colby was energetic, vibrant, laughing, always in motion. She had to be, running a spread the size of the Colby Ranch and raising two kids on her own.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not now. Not since her mare had stepped in a hole, sending Mom crashing to the ground. And Jack, as Violet's big brother always the take-charge one, was so eaten up with guilt for arguing with Mom before the accident that he was being no help at all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Violet broke a corner off the croissant and nibbled at it. Her family was broken, it seemed, and she was the only one who could fix it. That's what she'd been thinking during those lonely hours before dawn at her mother's hospital bed. The only solution her tired brain could come up with was to find their father—the man Mom never talked about. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now that she was here, in Fort Worth, where she'd been born, the task seemed futile. Worse, it seemed stupid. What would it accomplish if she did find him? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She didn't belong here, any more than the sophisticated-looking guy coming in the door would belong on the ranch. Expensively-cut suit and designer tie, glossy leather boots that had certainly never been worn to muck out a stall, a Stetson with not a smudge to mar its perfection—he was big city Texas, that was for sure.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
The man's head turned, as if he felt her stare, and she caught the full impact of a pair of icy green eyes before she could look away. She looked down at her coffee. Quickly she raised the mug, hoping to hide her embarrassment at being caught staring.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
It didn't seem to be working. She heard approaching footsteps and kept her gaze down. A pair of glossy brown boots moved into her range of vision. <br />
<br />
<br /><br />
"What are you doing here?" <br />
<br />
<br />
Violet looked up, surprised. "What?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"I said what are you doing here?" He pulled out the chair opposite her, uninvited, and sat down. "I told you I'd be at your apartment…" He slid back the sleeve of his suit to consult the gold watch on his tanned wrist. "In five minutes. So why are you in the coffee shop instead of at your condo? Are you trying to avoid me?"<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, he was crazy. That was the only answer Violet could come up with. She groped for her bag, keeping her eyes on his face. It looked sane enough, with a deep tan that made those green eyes bright in contrast, a square, stubborn-looking jaw, and a firm mouth. His expensively-cut hair was sandy blond.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He didn't look crazy, but what did that mean? Or maybe this was his idea of a pick-up line.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Her fingers closed on her bag, and she started to rise. His hand shut across the table and closed around her wrist. Not hard, but firmly enough that she couldn't pull away without an undignified struggle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"The least you can do is talk to me about it." He looked as if keeping his temper was an effort. "Whatever you think, I still want to marry you."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-20707646058316590002012-08-04T13:11:00.000-06:002012-08-04T13:11:00.133-06:00Tidewater Inn<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
by Colleen Coble<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/178800000/178809843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/178800000/178809843.JPG" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="262" /></a>Endorsements: Romantic Times: "Coble is a great writer, she knows what readers want and she does not disappoint."</div>
<br />
<br />
Welcome to Hope Beach. A place of intoxicating beauty . . . where trouble hits with the force of a hurricane.<br /><br />
<br />
Inheriting a beautiful old hotel on the Outer Banks could be a dream come true for Libby. The inn cries out for her restorer's talent and love of history. She's delighted to learn of the family she never knew she had. And the handsome Coast Guard lieutenant she's met there on the island could definitely be the man of her dreams. But Libby soon realizes that the only way she can afford the upkeep on the inn is to sell it to developers who are stalking the island. The father who willed her the inn has died before she could meet him, and her newfound brother and sister are convinced she's there to steal their birthright. Worst of all, her best friend and business partner has been kidnapped before her eyes, and Libby's under suspicion for the crime. Libby's dream come true is becoming a nightmare. Her only option is to find her friend and prove her innocence, or lose everything on the shores of Hope Island.<br />
<br />
<br />
Libby Holladay fought her way through the brambles to the overgrown garden. She paused to wave a swarm of gnats away from her face. The house was definitely in the Federal style, as she'd been told. Palladian windows flanked a centered door, or rather the opening for a door. The structure was in serious disrepair. Moss grew on the roof, and fingers of vine pried through the brick mortar. The aroma of honeysuckle vied with that of mildew. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her cell phone rang, and she groped in her canvas bag for it. Glancing at the display, she saw her partner's name. "Hey, Nicole," she said. "You should see this place. A gorgeous Federal-style mansion. I think it was built in 1830. And the setting by the river is beautiful. Or it will be once the vegetation is tamed." Perching on the window seat, she made another note about the fireplace. "Nicole? Are you there?"<br />
<br />
<br />
There was a long pause, then Nicole finally spoke. "I'm here."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"You sound funny. What's wrong?" Nicole was usually talkative, and Libby couldn't remember the last time she'd heard strain in her friend's voice. "Are you still in the Outer Banks? Listen, I heard there might be a hurricane heading that way." She dug into her purse for her jalapeño jellybeans and popped one on her mouth.<br />
<br />
<br />
"The residents are sure the storm will miss Hope Island. Listen, the investor is really interested in this little town. And we have the chance to make a boatload of money on it. It's all in your hands."<br />
<br />
<br />
"My hands? You're the one with the money smarts." <br />
<br />
<br />
Nicole was the mover and shaker in Holladay Renovations. She convinced owners to dramatically increase the value of their historic properties by entrusting them to Libby's expertise. Libby had little to do with the money side of the business, and that was how she liked it.<br />
<br />
<br />
"I think I'd better go back to the beginning," Nicole said. "Rooney sent me here to see about renovating some buildings in the small downtown area. He's working on getting a ferry to the island. It will bring in a lot more tourism for the hotel he's planning, but the buildings need to be restored to draw new business."<br />
<br />
<br />
"I know that much. But what do you mean it's in my hands'?" Libby glanced at her notes, then around the room again. This was taking up her time, and she wanted to get back to work. "We're doing the lifesaving station for sure, right?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yes, I've already seen it. We were right to buy that sweet building outright. After you get your hands on it, we'll make a bundle and have instant credibility here. I've started making notes of the materials and crew we'll need. But I'm not calling about the renovations. I'm talking a lot of money, Libby. Millions."<br />
<br />
<br />
That got Libby's attention. "Millions?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"I stopped by the local attorney's office to see about having him handle the paperwork for our purchase of the lifesaving station. Horace Whittaker. He's got both our names on the paperwork now."<br />
<br />
<br />
"So?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"The secretary gasped when she heard your name."<br />
<br />
<br />
"She knew me?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"The attorney has been looking for a Libby Holladay. Daughter of Ray Mitchell."<br />
<br />
<br />
"That's my dad's name."<br />
<br />
<br />
"I thought it might be. I'd heard you mention the name Ray, but I wasn't sure of the last name."<br />
<br />
<br />
Libby rubbed her head. "Why is he looking for me? My father has been dead a long time—since I was five."<br />
<br />
<br />
"He died a month ago, Libby. And he left you some valuable land. In fact, it's the land Rooney thought he had agreed to purchase. So we're in the driver's seat on this deal." Nicole's voice rose.<br />
<br />
<br />
Libby gasped, then she swallowed hard. "It's a hoax. I bet the attorney asked for a fee, right?"<br />
<br /><br />
"No, it's real. According to the secretary, your father was living in the Outer Banks all this time. And Horace has a box of letters Ray wrote to you that were all marked Return to Sender. It appears your mother refused them."<br />
<br />
<br />
Libby's midsection plunged. Throughout her childhood she'd asked her mother about her father. There were never any answers. Surely her mother wouldn't have lied. Libby stared out the window at two hummingbirds buzzing the overgrown flowers.<br />
<br /><br /><br />
"Do you have any idea how much money this land is worth?" Nicole's voice quivered. "It's right along the ocean. There's a charming little inn."<br />
<br />
<br />
It sounded darling. "What's the area like?"<br />
<br /><br />
"Beautiful but remote." Nicole paused. "Um, listen, there's something else. I met a woman who looked like you a couple days ago."<br />
<br /><br />
Libby eased off the window ledge. "Who is she?" <br />
<br /><br />
"Your half sister, Vanessa. You also have a brother, Brent. He's twenty-two."<br />
<br /><br />
"My father married again?" Libby couldn't take it all in. This morning she had no family but a younger stepbrother, whom she rarely saw. Why had her mother kept all this from her? "What about my father's wife?"<br />
<br /><br />
"She doesn't seem to be around. But there's an aunt too."<br />
<br /><br />
Family. For as long as she could remember, Libby had longed for a large extended family. Her free-spirited mother was always wanting to see some new and exciting place. They never had lived at the same address for more than two years at a time. <br />
<br /><br />
"You need to get here right away," Nicole said. "There are a million details to take care of. This is the big deal we've been praying for, Libby. You will never want for anything again, and you'll have plenty of money to help your stepbrother. He can get out of that trailer with his family."<br />
<br /><br />
The thought of buying her stepbrother's love held some appeal. They weren't' close, but not' because she hadn't tried. "I can't get away until tomorrow, Nicole. I have to finish up here first. We have other clients." <br />
<br /><br />
How much of her reluctance was rooted in the thought of facing a future that was about to change radically? She never had been good with change. In her experience, change was something that generally made things worse, not better.<br />
<br /><br />
Her partner's sigh was heavy in Libby's ear. "Okay. Hey, want to see Vanessa? She'll be here in a few minutes. There's a beach cam. I sent you a link."<br />
<br /><br />
The computer was on the floor, and she opened it. She clicked to enlarge the video link in her email and turned up the speakers so she could hear the roar of the surf. <br />
<br /><br />
Nicole smiled and waved. "Your sister should be here any minute." The sound quality was surprisingly good. The sound of the ocean in the background was a pleasant lull. <br />
<br />
<br />
A small boat pulled up to the shore. Two men jumped out and pulled the boat aground. Nicole turned toward them. The men walked toward her. <br />
<br /><br />
There was no one else in sight, and Libby tensed when Nicole took a step back. "Get out of there. Go to your car!" <br />
<br />
<br />
Nicole watched the men walk toward her. "It's just a couple of tourists, Libby. You worry too much." <br />
<br />
<br />
Libby leaned closer to the laptop. "There's something wrong." She gasped at the intention in their faces. "Please, Nicole, run!" <br />
<br />
<br />
But it was the men who broke into a run as they drew closer to the boardwalk. As they neared the cam, Libby could see them more clearly. One was in his forties with a cap pulled low over his eyes. He sported a beard. The other was in his late twenties. He had blond hair and hadn't shaved in a couple of days. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nicole took another step back as the older man in the lead smiled at her. The man said, "Hang up." He grabbed her arm. <br />
<br /><br />
"Let go of her!" Libby shouted into the phone. <br />
<br /><br />
The man knocked the phone from Nicole's hand, and the connection was broken. The other man reached the two, and he plunged a needle into Nicole's arm. Both men began dragging Nicole toward the boat. She was struggling and shouting for help, then went limp. Her hat fell to the ground.<br />
<br /><br />
Barely aware that she was screaming, Libby dialed 9-1-1. "Oh God, oh God, help her!"<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
Copyright Colleen Coble<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
www.colleencoble.com <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
http://www.amazon.com/Tidewater-Hope-Beach-Series-ebook/dp/B007D1TNYS/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1342026396&sr=8-1 <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-18286964893776320382012-08-02T11:25:00.000-06:002012-08-02T11:25:25.247-06:00Hearts that Survive – A Novel of the Titanic<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGDJZkgJq8c_RhP4ebfU9JcKaQeYjLxgYnc6h5DZLYMnPO1HilD8UhjYQR4fec5moRLzAFmWahFUL5XSlw_Y46LAFTrUX4oybAmm4xO0vFSGrxt39XPVJLz6I7yXBnCNnoSqN1Q/s1600/511uUrKxrwL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGDJZkgJq8c_RhP4ebfU9JcKaQeYjLxgYnc6h5DZLYMnPO1HilD8UhjYQR4fec5moRLzAFmWahFUL5XSlw_Y46LAFTrUX4oybAmm4xO0vFSGrxt39XPVJLz6I7yXBnCNnoSqN1Q/s320/511uUrKxrwL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></a>Abingdon Press – historical epic</div>
<br />
Available in bookstores, Amazon, Crossings, Rhapsody, et al<br />
<br /><br />
By Yvonne Lehman<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
www.yvonnelehman.com<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
www.christianbooks.com</div>
<br />
<br />
This is Yvonne's 50th novel. She is a best-selling, award-winning author who founded, and directed the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference for<br />
<br />
25 years. She now directs the Blue Ridge "Autumn in the Mountains" Novelist Retreat held annually at Ridgecrest NC (yvonnelehman3@gmail.com). She is a mentor with the Christian Writers Guild. A Knight to Remember will be released in April and Let it Snow before Christmas.<br />
<br /><br />
"The sinking of the Titanic initiated hundreds of human dramas. Master storyteller Yvonne Lehman now presents us with one of those threads, amidst the myriad sagas, that exemplifies the overall impact this mega-event had on the survivors and their subsequent generations. The actions are vibrant, the motions are intense, and the outcomes are compelling" – Dr. Dennis E. Hensley, author<br />
<br />
Is love more powerful than the pain of loss?<br />
<br />
Lydia Beaumont and her new friend Caroline Chadwick plan Lydia's wedding aboard the "grandest ship ever built." Yet their lives take a tragic turn when the "unsinkable" Titanic goes down. This epic tale of faith and perseverance follows their lives and the lives of their descendants as they struggle with all that was lost on that fateful night and what the future holds for those brave enough to face it.<br />
<br />
C lothed in her shame, Lydia Beaumont stood on the deck of<br />
<br />
the Titanic, waiting for John. Each evening since they departed<br />
<br />
two days ago from Southampton, she and John strolled here<br />
<br />
after dining. Other first-class passengers found their own special<br />
<br />
spots, like congregants in a church sanctuary.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, the church analogy brought thoughts of condemnation<br />
<br />
she'd rather not entertain. The grandeur of the greatest ship<br />
<br />
ever built had pushed aside her personal feelings, any doubts<br />
<br />
or guilt that had so beset her in previous weeks. She'd tried<br />
<br />
to forget her fears by planning the trip, convincing her father<br />
<br />
to allow her to go, and helping her maid pack the trunks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She thought back to the day before sailing while she was<br />
<br />
staying at the South Western Hotel. She'd made the acquaintance<br />
<br />
of several passengers, her favorite being Caroline<br />
<br />
Chadwick, in her mid-twenties. She and her husband, Sir<br />
<br />
William, had arrived from London and were awaiting the<br />
<br />
ship's maiden voyage to America.<br />
<br />
<br />
Staring out the hotel suite window at the magnificent<br />
<br />
structure, four city blocks long and ten stories high, had accelerated<br />
<br />
her heartbeat. However, walking up the gangplank to<br />
<br />
1board the ship and seeing the grand staircase took her breath<br />
<br />
away. Even Craven Dowd, the president of her father's company<br />
<br />
and accustomed to the best, commented on the luxury as<br />
<br />
they were led to their suite rooms.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
John Ancell glanced her way, his deep blue eyes shining<br />
<br />
with excitement beneath raised eyebrows and lips turning<br />
<br />
into a mischievous grin. Had Craven not been entering the<br />
<br />
room between hers and John's, her beloved would likely say<br />
<br />
aloud what he only mouthed, "This is no toy ship."<br />
<br />
Lydia saw Caroline and Sir William entering their stateroom.<br />
<br />
Caroline halted at her doorway and called, "Are you<br />
<br />
going on deck to wave goodbye?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Ah, we must do that," Craven answered for them as if the<br />
<br />
matter were settled.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yes," Lydia echoed, "I'll be along shortly."<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
"Just peek in when you're ready," Caroline said. "The door<br />
<br />
will be open."<br />
<br />
<br />Stepping from the private promenade deck to explore the<br />
<br />
sitting room, and then the bedrooms, Lydia was amazed. Her<br />
<br />
father, Cyril Beaumont, had endowed their home with the<br />
<br />
finest furnishings, but her personal knowledge and university<br />
<br />
studies in art and design made her realize she'd stepped into a<br />
<br />
world of unmatched luxury.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She entered John's and Craven's rooms. The furnishings<br />
<br />
represented various countries. "Reminds me of the Ritz<br />
<br />
in Paris," she said of Craven's bedroom. He gestured to the<br />
<br />
furnishings around the room. "Chippendale. Adams. French<br />
<br />
Empire."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She returned to her bedroom, where Marcella was hanging<br />
<br />
gowns in the wardrobe. Craven walked through the adjoining<br />
<br />
door that she must remember to keep locked. "The White<br />
<br />
Star Line has actually outdone their advertising." He glanced<br />
<br />
around. "Not only were they correct in saying it's one hundred<br />
<br />
feet longer than the Mauretania and bigger than the Olympic,<br />
<br />
but the other ships are like . . . toys."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
His pause was so brief one who didn't know him well<br />
<br />
wouldn't suspect it was deliberate. But she knew, then reprimanded<br />
<br />
herself for being overly sensitive. Craven's adding,<br />
<br />
"toys," could mean the word slipped out before he thought<br />
<br />
about what he was saying. However, Craven always thought<br />
<br />
before speaking.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But there was a certain amount of truth to it. Further exploration<br />
<br />
could wait. After peeking in for John, then Caroline, the<br />
<br />
two women walked ahead of Craven, John, and Sir William.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I've been to Windsor." Caroline grinned, indicating she<br />
<br />
wasn't bragging. "But, from what little I've seen already, I feel<br />
<br />
like the Queen of England without the responsibility."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Even the men chuckled. Lydia knew John couldn't make<br />
<br />
comparisons, because he hadn't traveled extensively. But<br />
<br />
Craven and William talked of the ship's design and of its opulence<br />
<br />
with no expense spared. She felt rather like a princess as<br />
<br />
she ascended the grand staircase beneath the glass dome that<br />
<br />
allowed the noonday sun to anoint them with a golden glow.<br />
<br />
She glanced back at the staircase as they moved along the<br />
<br />
deck and to the railing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Passengers waved and people on the dock did the same.<br />
<br />
They must be feeling sheer envy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She jumped when a sound like a pistol shot rang out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Another.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And another.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Happy goodbyes changed to gasps and questioning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Nothing to fear," a man called out. "The lines tying the<br />
<br />
New York are giving way." That sounded rather fearsome to<br />
<br />
her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Another said the suction from the Titanic's gigantic propellers<br />
<br />
were pulling the other ship away from its berth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The ship headed for the side of the Titanic. However, deckhands<br />
<br />
stopped the New York's drift and the Titanic steamed out<br />
<br />
of the harbor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A man said playfully, "You don't christen a ship like the<br />
<br />
Titanic with a bottle of champagne, but with another ship."<br />
<br />
Several passengers laughed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A woman warned, "It's an omen."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lydia didn't live by omens. But the word made her think of<br />
<br />
signs. Robins were a sign of spring. Snow was a sign of winter.<br />
<br />
There were . . . personal signs. She swallowed hard and shook<br />
<br />
away the thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
That woman was wrong about the New York's breaking<br />
<br />
away being a sign. It hadn't rammed into the Titanic.<br />
<br />
Maybe she was wrong about her . . . signs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For two and a half days, she'd allowed herself the privilege<br />
<br />
of denial and had enjoyed John, her new friends, and the<br />
<br />
grandeur all around her. She'd explored the ship's grand shops,<br />
<br />
the restaurants, the women's library, and the Parisian sidewalk<br />
<br />
café.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now as she stood looking out to sea, visualizing their destination<br />
<br />
of New York, she had to face reality.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Her long fur coat covered her silk dress. Her kid-gloved<br />
<br />
hands held onto the steel railing. The bitter-cold air burned<br />
<br />
her face, and her warm breath created gray wisps, reminiscent<br />
<br />
of Craven's cigar smoke, when he wasn't making entertaining<br />
<br />
smoke circles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Only a moment ago she'd said to John, "Finish your dessert.<br />
<br />
I don't want any tonight. I need a breath of fresh air."<br />
<br />
That uneasiness in her stomach had nothing to do with<br />
<br />
seasickness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
John and Craven slid back their chairs and stood when<br />
<br />
she pushed away from the table. She felt Craven's gaze but<br />
<br />
met John's eyes that questioned. Usually after dining, Craven<br />
<br />
joined other men in the smoking lounge. She and John would<br />
<br />
walk onto the deck, They would stand shoulder to shoulder.<br />
<br />
With his arm around her waist, he'd speak of the aesthetic<br />
<br />
beauty of the ocean and sky. She'd dream of her future life<br />
<br />
with him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She shivered now, looking out to where the sun had sunk<br />
<br />
into the horizon, analogous of her having sunk into the depth<br />
<br />
of yielding to temptation. A mistake seemed much worse<br />
<br />
when one was . . . caught. Only four weeks had passed. But<br />
<br />
she knew.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She would be an outcast if others knew. The night they'd<br />
<br />
expressed their love physically, she'd never felt so fulfilled. But<br />
<br />
with passion sated, guilt entered. She felt violated. Not by<br />
<br />
John, but by her own weakness. A decent woman should say<br />
<br />
no, keep the relationship pure until marriage.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, she knew they both were at fault. But had she, more<br />
<br />
deliberately than she wanted to admit, lured him into the<br />
<br />
physical relationship because she was afraid of losing him? He<br />
<br />
wanted her father's blessing before marrying her. She doubted<br />
<br />
he would ever have it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It was a wondrous thing to be loved, but a fearsome thing<br />
<br />
to be tainted.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For now, only she and John knew about their tainted love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She had thought she and John could face anything<br />
<br />
together.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But anyone?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Craven?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Her father?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Her father said she was all he had after they were both devastated<br />
<br />
by her mother's death from a deadly lung disease and a<br />
<br />
stillbirth. However, Lydia had had the best of tutors and nannies.<br />
<br />
She had been accompanied to the appropriate outings by<br />
<br />
Lady Grace Frazier, a middle-aged widow. Her father and Lady<br />
<br />
Grace became close companions, although he vowed he had<br />
<br />
neither time nor inclination to marry. His heart attack last<br />
<br />
year so frightened and weakened him, he'd made it clear that<br />
<br />
although Lydia would inherit the business, he was grooming<br />
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Craven to run it.<br />
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She'd surprised him by expressing a desire to learn more<br />
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about the business and win the respect of the company's<br />
<br />
American executives. She suggested that John accompany<br />
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them on the trip, since he could explain his designs better<br />
<br />
than Craven. Beaumont Company wanted his designs, and<br />
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John wanted to be sure that he wanted to divulged those<br />
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secrets to the company. The matter would be discussed and<br />
<br />
any agreements drawn up in a legal contract.<br />
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"You may have a business head on you after all," her father<br />
<br />
said at her suggestion about John. He'd meant that as praise,<br />
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so she smiled and thanked him.<br />
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Although he and others often complimented her on having<br />
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inherited her mother's beauty, Lydia thought her looks<br />
<br />
paled in comparison with her mother's loveliness and grace.<br />
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She'd inherited her father's ambition and strong-mindedness<br />
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rather than her mother's submissive attitudes, but he never<br />
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acknowledged this. He did, however, occasionally admonish<br />
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her to behave in a more ladylike fashion.<br />
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Her father and Craven cultivated identical goals. One was<br />
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ensuring that Beaumont Railroad Company continued to be<br />
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number one in the world. Two was that Lydia become Mrs.<br />
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Craven Dowd. And in that order.<br />
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At one time she'd felt that marriage to Craven was her destiny.<br />
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Her friends proclaimed it her good fortune. To be honest,<br />
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however, rather than sitting in the plush coach of a noisy,<br />
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smelly, smoke-puffing Beaumont train, she preferred flipping<br />
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a switch, watching a little Ancell toy train huff and puff, its<br />
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wheels turn, and its engine chug-chug along, as she laughed<br />
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delightedly with John.<br />
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Hearing footsteps, Lydia took a deep breath. The cold air<br />
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in her throat made her feel as though she'd swallowed too<br />
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large a bite of the French ice cream served at dinner.<br />
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Before feeling his touch on her exposed wrist, she knew<br />
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this wasn't John, but Craven. Like many women, she liked<br />
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the aroma of his after-dinner cigars, offset by a slight fragrance<br />
<br />
of cologne. But she preferred John's light, fresh, faintly musky<br />
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scent.<br />
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"Lydia?"<br />
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Turning her head, she glanced at him. "Where's John?"<br />
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Craven's deep breath didn't seem to affect his throat.<br />
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Likely, it was heated, as his face had been when she told him<br />
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she couldn't see him anymore. "He's sitting at the table." His<br />
<br />
eyebrows lifted. "Writing."<br />
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"That's what poets do." She glanced beyond his shoulder,<br />
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hoping John would appear.<br />
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"Lydia, there's something I want to make clear."<br />
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Facing the ocean that reflected the star-spangled night, she<br />
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was reminded of the spark in Craven's eyes earlier, when he'd<br />
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kissed the back of her hand and said she looked lovely. John<br />
<br />
had smiled, as if he agreed.<br />
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She'd requested they not sit with other passengers this<br />
<br />
night, but at a smaller, more intimate table. She'd planned to<br />
<br />
tell John after Craven left. But then she'd experienced that<br />
<br />
queasiness. She felt it now.<br />
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<br />
<br />
"I want you to know," Craven said. "I understand why you<br />
<br />
wanted to take this trip."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He couldn't.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He mustn't. John would be ruined and in the process they<br />
<br />
both would face a worse fate than if she'd stayed in London.<br />
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<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-76847917506422787342012-07-26T12:23:00.001-06:002012-07-26T12:23:30.270-06:00The GiftedBy <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3a_5NR_YgqbBg51DqGPV239BZX5Aqf-bx5rlFzDroGb-j60tLcjOFEjdJgdLB5AgsFurMDucnkkvBKcwIxkej8GKLl1nKMyn4sV14SnMhRbp3o8JrNqO1AZWHgWEPCZUZY3w/s1600/gifted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3a_5NR_YgqbBg51DqGPV239BZX5Aqf-bx5rlFzDroGb-j60tLcjOFEjdJgdLB5AgsFurMDucnkkvBKcwIxkej8GKLl1nKMyn4sV14SnMhRbp3o8JrNqO1AZWHgWEPCZUZY3w/s320/gifted.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-large;">Ann H. Gabhart</span><br />
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Gabhart's Shaker series continues with more of the same impeccable research and moving characters who are searching for their place in the world and learning to let God guide them. – RT Book Reviews<br />
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Jessamine Brady has been in the Shaker Village for half her young life, but in spite of how she loves her sisters there, she struggled to conform to the strict rules. Instead she entertains dreams of the world outside. When Tristan Cooper seems to step out of those dreams to entice her into the forbidden realm beyond the shaker Village, her life turns upside down. Will Jessamine be able to survive the storms of the world? Or will she retreat back to the peace of Harmony Hill?<br />
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Excerpt from The Gifted<br />
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Jessamine was ready to turn back when she caught sight of a boot up ahead of her. A boot that was connected to a man lying in a deep rut. She hardly dared breathe as she stepped closer to the man who was lying much too still. Blood oozed from an angry looking wound on the side of his head, and his right arm was bent in an unnatural angle. <br />
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With relief, she noted his closed eyes. That could be a hopeful sign. Much better than open and staring at nothing but the beyond side of death, she decided as she peered at his chest. Yea, he was definitely breathing, but she couldn't see the least bit of flutter to his eyelids. The fall must have knocked him senseless.<br />
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Jessamine had no idea what to do next. Go for help of course, but how without leaving the man there alone? That seemed wrong. She moved another step closer to him. His felt hat had spilled off and dark brown hair tumbled down over his forehead.<br />
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She shut her eyes and opened them again. He was definitely there. Still as stone, but definitely there. Dark whiskers were beginning to shadow his clean shaven cheeks. She stooped down beside him and reached her hand toward his face. She couldn't remember ever touching a man's face. Her granny had no use for men other than the old preacher and the princes who populated her stories.<br />
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"Make them up," her granny would say as she rocked back and forth in the chair on the porch. "That's the only kind to have truck with, my sweet little Jessamine. You keep that in mind when you get older, child. Wait for your prince. The good Lord will send one."<br />
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Of course, the Believers thought the Lord had changed his mind about men and women marrying and having families. The believed marriage was a sin a person did well to repent of and set aside. To keep back the normal temptations of the flesh, the Shakers made sure no touching went on between the sisters and brothers with their separate doorways and staircases. They feared even a slight brush against one of the opposite sex might plummet a Believer into sin. <br />
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So it could be with her touching this man's cheek. Her hand hovered in the air over him. The warmth of his skin rose up to her and she told herself she should put her hand behind her. What was that Bible verse where the Lord said it was better to chop off one's hand instead of letting it pull one into sin? But what was so sinful about a touch? No one would have to know. She wouldn't have to admit her sin of curiosity to Sister Sophrena. While the good sister claimed unconfessed sin was a burden on the soul, so far Jessamine hadn't felt all that burdened when she kept a lapse of obedience to herself. She rather thought it was a favor to Sister Sophrena not admitting all her wayward thoughts. <br />
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For years, the good sister had tried to get Jessamine to embrace the Shaker way, but Jessamine couldn't stop her wondering. She wanted to know things. And it would be good to know exactly how a man's face might feel under her hand instead of just imagining it. <br />
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"Is he dead?" <br />
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Jessamine was so startled by the voice she almost fell on top the man. She caught her balance and jerked back her hand as she scrambled to her feet. With her hand over her heart and a bit out of breath, she turned to stare at Sister Annie behind her. "You startled me, Sister Annie. I didn't know you followed me."<br />
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"I didn't want to. Believe me. But we are sisters and if there's danger, it's my duty to share it with you."<br />
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Jessamine turned back to the man in front of her. "I don't think he is a danger to us."<br />
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"Perhaps not in his current state, but what about the gunshot? You keep forgetting that there was gunfire." Sister Annie leaned forward to peer around Jessamine toward the man. "Does he have a gun?"<br />
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Jessamine let her eyes sweep down the man's slender body. He wore a coat something like the brothers wore to meeting, but of a richer looking cloth and his shirt was very white. The coat lay open and revealing the belt around the waist of his trousers. "No gun that I can see."<br />
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"Well, somebody had one. If not him, then somebody else." Sister Annie looked around. Her voice trembled as she went on. "Somebody who could be watching us right now. May our Eternal Father up in heaven protect us."<br />
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"Do you think he was shot?" Jessamine knelt down beside the man again. She thought of pulling her handkerchief out of her apron pocket to wipe away the blood on the side of his face. That could not be sinful even in Sister Annie's eyes. "We have to help him."<br />
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Sister Annie surprised her by agreeing. "Yea, but how?"<br />
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"You can go to the village and get help while I wait here with him."<br />
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"Nay. I won't leave you alone with a man of the world and besides I would get lost a dozen times trying to get back to the village. That would be no help to him or us either. By the time the elders sent out people to search for us, the man might be dead."<br />
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Jessamine's heart jumped up in her throat. "We can't let him die."<br />
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"God holds the number of our days."<br />
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"But I don't want him to die." Jessamine kept her eyes on the man's face. <br />
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"You don't even know him, Sister Jessamine. You are only imagining one of your stories in your head that get you into nothing but troubling fixes." Sister Annie's voice was cross again. "This man is not one of the princes in the fairytales your grandmother told you."<br />
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"Yea, Sister Annie. You are right, but even so, we must take him back to the village where Brother Benjamin can treat him for his injuries."<br />
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"That might be a proper plan, but how?"<br />
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"Perhaps on his horse." Jessamine suggested. The horse might still be nearby.<br />
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"The man's arm appears to be broken. He could have other bones broken as well. Even if we were strong enough to do so, we might make his injuries worse putting him on a horse." <br />
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"Well, if we can't move him and we can't leave him, what can we do?" Jessamine looked at his face with the blood trickling down toward his ear from the angry gash on his head. She did take out her handkerchief then and dabbed it against the wound. She waited to see if Sister Annie would condemn her actions, but when she did not, Jessamine reached out with her other hand to take hold of the handkerchief. <br />
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With great care to make her movement look totally unplanned, she gingerly laid her hand down on the man's cheek. The emerging whiskers were prickly under her fingers. She forgot about Sister Annie watching her and ran her fingers up his cheek toward his eye. There his skin was smooth and his lashes soft as downy feathers. Quite without thinking she dropped the handkerchief and touched her own eyelashes with her other hand. His felt much the same as hers. <br />
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"Whatever are you doing, Sister Jessamine?"<br />
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"Just wiping the blood from the gash on his head," she said quickly.<br />
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"I might be more apt to believe that if the handkerchief were in your hand instead of forgotten on the ground."<br />
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A flush rose up into Jessamine's cheeks as she snatched up the handkerchief and began dabbing at the bloody gash again. "Forgive me, Sister. But I had never touched a man's face before. I have continually wondered about their whiskers. How they might feel."<br />
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"Sister Sophrena often says your curiosity may be the death of you, but whether or not that is true, I am beginning to fear it will be the death of me." Sister Annie let out a long sigh. "And we are not one iota nearer a solution to our dilemma than we were. We have no choice. We must leave him here and go back to the village. Elder Joseph will know what to do."<br />
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"I suppose you are right." <br />
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Reluctantly Jessamine lifted her hand away from the man's face and started to stand. But before she could get to her feet the man's eyes popped open and he grabbed her wrist. She sucked in a startled breath as Sister Annie let out a frightened yelp behind her. She jerked to free herself but the man's grip was strong. She was caught as surely as a rabbit in a snare. So she went still and stared down into eyes the brown of butternut. <br />
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After a moment, she said, "Hello." Her voice carried hardly any tremble at all.<br />
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The Gifted is available online at ChristianBook.com, www.bn.com, Amazon.com or other on-line booksellers and at bookstores everywhere. <br />
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Visit Ann's website - http://www.annhgabhart.com.<br />
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Copyright ©2012 by Ann H. Gabhart <br />
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Published by Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group <br />
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ISBN: 978-0-8007-3455-8 <br />
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All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission. <br />
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<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-89245467093136416652012-07-16T16:05:00.000-06:002012-07-16T16:05:00.648-06:00Oregon Outback<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmjvyn3TV6q4_tZHhmm2eZMpnrRJ_G5UqeMdX3BzdpyOWJsD-Kj2KjlbSTY2Z2FqyEnEF4lshmJOGr2yFNI82I-jIeN-_TM1xK-bf9RHmMHzre1FZ9-9hlA9_LYgZlCA56gU6/s1600/OregonOutbackSM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmjvyn3TV6q4_tZHhmm2eZMpnrRJ_G5UqeMdX3BzdpyOWJsD-Kj2KjlbSTY2Z2FqyEnEF4lshmJOGr2yFNI82I-jIeN-_TM1xK-bf9RHmMHzre1FZ9-9hlA9_LYgZlCA56gU6/s1600/OregonOutbackSM.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: orange;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">by
Elizabeth Goddard</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A four-in-one novella
collection featuring <i>A Love Remembered, A Love Kindled, A Love Risked, and a
Love Recovered. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The harsh, yet peaceful Oregon
Outback molds the lives of four rugged brothers who stumble into love.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">FBI agent Jonas Love has brought
trouble back home, endangering his life and that of an old flame. Cattle rancher
Carver Love finds himself falling for the sheriff in the midst of chasing down
modern-day rustlers. Thrill-seeker Lucas Love fears nothing—until he meets a
beautiful bookkeeper. Justin Love is trailing a fugitive who's heading too close
to home—and one particular lodge keeper. How will God protect these men as they
risk their lives to defend the ones they love? </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A Love
Remembered </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Chapter
1</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Newton's Law of
Gravity: What goes up must come down. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">She took five
running steps and leapt from Tague's Butte.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The force that
countered gravity? Lift. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Wind rushed
under the nylon fabric of the hang-glider and carried Darcy Nichols forward. She
was an eagle, soaring through the sky thousands of feet above the ground. Riding
the wind, she savored the freedom of flight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">No matter how
many times she'd launched from the six thousand foot knob across from Albert's
Rim—the largest fault lift in the US—the view always left her
breathless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Exhilarated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Leaning her hips
to the right, she turned the hang-glider toward the northeast into the straight
line for her flight, maintaining a constant speed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">As she pushed
her arms straight, forcing the control bar forward, the wing above her stalled.
Then she caught the lift band, the thermal that would carry her
higher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Rising high into
the wide open air space she craved, Darcy could see miles of the Oregon
backcountry. She collided with molecules as she moved through the air, creating
friction, or drag—another invisible force in the equation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">How high she
could fly, how far she could go and how long she could stay in the air depended
on balancing the three forces of gravity, lift, and drag. Maybe she could make
it forty or fifty miles. Someone made it over eighty miles a few years
ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">It all came down
to balancing invisible forces. They carried her through the air, allowing her to
fly. But invisible forces were at work in her life too, never ceasing. They
ushered her through the days, weeks, months. . .through a
lifetime.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A balancing act
that left her exhausted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Eventually,
she'd need to radio Emily, her best friend, when she knew where she'd land. A
few of Darcy's friends had been heading to Lakeview and agreed to drop her off
at the jump-off point on the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>With
perfect conditions for hang-gliders and extraordinary views, the region had
earned the title, The Hang-gliding Capital of the West.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Darcy let the
wind carry her away from her thoughts. She absorbed the view and took pictures
as she swept over Albert's Lake, the water reflecting the blue sky filled with
cumulus clouds.<span> </span>From directly above, the lake was
indescribable—but she'd catch the image with her camera.<span>
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Her photographs
ended up in her gift shop that targeted tourists traveling along Oregon's scenic
byways. In the distance, she could make out Fort Rock, and on the horizon, the
Christmas Valley sand dunes. A few miles east of Christmas Valley was Carnegie,
the small town where she'd grown up. The views were spectacular but the
population was lean in Oregon's high desert, or the Oregon Outback as some
called it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The arid
loneliness contradicted the beauty at times, making the land seem
forgotten.<span> </span>Darcy shared that with the land—her father died just
over a week ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">On Thursday,
June 26th, he'd left her behind and alone.<span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">She'd been
preparing for his death these last nine months since he'd received the poor
prognosis. Though he'd only been gone a week, after remaining by his side for
months, Darcy needed today. She needed to feel lifted above it all.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">In the sky, she
could soar above the earth and all the problems of the world appeared small. It
wasn't all about her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Oh, Daddy."
There was so much she'd wanted to say to him but it was pointless saying it now.
All she'd ever wanted was what every child wanted—a father's approval. Why had
it been so hard for him to give?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">And now, that
chapter of her life was gone forever.<span class="MsoCommentReference"><span>
</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A gust caught
the delta wing, threatening to take her off course. In the sling, she leaned her
body to the left.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">North by
northwest. Emily wouldn't be happy if she had to drive too far to pick Darcy up.
An experienced pilot, she built altitude so that on her final glide she could go
as far as possible, making it somewhere in the vicinity of Carnegie.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But even at
thousands of feet above the ground, images accosted her mind. Her daddy's
funeral in the pouring down rain. And then. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The familiar
silhouette leaning next to the centuries old juniper tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>A
hood protected him from the rain, hiding his face. Darcy's pulse had raced. Was
it Jonas?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>No.
Jonas Love had left town years ago thanks to her father, Pastor Jeremy Nichols',
counseling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jonas was the
man she would have married, if it hadn't been for her father. In the end, Jonas
was the one who'd hurt her the most. The best thing she could do now was start a
new life elsewhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">With only ten or
fifteen minutes remaining in her flight, she fumbled with her radio and hailed
Emily.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"What do you
want?" Emily's voice barked over the radio. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Darcy's friend
knew the drill. They'd done this for years. "I'm about ten minutes out. You
could probably see me to the south."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Come
again?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Really?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Emily laughed.
"I'm on it. And, there's something else."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The wind whipped
in Darcy's ears, nearly drowning Emily out. "What?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"I'll tell you
later."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Darcy shut off
her radio. "I hate it when you do that."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">An eagle again,
Darcy lost herself in flight, savoring those last few minutes. Finally, she
soared over the small two-lane highway that Emily would take to meet her.
McFarlane's ranch was across the way, a small swath of earth where she was
permitted to land. Too soon, her time in the sky was over, like the ending of a
well-loved book.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Grass and earth
came at her fast. She pushed the bar forward and stretched her arms, tipping the
nose up and stalling the glider until it began to slow. . .slower. . .Darcy
stuck her feet out and landed upright, running through the sagebrush and
bunchgrass until she stopped.<span> </span>The wing dropped behind
her.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Grounded, the
exhilaration of flight slowly dissipated. She unharnessed from the
contraption.<span> </span>When she looked up, Emily was jogging across the
property. Breathing hard, she slowed as she approached, her dark blond hair
bouncing in a ponytail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"You didn't have
to run," Darcy said.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Didn't I?"
Emily leaned over her thighs.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"On second
thought, you probably need the exercise," Darcy teased.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Are you
prepared to walk home?" Emily raised her eyebrows.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"No, not
really." </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Didn't think
so." Emily drew in a long breath. "Let me help you with that."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"No. I have to
fold it just right. It'll last longer. You know that."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Yes, but I
always have to ask, don't I?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Maybe. You can
tell me whatever it was you were going to tell me later."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Now?" Emily
sounded cautious.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Darcy glanced up
from packing the glider. "What is it?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">With an
unreadable expression, Emily pinned Darcy with her sage-green eyes. "Jonas Love
is back in town."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Invisible
forces.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Website:
</span><a href="http://www.elizabethgoddard.com/"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">www.ElizabethGoddard.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Facebook:
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Twitter:
</span><a href="http://www.twitter.com/bethgoddard"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">www.twitter.com/bethgoddard</span></span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Blog: </span><a href="http://www.bethgoddard.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">www.bethgoddard.blogspot.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Oregon
Outback</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">
is available anywhere books are sold: </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">www.amazon.com</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">,
</span><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">www.christianbook.com</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">,
Wal-Mart and at your local Christian bookstore</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Goddard. </span></span><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Do Not Reproduce without
permission</span></i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">.</span></span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-78214599475944760502012-07-10T13:25:00.002-06:002012-07-10T13:25:39.181-06:00<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b><a href="http://www.revellbooks.com/Console/Common/Image.asp?image=/Media/PubComProductCatalog/9780800734558.jpg&width=223&height=0&quality=90" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://www.revellbooks.com/Console/Common/Image.asp?image=/Media/PubComProductCatalog/9780800734558.jpg&width=223&height=0&quality=90" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="257" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">THE
GIFTED </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">By</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Ann H.
Gabhart</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Gabhart's Shaker
series continues with more of the same impeccable research and moving characters
who are searching for their place in the world and learning to let God guide
them.</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span>– RT Book
Reviews</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine Brady
has been in the Shaker Village for half her young life, but in spite of how she
loves her sisters there, she struggled to conform to the strict rules. Instead
she entertains dreams of the world outside. When Tristan Cooper seems to step
out of those dreams to entice her into the forbidden realm beyond the shaker
Village, her life turns upside down. Will Jessamine be able to survive the
storms of the world? Or will she retreat back to the peace of Harmony
Hill?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Excerpt from
<i>The Gifted</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine was
ready to turn back when she caught sight of a boot up ahead of her. A boot that
was connected to a man lying in a deep rut. She hardly dared breathe as she
stepped closer to the man who was lying much too still. Blood oozed from an
angry looking wound on the side of his head, and his right arm was bent in an
unnatural angle. </span></div>
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</span>With relief, she noted his closed eyes. That could be a hopeful sign.
Much better than open and staring at nothing but the beyond side of death, she
decided as she peered at his chest. Yea, he was definitely breathing, but she
couldn't see the least bit of flutter to his eyelids. The fall must have knocked
him senseless.</span></div>
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</span>Jessamine had no idea what to do next. Go for help of course, but how
without leaving the man there alone? That seemed wrong. She moved another step
closer to him. His felt hat had spilled off and dark brown hair tumbled down
over his forehead.</span></div>
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</span>She shut her eyes and opened them again. He was definitely there. Still
as stone, but definitely there. Dark whiskers were beginning to shadow his clean
shaven cheeks. She stooped down beside him and reached her hand toward his face.
She couldn't remember ever touching a man's face. Her granny had no use for men
other than the old preacher and the princes who populated her
stories.</span></div>
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</span>"Make them up," her granny would say as she rocked back and forth in the
chair on the porch. "That's the only kind to have truck with, my sweet little
Jessamine. You keep that in mind when you get older, child. Wait for your
prince. The good Lord will send one."</span></div>
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</span>Of course, the Believers thought the Lord had changed his mind about men
and women marrying and having families. The believed marriage was a sin a person
did well to repent of and set aside. To keep back the normal temptations of the
flesh, the Shakers made sure no touching went on between the sisters and
brothers with their separate doorways and staircases. They feared even a slight
brush against one of the opposite sex might plummet a Believer into sin.
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</span>So it could be with her touching this man's cheek. Her hand hovered in
the air over him. The warmth of his skin rose up to her and she told herself she
should put her hand behind her. What was that Bible verse where the Lord said it
was better to chop off one's hand instead of letting it pull one into sin? But
what was so sinful about a touch? No one would have to know. She wouldn't have
to admit her sin of curiosity to Sister Sophrena. While the good sister claimed
unconfessed sin was a burden on the soul, so far Jessamine hadn't felt all that
burdened when she kept a lapse of obedience to herself. She rather thought it
was a favor to Sister Sophrena not admitting all her wayward thoughts.
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">For years, the
good sister had tried to get Jessamine to embrace the Shaker way, but Jessamine
couldn't stop her wondering. She wanted to know things. And it would be good to
know exactly how a man's face might feel under her hand instead of just
imagining it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Is he dead?"
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine was so
startled by the voice she almost fell on top the man. She caught her balance and
jerked back her hand as she scrambled to her feet. With her hand over her heart
and a bit out of breath, she turned to stare at Sister Annie behind her. "You
startled me, Sister Annie. I didn't know you followed me."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"I didn't want
to. Believe me. But we are sisters and if there's danger, it's my duty to share
it with you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine turned
back to the man in front of her. "I don't think he is a danger to
us."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Perhaps not in
his current state, but what about the gunshot? You keep forgetting that there
was gunfire." Sister Annie leaned forward to peer around Jessamine toward the
man. "Does he have a gun?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine let
her eyes sweep down the man's slender body. He wore a coat something like the
brothers wore to meeting, but of a richer looking cloth and his shirt was very
white. The coat lay open and revealing the belt around the waist of his
trousers. "No gun that I can see."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Well, somebody
had one. If not him, then somebody else." Sister Annie looked around. Her voice
trembled as she went on. "Somebody who could be watching us right now. May our
Eternal Father up in heaven protect us."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Do you think he
was shot?" Jessamine knelt down beside the man again. She thought of pulling her
handkerchief out of her apron pocket to wipe away the blood on the side of his
face. That could not be sinful even in Sister Annie's eyes. "We have to help
him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Sister Annie
surprised her by agreeing. "Yea, but how?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"You can go to
the village and get help while I wait here with him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Nay. I won't
leave you alone with a man of the world and besides I would get lost a dozen
times trying to get back to the village. That would be no help to him or us
either. By the time the elders sent out people to search for us, the man might
be dead."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Jessamine's
heart jumped up in her throat. "We can't let him die."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"God holds the
number of our days."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"But I don't
want him to die." Jessamine kept her eyes on the man's face.<span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"You don't even
know him, Sister Jessamine. You are only imagining one of your stories in your
head that get you into nothing but troubling fixes." Sister Annie's voice was
cross again. "This man is not one of the princes in the fairytales your
grandmother told you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Yea, Sister
Annie. You are right, but even so, we must take him back to the village where
Brother Benjamin can treat him for his injuries."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"That might be a
proper plan, but how?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Perhaps on his
horse." Jessamine suggested. The horse might still be nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"The man's arm
appears to be broken. He could have other bones broken as well. Even if we were
strong enough to do so, we might make his injuries worse putting him on a
horse." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Well, if we
can't move him and we can't leave him, what can we do?" Jessamine looked at his
face with the blood trickling down toward his ear from the angry gash on his
head. She did take out her handkerchief then and dabbed it against the wound.
She waited to see if Sister Annie would condemn her actions, but when she did
not, Jessamine reached out with her other hand to take hold of the handkerchief.
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">With great care
to make her movement look totally unplanned, she gingerly laid her hand down on
the man's cheek. The emerging whiskers were prickly under her fingers. She
forgot about Sister Annie watching her and ran her fingers up his cheek toward
his eye. There his skin was smooth and his lashes soft as downy feathers. Quite
without thinking she dropped the handkerchief and touched her own eyelashes with
her other hand. His felt much the same as hers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Whatever are
you doing, Sister Jessamine?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Just wiping the
blood from the gash on his head," she said quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"I might be more
apt to believe that if the handkerchief were in your hand instead of forgotten
on the ground."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A flush rose up
into Jessamine's cheeks as she snatched up the handkerchief and began dabbing at
the bloody gash again. "Forgive me, Sister. But I had never touched a man's face
before. I have continually wondered about their whiskers. How they might
feel."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Sister Sophrena
often says your curiosity may be the death of you, but whether or not that is
true, I am beginning to fear it will be the death of me." Sister Annie let out a
long sigh. "And we are not one iota nearer a solution to our dilemma than we
were. We have no choice. We must leave him here and go back to the village.
Elder Joseph will know what to do."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"I suppose you
are right." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Reluctantly
Jessamine lifted her hand away from the man's face and started to stand. But
before she could get to her feet the man's eyes popped open and he grabbed her
wrist. She sucked in a startled breath as Sister Annie let out a frightened yelp
behind her. She jerked to free herself but the man's grip was strong. She was
caught as surely as a rabbit in a snare. So she went still and stared down into
eyes the brown of butternut. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">After a moment,
she said, "Hello." Her voice carried hardly any tremble at
all.</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The
Gifted<i> </i></span></b><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">is
available online at </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?event=AFF&p=1142059&item_no=732332" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: blue;">ChristianBook.com</span></i></a>, <i><a href="http://www.bn.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.bn.com</span></a>,<span> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/before-Beauty-Sister-Sister-Book/dp/0800732332/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1232139284&sr=8-2" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Amazon.com</span></a> or other on-line
booksellers and at bookstores everywhere.</span></i> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Visit
Ann's website - <a href="http://www.annhgabhart.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.annhgabhart.com</span></a>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Copyright
©2012 by Ann H. Gabhart </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Published
by Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">ISBN:
978-0-8007-3455-8 </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">All
rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission. </span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-11426744917524629852012-07-09T16:42:00.001-06:002012-07-09T16:42:47.750-06:00The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr<b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sandra
Byrd<o></o></span></span></span></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTy1MTj0k1GCE-rX5mN-bEHFbjvNo8zvXxV6r9qlKYprzYApcOaU-uzlCHVkFN5Kcgbi7vZAOIg65C8A_7P1fu_ybkoDniI140nIfby9qRJ2PMwkQqboVEDDn3FOeDglecjrPF/s1600/secret+keeper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTy1MTj0k1GCE-rX5mN-bEHFbjvNo8zvXxV6r9qlKYprzYApcOaU-uzlCHVkFN5Kcgbi7vZAOIg65C8A_7P1fu_ybkoDniI140nIfby9qRJ2PMwkQqboVEDDn3FOeDglecjrPF/s320/secret+keeper.jpg" width="208" /></a><br />
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<b><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
author of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>To Die For<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>returns to the court of Henry VIII as a
young woman is caught between love and honor. <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Juliana
St. John is the daughter of a prosperous knight. Though her family wants her to
marry the son of her father's business partner, circumstances set her on a
course toward the court of Henry VIII and his last wife, Kateryn Parr. For she
knows a secret. She has been given the gift of prophecy, and in one of her
visions she has seen Sir Thomas shredding the dress of the king's daughter, the
lady Elizabeth, to perilous consequence.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As
Juliana learns the secrets of King Henry VIII's court, she faces threats and
opposition, learning truths about her own life that will undo everything
she holds dear.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"Rich
in historical detail, full of intrigue, and starring a memorable heroine, Sandra
Byrd's</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> <i><span style="background: white;">The Secret Keeper</span></i> <span style="background: white;">kept me completely engrossed in the tumultuous court
of Henry VIII. I felt a part of the times, thanks to the author's skillful
storytelling, vivid descriptions, and inspiring characters. Readers are in for a
special treat with this remarkable novel." </span>—Francine
Rivers, <i>New York Times</i> bestselling author<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">Chapter One
Excerpt<o></o></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Once I began to
read out The Acts of the Apostles, I quit, for the moment, of my fears and lost
myself in the resonant words of Saint Paul and the upturned faces of the
crofters, the millers, and the goodwives, breathing heavily in their mean woolen
garb. Sir Thomas remained for the reading but left afore the townsfolk did.
Afterward, Father Gregory called me back to a quiet closet shut off from hungry
eyes and thirsty ears.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"And now, Juliana. Unburden yourself."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"You know of my dream." I spoke immediately.
<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
He nodded. " I know a little. Would you like to share its
entirety?"<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"About a year ago, shortly after my father died, I began to have a dream.
'Twas not an ordinary dream, but it was powerful and left me in a sweat and
fever with my senses vexed," I said. "My maid, Lucy, would calm me afterward
though she was frightened, too." I forced my hands from twisting ropes of my
fine skirts and continued.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"I saw a barn, a large barn, filled with wheat and livestock of all
kinds. And of course the husbandmen and others who tended the flocks and
fields. At night, something kindled within the barn and within
minutes the barn was aflame. The livestock and grains were all
burnt and the building was too."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Yes?" His voice was gentle but prodded me to continue.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"At first I had the dream only once, and then six months later it came
back. Then after a month, and then a week. Each time the dream would grow more
fervent. The heat peeled my skin like parchment and I my ears could not refused
the desperate bleating of the animals and the screams of men. One
night, I noticed that the doors to the barn looked exactly like the doors to my
father's warehouses. And then, 'twas pressed upon my heart, <i>for
this reason you have been shown the fire.</i> After some nights I knew I must
tell my mother. 'Twas not a choice but a compulsion."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
He grimaced, as though swallowing bitter ale. "And she
..."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Disbelieved me at first. But I was insistent. As you know I am wont to
be. My Lady mother has said no more. But lately, I ... dreamt. And
I know she heard me call out, though my maid sought to wake and still me as soon
as she heard my unrest."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Is this another of the same kind of dream?" <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Yes." <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Have you told your mother?"<br /> "I have told no
one." My voice made it clear that I would not be forthcoming, even to him, with
the contents of <i>this </i>dream. "But she came to my chamber and saw my
countenance. After my maid had left us she declared me a witch." I swallowed
roughly. "Is it true? Am I a witch?"<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
I looked at my hands, not wanting to see his face, and nor how he might
now view me, afore I heard his answer. I desperately wanted to keep his good
opinion of me.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"No," he said gently. "You are not a witch. Do not let that trouble you
again."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
I sighed with relief, perhaps too soon, and looked up as he spoke. "But
others could claim that you are one if they hear of your dreams or do not like
the content of them. The penalty for witchcraft is death and forfeiture of all
material wealth, no matter how highly born. Wait here." He rose
and left the room, his long black clerical robes sweeping the fine dust beneath
them whilst I tried to quiet the worries that newly beset me. <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
When he returned, he handed me a book.
"Tyndale," I said, tracing my finger over the lettering.
<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
He took the book from me and opened it up to the Acts of the Apostles,
just a few pages on from that morning's reading. "It
shall be in the last days, saith God: I will pour out of my spirit upon all
flesh: and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see
visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. And on my servants, and on my
handmaidens I will pour out my spirit in those days and they shall
prophesy."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
We sat there, time marked by a hundred quiet breaths. Then he took the
book from me and slipped threads that he pulled from his vestments between
various of the pages before handing it back to me.
<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"My dreams ... they are prophecy?" I whispered, suddenly understanding
why he'd chosen that passage. <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"'Tis your gift." His drawn face showed me that he knew it to be a heavy
burden.<br /> I stood up. "An unsolicited gift! An
unwarranted trouble!" I pushed my hair back from my head and when I took my hand
away it was wet with the evidence of fear and despair. <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"Woe to the pot who tells the potter how she should be
fashioned," he rebuked me. <o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
I sat down again, shamed. "I know it well. I am
afraid."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"God has specially chosen you, and He will be with you,
Juliana."<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
Cold seeped from the church walls and into my bones, which now felt very
like those buried in the plot outside must feel. <o></o></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
"You must take care. There are laws against prophecies, too,
if those in power or are noble or highborn are not pleased with the
predicted outcome. The prophet or prophetess may be thrown into the Tower for
such - and worse."<o></o></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
He took my hand in his own again and I readily yielded it. "God Himself
has opened your eyes. Many of the things you foresee shall be
difficult and unwelcome and the temptation will be to remain silent or run away.
Some you must act upon in faith but may not learn the reason why during this
lifetime. I shall pray for you," he said gravely. "That you may be able to
resist in the evil days which will surely come. And to
stand."<o></o></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Please visit
Sandra at </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000319/!x-usc:http://www.sandrabyrd.com/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.sandrabyrd.com/</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">; the book is
available for purchase at fine bookstores everywhere.<o></o></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Do
Not Reproduce without permission</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o></o></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o> </o></span></i></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-21155528116297284892012-07-02T11:40:00.000-06:002012-07-02T11:40:26.199-06:00A Doctor's Vow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged8dBVnvW-2rQOPn7UuXwfymRH0XpjX5RJMECEnEQur0C4MLLqWYcG6qzNyTdNENAlFA_O69RwWNekNgLJheVKIre4dSnqwdPxiXMNxgZzUXWt0eA3jM9ooYVCI-MlGlUJgbS/s1600/doctors+vow.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged8dBVnvW-2rQOPn7UuXwfymRH0XpjX5RJMECEnEQur0C4MLLqWYcG6qzNyTdNENAlFA_O69RwWNekNgLJheVKIre4dSnqwdPxiXMNxgZzUXWt0eA3jM9ooYVCI-MlGlUJgbS/s1600/doctors+vow.jpeg" /></a>by <span style="color: #741b47;"><strong>Cheryl Wyatt</strong></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ABOUT THE BOOK:</span></span></span></u></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;">Publisher:</span></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;"> Love Inspired (June 19, 2012)
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;">ISBN-10:</span></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;"> 0373877544 </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt;"><span>·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;">ISBN-13:</span></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 9pt;"> 978-0373877546</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">A Doctor’s
Vow</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">--When he fled Eagle Point years
ago, former</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">air force trauma surgeon Mitch
Wellington left</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">only broken dreams behind. Now
he’s back with</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">a new dream—opening a trauma
center in the</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">rural area and saving lives. He
hopes to hire the</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">quick-thinking nurse who
impressed him during</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">an emergency. But Lauren Bates
lost her faith</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">and doesn’t believe she
deserves to help anyone.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Mitch knows firsthand what loss
feels like. And</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">it’ll take all his devotion to
show Lauren that</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">sometimes the best medicine is
a combination</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">of faith, community—and
love.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Eagle Point Emergency
Series:</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Saving lives—and losing
their hearts—in a small Illinois town.</span></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b><u><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span></span></u></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Born
Valentine’s Day on a Navy base, Cheryl Wyatt writes military romance. Her
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">debuts earned RT Top Picks plus #1
and #4 on Harlequin's Top 10 Most-Blogged-</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">About-Books, lists which included NYT Bestsellers. Cheryl
loves interacting with readers. Sign up for her newsletter for yummy story
recipes and other fun stuff exclusive to newsletter subscribers at </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://www.cherylwyatt.com/"><span style="color: #000099; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">www.cherylwyatt.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">. Cheryl loves interacting with readers and can often be
found plotting mayhem with them on her Facebook page, dedicated to readers:
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<b><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">BOOK
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Amazon: </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://www.amazon.com/The-Doctors-Devotion-Love-Inspired/dp/0373877544"><span style="color: #000099; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.com/The-Doctors-Devotion-Love-Inspired/dp/0373877544</span></a><b><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Christianbook.com: </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://www.christianbook.com/the-doctors-devotion-cheryl-wyatt/9780373877546/pd/877546"><span style="color: #000099; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">http://www.christianbook.com/the-doctors-devotion-cheryl-wyatt/9780373877546/pd/877546</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><u><span style="font-size: small;">FIRST CHAPTER EXCERPT
LINK:</span></u></b><b><u><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
</span></u></b></span></div>
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<a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://scrollsquirrel.blogspot.com/2012/06/excerpt-doctors-devotion-by-cheryl.html"><span style="color: #000099; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">http://scrollsquirrel.blogspot.com/2012/06/excerpt-doctors-devotion-by-cheryl.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b><span style="color: black;"></span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span>~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="gmail_quote">
On Sun, Jul 1, 2012 at 8:29 PM, Cheryl Wyatt <span dir="ltr"><<a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:mailto:anavim4him@gmail.com" target="_blank">anavim4him@gmail.com</a>></span> wrote:<br />
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px;">
<u></u>
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<span> </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700;">[<a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/#138454ec046cd4c6_TopText" style="text-decoration: none;">Attachment(s)</a>
from Cheryl Wyatt included below]</span>
<br />
<div>
Hey all! Attached is the cover art and content for The Doctor's Devotion.
The excerpt link is also the blog where I post all of your CLBB book info, but
I've been forgetful of sending the link individually to authors as I post the
CLBB each week one goes up. Sorry about that! </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Thanks so much to all of you who have time to post this info. The book
released in stores a couple of weeks ago and is available online now as well.
Please let me know if you need any other info. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Blessings,<br />Cheryl Wyatt<br clear="all" /><br />-- </div>
<div>
Writing as Worship <a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://www.cherylwyatt.com/" target="_blank">www.cherylwyatt.com</a></div>
<div>
Wings of Refuge Series (Love Inspired) available in digital format at all
online booksellers. </div>
<div>
The Doctor's Devotion (July Love Inspired) on sale for pre-order now!
</div>
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="color: white;">
</div>
</div>
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</blockquote>
</div>
<br /><br clear="all" /><br />-- <br />
<br />
<div>
Writing as Worship <a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000677/!x-usc:http://www.cherylwyatt.com/" target="_blank">www.cherylwyatt.com</a></div>
<br />
<div>
Wings of Refuge Series (Love Inspired) available in digital format at all
online booksellers. </div>
<br />
<div>
The Doctor's Devotion (July Love Inspired) on sale for pre-order now!
</div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-2427139645059741362012-06-29T16:06:00.000-06:002012-06-29T16:06:46.581-06:00Two Crosses<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<b><i><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">by <span style="color: #bf9000;">Elizabeth
Musser</span></span></span></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVz1pD8IUDVuhlmoh4Y-eNbt-QkXogh1mvrFlxp9CYKfKZmly6hwenEYZSsLJ6PByxh7BHQo_PeuZx-NKpf5C8Wu96OKKWKptfQ70VhhKnPfpIbJnlNjRI7zcd3hktri1eMJS/s1600/TwoCrossesfrontcover800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVz1pD8IUDVuhlmoh4Y-eNbt-QkXogh1mvrFlxp9CYKfKZmly6hwenEYZSsLJ6PByxh7BHQo_PeuZx-NKpf5C8Wu96OKKWKptfQ70VhhKnPfpIbJnlNjRI7zcd3hktri1eMJS/s320/TwoCrossesfrontcover800.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The first book in
the<i> Secrets of the Cross Trilogy, </i>available June, 2012, along with the
sequel <i>Two Testaments.<span> </span>Two Destinies </i>coming in September,
2012</span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">~One intriguing era in France's
history, one unforgettable cast of characters, and one of the best writers in
the CBA today all add up to one incredible read! In <i>Two Crosses</i>,
Elizabeth Musser has achieved another literary triumph.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> ~Ann Tatlock, award-winning author
of <i>Promises to Keep</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">~In late
1961, as Algeria's war for independence from France is coming to a close, two
crosses, symbolic of another time in history, draw together a host of characters
in an unforgettable story of love and war, revenge and
forgiveness.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">1</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">September 1961</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black;">Castelnau</span><span style="color: black;">,
France</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The sun rose softly on the lazy town of
Castelnau in the south of France. Gabriella
quietly slipped out of bed, stretched, and ran her fingers through her thick
mane of red hair. The tile floor felt cool to her bare feet. Peering down from
her tiny room, she watched the empty streets begin to fill with people. Mme
Leclerc, her landlady, was the first to enter the <i>boulangerie</i> just in
view down the street to buy <i>baguettes</i> and <i>gros pain</i>, the bread
essential for breakfast for her three boarding students. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">She watched a moment longer, until a lanky young man in
his midtwenties walked briskly up the street. There was no mistaking the next
client who entered the boulangerie. Gabriella had recognized him the first time
she saw him buying bread a few days earlier, from the description of the other
boarders. This was David Hoffmann, the university's handsome American
instructor. Gabriella strained to get a closer look. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Castelnau was a pleasant town, she thought as she moved
away from the window. She pulled the duvet up from the end of the bed and
lightly fluffed her pillow. She tied back her unruly hair with a large ribbon
and then washed her face in the small porcelain sink that sat neatly in the
corner of the room. Opening a large oak armoire, she removed a freshly pressed
blouse and a simple straight-lined navy skirt. As she dressed, she noted that
the skirt hung loosely around her waist—in spite of the boulangerie's bread and
pastries.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">She had come to Castelnau only two weeks earlier, excited
and confident, ready to discover a new land and people. But as the days between
her and her family lengthened, pangs of homesickness caught her by surprise. In
the midst of a walk through town she would notice a woman with hair like her
mother's, or two lithe, tanned girls, carefree and laughing, like Jessica and
Henrietta. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">By afternoon she knew it would be blistering hot outside,
but the morning was bright and crisp, with a hint of autumn in the air. At home
there would be no fall smells. And at home she would not yet be starting her
first day at university. But here, in this small French village separated by a
sea from the African world she loved, Gabriella knew she must push away thoughts
of the past. At twenty-one, she should know that no good would come from giving
in to homesickness. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">She reached for the large leather-bound Bible sitting on
her wooden nightstand and leafed familiarly through the pages until she found
the place she was seeking. Ten minutes later, as she carefully laid the book
back on the nightstand, a letter fell from the Bible. She reached down and
retrieved it, and as she tucked it back into the book, a line caught her
eye: <i>I give you this cross, which has always been for me a symbol of
forgiveness and love. </i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">A shadow swept across her. Instinctively she reached to
touch the gold chain that hung around her neck. Paying no attention to the cold,
hard tile beneath her bare knees, she knelt on the floor and propped her folded
hands on the side of the bed. She moved her lips without a sound escaping. It
was only later, when she rose to her feet and smoothed her skirt, that she
noticed her hands were wet from her warm tears.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span>
</span>***</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Gabriella finished her breakfast of bread, butter, and
jelly dipped into a huge bowl of rich hot chocolate. The first morning, she had
barely managed to choke down the strong coffee the French drank in their wide
bowls, diluting it with plenty of cream and four cubes of sugar. After that
disaster, Mme Leclerc had offered her hot chocolate instead. Gabriella smiled
now as she remembered her embarrassment, then swept the breadcrumbs from her
skirt, cleared the table, and let the dishes rattle in the small
sink.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Gabriella, please. You are always the last one, helping
an old lady like me. But today you mustn't be late. <i>Allez</i>! Go along now
and catch up with the others." Mme Leclerc shooed her out of the
house. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Stephanie and Caroline, the two other boarders, had
hurried off minutes before, and Gabriella appreciated Mme Leclerc's friendly
dismissal. She grabbed her small satchel that lay by the entrance of the
apartment. Opening the door, she turned back and said "<i>Au revoir</i>," then
placed the expected quick kisses on her landlady's cheeks.
"And <i>merci</i>!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">She stepped out into the sunlight and blinked. Quickly
she trotted down the sidewalk, past the <i>boulangerie</i> with its smells of
fresh bread, past the <i>café</i> where paunchy men were already sipping an
early-morning <i>apéritif</i> and women chatted noisily as their dogs strained
on leashes. She liked the short walk through the village that led to the
imposing church of St. Joseph. The small church
was built in the Romanesque style and seemed to Gabriella like a benevolent
father surrounding a houseful of children, saying nothing but ever present and
knowing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">She stepped through the red-washed wooden side door and
down the steps into the hollow nave, where flickering candles testified to the
early-morning fidelity of a few parishioners. The church was slowly filling up
with young women. Gabriella took a seat on a wooden pew near the front, next to
Stephanie. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">By now many young women were scattered throughout the
twenty rows of pews. A small woman wearing a black nun's habit walked up the
aisle and stood before them. Gabriella had heard that she was over seventy, but
the nun's green eyes were lively. She spoke in English, with a heavy French
accent. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Good morning, <i>mesdemoiselles</i>, and welcome to the
church of St. Joseph. I am Mother Griolet, the
director of the Franco-American exchange program here in Castelnau. This is my
fourteenth year of working with the program, and by now I have, shall we say,
gotten used to the ways of American women." She lifted her eyebrows, and muffled
laughter echoed through the church. "We try not to have too many rules, for we
want you to soak up this region of France and learn the
language. However, we do expect you to act becoming of your age and remember
that you are representing your country.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I would now like to introduce our professors." She
addressed the woman and three men seated in the front
row…</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"And finally, M. David Hoffmann, who will be teaching a
course he first presented at St. Joseph last year:
`Visions of Man, Past and Present.' M. Hoffmann will teach in both French and
English, since his course deals with art, history, and literature from both
France and England."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">When David Hoffmann rose to his feet, every eye in the
church followed him. His frame was lean and athletic, and his hair and eyes were
jet black. He appeared calm and sophisticated for such a young
professor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Mother Griolet thanked the professors, then turned her
attention once again to the young women. "We are delighted to have you with us
for the school year. I believe you have all received your course schedules and
know where the classrooms are. I will end by saying that I am an old woman and
have seen many things. Young ladies can get into all kinds of trouble. I cannot
prevent it, but my office is open for a friendly chat if you should happen to
need it. You are dismissed."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">She left the podium, her face a picture of joviality
dusted with friendly concern. The girls offered a smattering of polite applause
before they stood up and filed out of the church and into the adjoining
building.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Gabriella liked the firm yet humorous style of the
director. <i>I can see why Mother grew so fond of her</i>, she thought. Then she
hurried after Stephanie to find a place in the classroom of M.
Hoffmann. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">***</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Mother Griolet closed the door to her small office and
sat down behind the mahogany desk. She picked up the list in front of her,
cursorily reading the forty-two girls' names. Over the next few months they
would become as familiar to her as her own. But one she already
knew. <i>Gabriella Madison</i>. She closed her eyes and saw this now-grown young
woman with the fiery hair as a child of six, trembling and sobbing, her face
dirty as she clung to Mother Griolet's black skirts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Mother Griolet did not cry often, but the memory of that
scene brought an unexpected sting to her green eyes and sent a sudden chill
through her small frame.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Dear child. Why did you come back here?" She was sure it
was a mistake. She was equally sure that she would pray night and day that
Gabriella Madison would never discover the story that an old nun had kept to
herself for so long.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">​~from <i>Two Crosses</i>, by Elizabeth Musser, c1996,
c2012, published by David C Cook. Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication
prohibited.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Available at fine
bookstores everywhere, as well as on-line bookstores. </span><a href="http://www.bn.com/" target="_blank" title="http://www.bn.com/"><span style="color: #0068cf; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;">www.bn.com</span></span></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">, </span><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.amazon.com</span></a><span style="color: #444444;">,
</span></span></span><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/" target="_blank" title="http://www.christianbook.com/"><span style="color: #0068cf; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;">www.christianbook.com</span></span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">For a chance to win
a copy of <i>Two Crosses </i>and the sequel, <i>Two Testaments, </i>please visit
Elizabeth's Facebook Author Page:<span>
</span></span></span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Elizabeth-Musser/149546181768451"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">https://www.facebook.com/pages/Elizabeth-Musser/149546181768451</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">To learn more about
Elizabeth and her books, and to find discussion questions
as well as photos of sites mentioned in the stories, please visit </span><a href="http://www.elizabethmusser.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">www.elizabethmusser.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">.</span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-64728285646689768882012-06-29T14:14:00.001-06:002012-06-29T14:14:38.364-06:00DANGER IN PLAIN SIGHT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtcdK6ivuulcRlKTw8gQqoNK1CAO1jrtpAZYNEPZ09NywpX7NOZ38hZUbNw5KDJHbC7j6CxTVMHLOSCOj90F5ZUUGA4eOouprHfLyEetaN05O-L5TlD-sgkKB_nUKXlvGbEnl/s1600/marta+perry.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtcdK6ivuulcRlKTw8gQqoNK1CAO1jrtpAZYNEPZ09NywpX7NOZ38hZUbNw5KDJHbC7j6CxTVMHLOSCOj90F5ZUUGA4eOouprHfLyEetaN05O-L5TlD-sgkKB_nUKXlvGbEnl/s320/marta+perry.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
by <b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Marta Perry</span></b><br />
HQN Books, June, 2012<br /><br />Coming home
may be more dangerous than she thinks…<br /><br />Libby Morgan never wanted to
return to Lancaster County. She'd made her own life in the city as a news
photographer, leaving the slow pace of Amish country behind. She'd left love
behind, too, when she fled the old-fashioned ways of Adam Byler. But when the
Amish friend of her childhood asks, Libby knows she had no choice. What she
doesn't know is that something sinister awaits her…<br /><br />For Adam Byler, the
traditional ways convey safety and order. As police chief of Springville, the
former marine strives to keep the peace between the Amish and their modern
"Englischer" neighbors—and he will not allow Libby's beauty to distract him from
his duties. But when an innocent woman is attacked, they'll confront a danger
more threatening than their growing passion.<br /><br />Available now at bookstores
everywhere. To receive a signed bookmark and a brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch
recipes, send your mailing address to Marta at <a href="mailto:marta%40martaperry.com">marta@martaperry.com</a>.<br /><br />Do not
reproduce without permission from the author.<br /><br />DANGER IN PLAIN SIGHT<br />By
Marta Perry<br /><br />Prologue<br /><br />Amish buggies weren't built for speed. If the
men were following her, she couldn't outrun them. <br /><br />Esther Zook shivered
in the December cold, turning her head to peer behind her, her view cut off by
the brim of her bonnet.<br /><br />Nothing. The township road lay dark and empty
behind the buggy...as dark as every farmhouse she'd passed, surrounded by their
blankets of snow. Country people went to bed early in the winter, especially the
Amish, without electric lights and televisions to keep them awake.<br /><br />Libby
Morgan would be awake, though. If she could get to Libby, everything would be
all right. Libby would know what to do.<br /><br />If only she'd told Libby more in
her letters...but Esther hadn't known, then, just how frightening this
was.<br /><br />The Amish didn't go to the law. They settled matters among
themselves. But the Amish of Spring Township had never dealt with a problem like
this before.<br /><br />Esther had shrunk from putting her suspicions down in black
and white, thinking that when Libby returned it would be time enough to seek her
advice. But now suspicion had turned to certainty, and she feared she had
delayed too long. If they were following her—<br /><br />Even as she thought it, she
heard the roar of an engine behind her. Panic sent her heart racing, she tried
to think, tried to pray, but it was too late—too late. The roar turned to a
scream, to s crash which deafened her, to total blackness.<br /><br />Chapter
One<br /><br />It was nice to see someone else's love life turning out well,
especially when her own was such a train wreck, Libby Morgan decided. Now that
her big brother Trey was married, Mom could turn her obvious desire for
grandchildren to Trey and Jessica and stop asking her only daughter if she'd met
anyone special yet.<br /><br />Libby put down the bridesmaid's bouquet she'd been
clutching for what seemed like hours and picked up her camera instead. She'd
discovered long ago that the camera could be useful camouflage. It would help
her get through the rest of the wedding reception without, she hoped, too much
conversation with people who'd known her from childhood and seemed compelled to
try and find out how her life was going.<br /><br />Then, once the flurry of
wedding-related activities were over, she'd be free to dig into the other reason
she'd come home to Spring Township, deep in Pennsylvania's Amish
country.<br /><br />Something is terribly wrong. Esther's last letter had sounded
almost frightened, and Esther Zook, teacher at the local Amish one-room school,
didn't frighten easily. You know the Amish don't go to the law, but I fear this
is one time when we should. I must talk to you as soon as you get home. You know
the Englisch world. You'll be able to tell me if I'm right about
this.<br /><br />Libby snapped off a few shots, more to keep the camera in front of
her face than anything else. She hadn't reached Pennsylvania from San Francisco
as early as she'd intended, partly because of the weather, but mainly because of
the upset at the newspaper that had led to a final showdown with her
boss...final in more ways than one. <br /><br />Well, maybe she could set up in
business as a wedding photographer. She framed Trey and Jessica in the
pine-wreathed archway of the Springville Inn's ballroom, seeming oblivious of
everything but each other, and snapped several quick shots.<br /><br />"No doubt
about how those two feel."<br /><br />That particular deep male voice, coming from
close behind her, made her hands jerk so that she undoubtedly got a great
picture of the parquet floor. She turned, arranging a smile on her face. She'd
had plenty of practice since fate, in the form of the bride, had paired her with
Police Chief Adam Byler for the wedding.<br /><br />"There isn't, is there? This is
one relationship that's destined to last." <br /><br />As opposed to ours, which
lasted for about a minute and a half. That being the case, why did she persist
in comparing every man she met to Adam Byler?<br /><br />Adam's slate blue eyes
didn't show any sign he caught an undercurrent in her words. But then, he
wouldn't. Strong-features, brown hair in a military cut, equally military
posture--stoic didn't begin to describe Adam. Whatever he felt wouldn't be
easily read on his face.<br /><br />"I was beginning to think Trey would never take
the plunge, especially after your dad's death, when he had to take over the
company." Adam flicked an assessing glance at her face, as if wondering whether
she could take a casual reference to the loss of her father, over a year and a
half ago now.<br /><br />She tried for a stoic expression of her own. "Trey's had
his hands full, I know." She raised an eyebrow, casually, she hoped. "Or were
you implying that I should have come home to take on some of the
burden?"<br /><br />Adam lifted his hands in quick denial. "Never thought of it.
Trey probably wouldn't have let you, anyway. He was born for the
job."<br /><br />Trey, the oldest, had been groomed from birth to take over the
extensive holdings that made up the Morgan family company. Link, her twin
brother, the best man today, hadn't had that pressure on him, but since an
injury cut short his military career, he'd come home to recuperate, fallen in
love, and stayed to take over the construction arm of the family
business.<br /><br />And then there was Libby, always considered the baby, even
though Link had been born only twenty minutes before her. She'd been Daddy's
princess. Too bad that role hadn't prepared her very well for the outside world.
For an instant a fierce longing for her father's warm, reassuring presence swept
through her.<br /><br />Adam shifted his weight slightly, looking as if he'd rather
be wearing his gray uniform on his six feet of solid muscle than the rented
tuxedo. Or maybe she had actually succeeded in making him
uncomfortable.<br /><br />"I guess I'd better get back to my groomsman duties." A
smile disturbed the gravity of his face. "Your mother gave strict orders. I even
have a detailed list."<br /><br />"That's Mom, all right. She might play the
feather-brain at times, but she's the most organized person I know."
<br /><br />Funny, that only her mother could bring that softness to Adam's
expression. Or maybe not so funny. Geneva Morgan had looked at a ragged
eight-year-old Adam and seen a person worth cultivating instead of the son of
the town drunk. Adam wasn't the sort to forget that.<br /><br />Libby watched Adam
walk across the room through the shielding lens of the camera, lingering a bit
on those broad shoulders. He was as solid now as he'd been back in high
school.<br /><br />The family had gone to every Spring Township High football game
to cheer on Trey, the quarterback. Nobody had known that Libby's eyes were on
his best friend, the lineman who'd been that same six feet of solid muscle even
then. A crush, she told herself now. It had been nothing but a crush, turned
humiliating when she'd thrown herself at him.<br /><br />In an odd way, when the
rumors started going around that he'd gotten Sally Dailey pregnant, she'd felt
better about his rejection of her. If that was the kind of girl he wanted, she
was done with him. <br /><br />Only she hadn't been, not really.<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-17135612211684668452012-06-08T14:34:00.000-06:002012-06-08T14:34:39.326-06:00Love in Disguise<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSW38CT9_Nbpn6u2S3GKsug_-10u1e4lCer77C_lp3wbiSisEsDBiKJbPAmRLQrKzy6z-NCc2sqm5TxcF7KnN44pkBQ6c9KIkSI0u-4f9aw08sQzKeNX1eKa8WMXWOYV6_R0V/s1600/zzzzzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSW38CT9_Nbpn6u2S3GKsug_-10u1e4lCer77C_lp3wbiSisEsDBiKJbPAmRLQrKzy6z-NCc2sqm5TxcF7KnN44pkBQ6c9KIkSI0u-4f9aw08sQzKeNX1eKa8WMXWOYV6_R0V/s320/zzzzzz.jpg" width="207" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Love in
Disguise</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">by<b style="color: #e69138;"> Carol
Cox</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Cox…has fleshed out a fascinating
cast of characters that move readers through a novel that dispenses romance and
wit in the intriguing context of a Wild West mystery. A most delightful and
engaging read." <i>—Publisher's Weekly</i><span style="font-size: 13pt;"></span></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Can she
solve the crime before they uncover her true
identity?</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">When Ellie Moore wins a
job as an undercover Pinkerton operative, she finds that playing a part in real
life is far different than acting out a role onstage. Will the man who captures
her heart still care for her when he learns the woman he's fallen in love with
doesn't exist?</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Chapter
One</span></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Chicago,
Illinois</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">December,
1881</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"O happy dagger! This is
thy sheath."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie Moore gripped her
hands together as she mouthed the well-known line from the last act of
Shakespeare's <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>. The words floated out into the dark chasm
beyond the edge of the footlights, and an expectant hush filled the theater,
followed by a collective gasp at the moment she plunged her fists toward her
abdomen and threw her head back with an agonized grimace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"There rust, and let me
die." Ellie let her head fall to one side and held her pose, silent as the
grave, while the Capulets and Montagues reconciled, and the prince delivered the
final line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Not until the roar of
applause swept through the auditorium of Chicago's Orpheum Theater did she stir
again, ready for the curtain call. Ellie waited for the proper moment, then
swept one foot behind her and sank into a low curtsey, spreading her arms wide.
Her right hand brushed against the back of the red velvet curtain that screened
her from the stage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Here now. Don't you dare
set that curtain to moving."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Startled by the abrupt
hiss behind her, Ellie jerked her head around and met the fierce gaze of Harold
Stiller, the theater manager.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">At the same moment, the
actors began to file off the stage. Roland Lockwood, the troupe's Montague,
bumped against Ellie's outstretched hand. Arms flailing wildly, Ellie floundered
to regain her balance, but to no avail. With a muffled thump, she plopped into
an ungainly heap on the wooden floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Burt Ragland, one of the
stagehands, pushed past, his lip curled in obvious disdain. "That wouldn't have
happened if you spent your time tending to your own job instead of pretending
you're some kind of star." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie scrambled to her
feet, brushing dust from the hem of her skirt and trying to ignore the snickers
from the other stagehands who'd gathered nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"At least I intend
to make something of myself," she snapped. "You'll be stuck here long after I'm
gone." She lifted her chin when she heard the grunts of indignation from the
group. <i>Ha! That rocked them back on their heels, all right. And good
riddance. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Noting the cleaner area
on the floor that marked the spot where she'd made her undignified landing,
Ellie swiped at the back of her skirt. "I'll think of you all, languishing here
in this dusty hole, when I'm sipping tea in London."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Outright guffaws met her
statement. Ellie gave up on trying to swat the dust from her backside, finding
it too difficult to twist herself into a pretzel shape and maintain her haughty
air at the same time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Let them say what they
wanted. It didn't matter anymore. Before the night was over, she would be gone
from their midst and on her way to England. There, in the homeland of the Bard
himself, she should find many who would appreciate her acting skills, gleaned
from years of observation in the theater. Finally people would look past her
drab exterior and see the raw talent that lay beneath. All she needed was a
chance—just one! Then she would show them all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">While the other actors
dispersed to their dressing rooms, one of the crew opened the house curtain one
last time, so Magdalena Cole, Queen of the American Stage, could address the
audience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Her voice filtered back
into the wings. "Thank you all for being here. Every performance is special to
me, but tonight has a significance all its own." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie glared at Burt and
the others while Magdalena continued with the pretty speech she and Ellie had
worked out the night before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"This marks my last
performance in your fair city, and not only in Chicago, but in this great land
of ours." Magdalena paused to let the murmur of surprise die down before she
went on. "Tonight I leave for New York, there to board a ship that will carry me
away to share my art with the audiences of Europe."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Don't make out that
you're any better than us," Burt growled. "The only reason you get to go is
because you're that woman's toady."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie sucked in her
breath. "That's <i>personal wardrobe mistress</i>—thank you very
much."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Good night, my friends,
and God bless you, each and every one." Magdalena glided off the stage to
thunderous applause, carrying a bouquet of deep red roses in the crook of one
arm. She thrust the flowers at Ellie as she walked by. "Put these in water," she
ordered, then gave a quick laugh. "What am I thinking? I won't be here tomorrow
to enjoy them, so it doesn't matter what you do with them. Throw them away, if
you want." She continued down the hallway without breaking stride.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Burt snorted. "Sounds
more like <i>personal dogsbody</i> to me."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie tossed the bouquet
into a nearby trash barrel and followed in Magdalena's wake, not deigning to
give Burt the satisfaction of a reply. She closed the dressing room door,
shutting out the post-show flurry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Hurry." Magdalena's eyes
shone like a child's on Christmas morning. "We haven't time to waste." She spun
around so Ellie could unfasten the hooks on the back of her costume. "Arturo
will be here any moment. Is everything packed?" Magdalena slipped out of the
Juliet gown with practiced ease. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"It's all ready." Ellie
draped the costume over the back of a nearby chair and reached for Magdalena's
new traveling outfit. She slid the stylish dress over the actress's head and
upraised arms and fastened the row of jet-black buttons that ran from neck to
hem. Then she stood back to study the effect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Well?" Magdalena pivoted
slowly. Even in their present rush, she could find time to pause for an
accolade. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie reached out to
adjust the rounded collar then nodded. "It's perfect. That cobalt blue matches
your eyes exactly. Your couturier outdid himself this time."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"And well he should have.
I paid dearly for those new gowns. Even though I'm planning to acquire a whole
new wardrobe once we reach London, I could hardly begin my grand European tour
dressed like a second-rate bit player, could I? First impressions are so
important."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie folded the Juliet
gown with care and placed it on top of the other clothing in the costume hamper.
She lowered the lid, pressed it down with both hands, and then finally sat on it
in order to fasten the latches. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"There now, we're all
set. Your new dresses are in the two large trunks, along with your other
personal effects. Costumes, wigs, and makeup are here in the hamper. We're ready
to leave as soon as Mr. Benelli arrives."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Magdalena cleared her
throat. "Ellie, there's something I—" A knock at the door cut her off. She
leaned back against the dressing table and struck a pose, then nodded at Ellie.
"It must be Arturo. Let him in."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellie opened the door to
find a small contingent of theater workers gathered there. Harold Stiller stood
in front of the group. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"We've come to say
goodbye." He pushed past Ellie and walked over to Magdalena, who abandoned her
dramatic stance the moment she recognized her visitors. "On behalf of all of us
at the Orpheum, I want to wish you a safe journey to England and a dazzling
career in the theaters of Europe. We will always treasure the memory that we, in
some small measure, played a part in your success." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Magdalena's lips
tightened, then curved in an expression that would look like gracious
acknowledgment to anyone who didn't know her as well as Ellie did. It was
obvious to her that the actress had no intention of giving credit for her
success to anyone but herself while she stood on the threshold of her greatest
triumph.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>Their</i>
triumph, Ellie corrected herself. How many times had she heard Magdalena say she
didn't know what she would do without Ellie's help?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">"Thank you for coming to
say farewell." Magdalena's tone held a note of dismissal, but Stiller didn't
take the hint. He leaned against the chair as if settling in for a long
conversation, ignoring the glitter in the actress's eyes that would have warned
a more observant person of a pending eruption likely to rival that of Mount
Vesuvius. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">About the
author:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">CAROL COX is
the author of nearly 30 novels and novellas. A third-generation Arizonan, Carol
has a lifelong fascination with the Old West and hopes to make it live again in
the hearts of her readers. She makes her home in northern Arizona, where the
deer and the antelope really do play—often within view of the family's front
porch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">To learn more about
Carol, visit her website at </span><a href="http://www.authorcarolcox.com/"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">www.AuthorCarolCox.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> or connect with her on Facebook at </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/carol.cox"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">www.facebook.com/carol.cox</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia','serif'; font-size: 13pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>Love in
Disguise </i>is available at fine bookstores everywhere, and online
at <span style="color: #001bf4;"><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.christianbook.com</span></a></span>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/"><span style="color: #001bf4; text-decoration: none;">www.amazon.com</span></a>, and <a href="http://www.bn.com/"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: blue;">www.bn.com</span></span></a>. <span style="font-family: 'Georgia','serif'; font-size: 13pt;"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Copyright ©
2012 by Carol Cox. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">ISBN
978-0-7642-0955-0 Bethany House
Publishers</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">All rights
reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.<span style="font-family: 'Georgia','serif'; font-size: 13pt;"></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-79928551519703457122012-06-01T11:56:00.002-06:002012-06-01T11:56:42.219-06:00<div style="text-align: center;">
END OF THE TRAIL</div>
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By Vickie McDonough</div>
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He won a ranch in a card game. She claims the ranch is her inheritance. </div>
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He's not leaving—and neither is she.<br />
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Endorsement: Far more than your ordinary cowboy story, End of the Trail touches a place deep within you, a place where lies, betrayals, abandonment, and broken promises live. A place where two young people must overcome all of those things and find family, loyalty, faithfulness, and above all, love. You'll cry, you'll laugh, you'll feel. But most of all, you'll enjoy.</div>
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MaryLu Tyndall, author of Legacy of the King's Pirates Series<br />
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<br />
About the Book: Brooks Morgan is quick on the draw, but his weapon of choice is his smile. He's smart and witty and has charmed his way through much of life, but now that he's growing older—and a bit wiser—he wants to stop drifting and settle down. He sees his chance when he wins Raven Creek Ranch in a poker game, but when he goes to claim his prize, a pretty, young woman with a shotgun says the ranch belongs to her. Brooks isn't leaving his one and only chance to make something of his life—but neither is she. Can they reach an agreement? Or will a greedy neighbor force a showdown, causing them both to lose they want most in life?<br />
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<br />
Prologue<br />
<br />
Waco, Texas<br />
<br />
1886<br />
<br />
"You're a good son, Brooks, but your father is right."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks stared at his mother, halfway stunned that she'd sided with his pa against him. "You don't feel I do my share of the work around here either?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Annie Morgan winced and gazed out the parlor window, not looking at him. She might not admit in words that she agreed, but that tiny grimace told Brooks she did. He ducked his head, hating the feeling of disappointing his mother. He'd always been her favorite—her first son. He craved her warm smile, but that was hard to be found just now. Still, he pushed aside disturbing feelings and retrieved his charming smile—the one his ma said could make a die-hard Texas cattle rancher invest all his money in a herd of sheep—and squeezed between his ma and the window. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She flicked a glance up at him then it swerved away. "Don't try to charm me. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have coddled you so much."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
His grin faltered. Now she sounded like his father talking. "You didn't coddle me."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yes, she did. She still does." Melissa's voice sounded from upstairs, followed by quick footsteps on the stairs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He spun around, glaring at his bossy older sister. "Nobody asked you."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I'm getting married soon. That means you'll be the oldest child at home." She reached the bottom of the stairs and shifted the basket of dirty clothes to her other hip, cocking her mouth up on one side. "It's time you start acting like you're sixteen instead of six."<br />
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<br />
<br />
Brooks clenched his fist. As much as he might like knocking that know-it-all look off Melissa's face, he would never hit a female. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"That's enough, Missy. Get the laundry started and then check on Phillip. I'll be out in a few minutes." Ma turned her gaze on him as Melissa—smirking—slipped out the door. Ma's brown eyes were laced with pain and something he couldn't quite decipher. "Your sister is right, but she shouldn't have said what she did. After you nearly died in that fall from the hay loft when you were four, I kept you close. Too close. Wouldn't let you out with your father to do chores anymore. I blamed him for not watching you. He warned me not to be so overprotective, but I was stubborn and wouldn't listen." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"No, Ma—"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Let me finish." She held up one hand, palm out. "You know how much I love you, but my coddling you has made you soft. Spoiled."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks winced. Never had his ma said such a thing to him, and he didn't like the uncomfortable emotions swirling around inside him because of it. She really thought he was spoiled?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"You're nearly a man now, and you need to start acting like one. Quit taunting your brother and help your father more."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"But I do—" <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Not nearly enough." She looked deep into his eyes. "What if something happened to your father? Would you know enough to take over running the ranch?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Of course I could." He stated the words with vibrato, but inside, he felt less sure. Not sure at all, in fact.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well, I've said what needed to be said, now it's up to you. It's time you grow up, son."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks stared at his mother. She'd never talked to him so firmly. So harshly. He felt betrayed by the person who loved him the most. He stomped outside, slamming the door behind him. If he'd been eleven, like Phillip, he'd probably have cried, but like his ma said, he was a man now—or almost one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He did his share of work. Hadn't he just filled the wood box in the kitchen and hauled in a bucket of water? She had no call to lay into him like she did. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Just because he and his pa had argued after breakfast. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Because he didn't want to mend fences and shovel horse flops. He glanced at the barn then back at the house. Maybe it would be worth cleaning the stalls to get back on his ma's good side—and maybe then she'd make some more of those oatmeal cookies with raisins and nuts that she'd baked for the first time last week. His mouth watered just thinking about them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Blowing out a breath, he moseyed to the barn. What he'd really like to be doing right now was fishing or swimming in the pond with Sammy or visiting pretty Sally Baxter. He ambled into the barn, dragging his boots and wrinkling his nose at the smelly hay in the floor of the stalls. His pa had left the muck there just like he'd said he would. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Jester lifted his head over the side of one stall and nickered. Brooks strode over to the black gelding and stroked his nose. "Nobody understands me, boy. I'm not like Pa. He likes working hard, getting sweaty and smelly, but I don't."<br />
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<br />
<br />
The horse nodded his head, as if agreeing with him. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Hey, you want to go for a ride?" Casting aside thoughts of work, he bridled and saddled Jester and led him out of the barn. A long, hard gallop would do them both some good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Just where do you think you're going?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks jerked to a halt at his pa's deep voice. "Uh…riding."<br />
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<br />
<br />
Pa shook his head. "No, you're not. There's work to be done. Get back in there and muck out those stalls."<br />
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<br />
<br />
Hiking his chin, Brooks glared at his pa. "Maybe I already did."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Riley Morgan stared at him with those penetrating blue eyes. "I wish you had, but I can tell by your reaction that you haven't." He shook his head, his disappointment obvious.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Brooks gritted his back teeth together. It wouldn't matter if he had cleaned the stalls, his pa wouldn't be pleased. Nothing he did made Pa happy. "I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you."<br />
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<br />
<br />
Phillip trotted around the side of the barn. "Pa, Pa, look at the frog I caught."<br />
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Brooks glared at his little brother. How come he couldn't do stall duty? He sure had to do it when he was Phillip's age.<br />
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His pa's harsh expression softened, and he tousled Phillip's light brown hair. "That's a mighty fine frog, son. Did you finish weeding the corn like I told you?"<br />
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<br />
<br />
Nodding like a little cherub, his brother smiled. "Sure did, and I got some of the beans weeded too."<br />
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<br />
<br />
"Good job, son. Go in and show that nice frog to your ma."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Look at my frog, Brooks." Phillip held up the commonplace critter.<br />
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<br />
<br />
"Ain't nothin' special about it. Just a dumb ol' toad."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Phillip's happy expression faltered.<br />
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<br />
<br />
"Go in the house, Phillip."<br />
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<br />
<br />
The boy nodded and shuffled to the house. <br />
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<br />
<br />
Brooks ire mounted. When was the last time his pa had told him he'd done a good job? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The smile on Pa's face faded as he spun back around. "That was a cruel thing to do. Just 'cause you're upset doesn't give you the right to hurt Phillip's feelings." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks shrugged, feeling only a tad bit guilty. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
His pa reached for Jester's reins but Brooks yanked them away and scowled, matching his father's expression. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I want that barn cleaned out, or you can go without dinner. The Good Book says if a man doesn't work, he shouldn't eat." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Fine. I'd rather not eat than mess with that muck."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I guess I was wrong in giving you that gelding. A man who can't clean up after his horse doesn't deserve to have one. Give me the reins."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Why?" Brooks backed up another step, tugging Jester along with him. The horse was his best friend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"You stuffed yourself full of your ma's cooking this morning, but did you even give a thought to feeding your horse?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks hung his head at that comment. He'd forgotten again to feed Jester.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Harley Jefferson came by earlier asking if I had a good riding horse for sale. I've just about decided to sell him Jester."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Brooks's eyes widened, and he felt as if he'd been gut shot. "You wouldn't."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I don't want to, but obviously it will take something drastic to get your attention. You've got to learn to pull your weight and tend this place. It will be yours one day."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I don't want it. Give it to Phillip since you love him so much." Brooks's frown deepened. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Pain creased his father's face, but Brooks hardened his heart against it. He was sick of being told he was no good. And he wasn't about to let his father sell his horse.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I love you too, son, and that's why I'm working so hard to teach you to become a man. I just hope it's not too late." He shoved his hands to his hips and stared out toward the plowed field. I joined the war when I wasn't much older than you. It's time you grow up, son."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Tears stung Brooks's eyes in spite of his resolve to not allow such sissy behavior. He was so sick of hearing how his pa had fought in the war. It wasn't his fault there was no war for him to fight in. He was sick of being bossed around. Sick of his whole family. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He threw the reins over Jester's neck and leaped into the saddle. He kicked the horse hard, causing him to lunge away from his pa's frantic attempt to grab the reins. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Get off the horse, boy. You hear me?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I'm no boy. And since no one here realizes that, I'm going somewhere else where I'll be appreciated." He kicked Jester hard in the side again, and the horse squealed at the unusually harsh treatment, but he leapt forward.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Brooks. You come back here right now. Stop!" Fast footsteps chased after him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sitting straighter in the saddle, Brooks ignored his pa's ranting and squeezed away the moisture in his eyes. He'd stay away a few days—maybe a week—and when he returned, everyone would be happy to see him again. And ma would bake those oatmeal cookies to celebrate his return.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At least he hoped they would.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But he knew the truth—they would all be happier without him. All he'd ever done was cause them trouble.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He turned Jester to the west. Maybe by the time he visited every town in Texas his family would forget how much trouble he'd been and welcome him home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And maybe Houston would get a foot of snow this winter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Note from the Author: Thank you so much for sending the past few minutes with Brooks Morgan. I hope you enjoyed his cocky personality and his story and will want to read more. God bless! Vickie McDonough<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
About the author:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
VICKIE MCDONOUGH is an award-winning author of 25 books and novellas. She is a finalist in the inspirational category of the 2012 Booksellers' Best Awards, and her books have won the Inspirational Reader's Choice Contest, Texas Gold, the ACFW Noble Theme contest, and she has been a multi-year finalist in ACFW's BOTY/Carol Awards. She is the author of the fun and feisty Texas Boardinghouse Brides series from Barbour Publishing and author of Long Trail Home and End of the Trail, books 3 & 6 in the Texas Trails series by Moody Publishers, in which she partners with Susan Page Davis and Darlene Franklin to write the series which spans 50 years of the Morgan family. Vickie is currently serving her third year as the ACFW treasurer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Website: www.vickiemcdonough.com <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Facebook: www.facebook.com/VickieMcDonough<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Twitter: www.vickiemcdonough.com<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Email: Vickie@vickiemcdonough.com<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
End of the Trail is available at www.amazon.com,www.christianbook.com, <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
and at your local Christian bookstore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright © 2012 by Vickie McDonough<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
ISBN 978-0802404084<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(River North Fiction by Moody Publishers, copyrighted material)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Not final file. Not for resale or distribution.)<br />
<br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-61604955087783839062012-05-29T11:50:00.001-06:002012-05-29T11:50:34.026-06:00The Pursuit of Lucy Banning<div id="ygrp-text">
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<i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Pursuit
of Lucy Banning<o></o></span></strong></span></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">By <span style="color: #6aa84f;"><strong>Olivia
Newport<o></o></strong></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Chapter
4<o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"T</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">hank you." <o></o></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTaFMcR2WKnk6zQi9Z0nILidB_P9IXk2fVDPo4xtFpxoMMyrIUwgGhxpW1I5Pd3rj9t7SvypK44SzLHPhMxkYY314K69n_TnrymnLftYo0gmFt-cX-Xf-0os4aOSifU4ukzMV/s1600/Pursuit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTaFMcR2WKnk6zQi9Z0nILidB_P9IXk2fVDPo4xtFpxoMMyrIUwgGhxpW1I5Pd3rj9t7SvypK44SzLHPhMxkYY314K69n_TnrymnLftYo0gmFt-cX-Xf-0os4aOSifU4ukzMV/s320/Pursuit.jpg" width="207" /></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">With a smile, Lucy pressed a coin into the
hand of the cab driver as he helped her down. Daniel had put her in a carriage
to carry her safely home after their tea. The neighborhood was quiet as the
carriage pulled away and Lucy surveyed her surroundings. The Pullmans had
houseguests, Lucy knew, so she was not surprised to see a couple of extra
coachmen tending to carriages under the broad porch at the front door across
Eighteenth Street. The brownstone-covered massive home seemed as impenetrable
</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">as the Pullman business
empire. Lucy had last been inside the </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Pullman home the previous spring for a
dinner party. She'd spent several hours in the opulent dining room and parlor
that evening, and more than one dinner guest had referred to the
two-hundred-seat theater and the two-lane private </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">bowling alley of the home. Lucy had
managed to swallow her </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">wonderings whether the Pullmans were
looking for a life in which they never had to leave their fortress. In
comparison, the Bannings lived simply, and perhaps even were the "poor
neighbors."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Certainly the Fields were not the poor
neighbors, nor the Kimballs, whose new home on the corner of Eighteenth and
Prairie had been completed only in recent months. Lucy had watched it go up
stage by stage, passing by it every day. The neighborhood rumor—no one knew for
sure—was that the owner of the Kimball Piano and Organ Company had a Steinway in
his parlor. A Kimball piano would have been a cheap insult to the Rembrandts
that hung on the walls. Across the street from the Kimballs, the Glessners were
the neighborhood rebels. They refused to erect a home that fit into the unspoken
code of European design, opting instead </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">for granite stone architecture that
embraced a free American </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">spirit. Inside, Mrs. Glessner flagrantly
defied the rules for decorating and welcomed the friendly atmosphere of the
</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Arts and Crafts movement with
its warm tones and practical</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">ity even in exquisite craftsmanship. Flora
Banning acquired select pieces from the Arts and Crafts movement, but Mrs.
Glessner embraced it full on.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy turned to face the solid oak front
door of the Banning mansion two doors down from the Kimballs. With lips
together, she inhaled deeply, then opened her mouth and exhaled slowly. The
weight in her shoulders eased. She should never have let slip to Daniel that she
had met Will Edwards at the university. At least Daniel was not coming to dinner
tonight, nor would he be calling for her later. A </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">business dinner would consume his evening.
The staff would </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">undoubtedly
set a place for him just in case. Over the years they had grown used to Daniel's
presence in the Banning </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">house
and seemed prepared for his needs regardless of when </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">he turned up.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">You can't stand on the sidewalk
forever</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">, she told herself.
Her family may not have been the richest on the block, nor the most daring, nor
the most creative, but they were her family. Dinner would be served promptly at
eight o'clock, and Lucy could not appear in gray flannel. She picked up her
skirts and climbed the handful of steps that led to the front door and entered
the expansive foyer.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Penard, his wrists crossed behind his back, paced in
front of a stiff lineup of the household staff. The round dark mahogany pedestal
table, anchor of the foyer, separated butler from staff. Taking in the startling
scene before her, Lucy instinctively caught herself from letting the door
slam.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"As you know well," Penard was saying, "my
position as butler of this household makes me accountable for every </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">item within its walls. Mr. Banning is
seriously distressed that </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">some items have gone missing from his
private study. I have admonished each of you repeatedly not to enter that room
without specific permission from me, and I have extended no such permission to
any of you. You can understand my </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">concern that some items of sentimental
value to Mr. Banning </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">have
disappeared."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">As if on ominous cue, the seven-foot grandfather clock
bonged six times.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy skimmed the expressions of one
stricken servant's face after another. As much as she might like to, she could
not get involved. Running the household was Penard's purview. Her parents had
trusted him for fifteen years. Mrs. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Fletcher, the cook, had been with the
family for years as well </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">and
was above reproach. The other staff tended to rotate every year or two. Lucy so
far had found Archie Shepard, the footman and assistant coachman, to take his
responsibilities seriously, and Elsie, the ladies' maid she shared with her
mother, to be delightfully personable. Bessie, the parlor maid, said no more
than she had to but anticipated </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">her tasks and the family's needs with
almost befuddling ac- </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">curacy.
The kitchen maid, Kate, had left abruptly a couple of weeks earlier, but Lucy
assessed her to be simply high-strung, not the sort who had any point to prove
by stealing knickknacks. She wondered whom Penard could suspect among this
lot.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy's eyes moved to the young woman at
the end of the lineup. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">She
must be the new kitchen maid</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">,
she thought, </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">and Penard is
going to scare her off before she even catches her breath. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">The woman, who was around Lucy's age,
stared at </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">her feet during the
entire dressing-down. Holding her satchel closely, Lucy inched away from the
door and toward the mar</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">ble
stairs across the foyer.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Penard pivoted and paced in the opposite direction. "I
need not remind any of you that you serve in this house at my pleasure. The
Bannings give me authority. If I do not recommend you, you do not work here.
It's that simple. For the moment, I will refrain from making specific
allegations, but be warned that I will be watching carefully. I will know
everything that happens in this house."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The new kitchen maid twitched, and her eyes rose
momentarily to Penard.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Charlotte, do you have something you wish to say?"
Penard glared at the maid.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"No, sir." The maid's eyes went back to her
feet.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"If I discover that you are withholding anything from me,
you have my assurance you will regret it."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Yes, sir, Mr. Penard."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy flinched on the girl's behalf.
Clearly she was unnerved. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Was
it really necessary for Penard to speak to her this way on her first afternoon
of employment?<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Still, Lucy knew she ought to go upstairs
to choose a gown </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">for dinner
and let Penard sort out whatever was amiss. Her foot was on the first marble
step when her father burst into the foyer.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"Well, Penard, what have you discerned?"
Samuel Banning </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">boomed.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy cringed. She knew that intonation
well: her father </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">had given up
even trying to be polite. Involuntarily, she turned </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">to see how Penard would
respond.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I have taken appropriate action, Mr. Banning," Penard
said. "I'm sure we have put an end to things."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Samuel Banning pointed at Charlotte, the new maid. "Who
is this? I don't recognize her."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"This is Miss Charlotte Farrow," Penard
responded evenly. "We have engaged her services as a kitchen maid. She has just
</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">arrived to take up her
post."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Was she here yesterday?" Samuel snapped.
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Only briefly, sir, for an interview."
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Why didn't I meet her?" <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"You had not yet come home from the
Calumet Club, sir. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">After I
interviewed her and recommended her, Mrs. Banning </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">gave her
approval."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"If she was here yesterday, she could have
done it," Samuel </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">said. "I
want to see her bags."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">By now Charlotte was visibly quaking, and Lucy could no
longer resist the urge to intervene. "Father, please. I've only just got home,
so I'm not sure what is causing such a stir, but I'm certain we can sort it out
calmly."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"You wouldn't say that if it were your items going
missing. My brass paperweight is gone."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"The one shaped like a gavel?" <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Yes. It's the only brass paperweight I have."
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"It's not the first time you thought something was
missing, Father," Lucy reminded him. "Remember last spring when you were sure
Richard took a book from your library of first editions? You were quite
distressed, as I recall. But it turned out you loaned it to Daniel's father. You
didn't even recall you'd given it to him until he returned it a few weeks
later."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span> </span><o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"This is not the same at all," Samuel said. But the wind
had gone out of him.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy glanced at Charlotte, who was so pale Lucy thought
she might faint.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Father, let the staff go back to work." She spoke
quietly. "I'm sure if we put our minds to it, we can figure out what
happened."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"That's what your mother says." Samuel
raised rather than lowered his voice. "But if one of her precious pots went
missi</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">ng, she'd sing a
different tune."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"I would sing exactly the same tune."
Flora Banning ap</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">peared in the
broad arch that led from the parlor to the foyer. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"Penard has a spotless record hiring
staff, as you well know. No one he has brought into our employ has ever given
you cause to think twice."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Things change. This new girl—" <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"She's only been here a few hours, Samuel."
<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"But yesterday—" <o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"She was in the parlor for all of ten
minutes and then left </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">directly by the servants' entrance. She
was nowhere near your </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">study."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy glanced at the maid, who seemed visibly
relieved.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Flora turned to Penard. "You may dismiss
the staff, Penard. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">I'm sure
they all have better things to do."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Penard nodded his head almost
imperceptibly, and the staff </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">dispersed.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Samuel, for goodness' sake," Flora said, "it's a
paperweight. It's nothing of value."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"That's hardly the point,
Flora."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I'm sure you've just misplaced it. You're not in court.
There's no need to put anyone on trial. Stop acting like a foolish old man."
Flora's eyes brightened as she looked at her daughter. "Lucy, dear, you're
home."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy stepped over to kiss her mother's cheek, one hand
behind her back with the satchel.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Have you been with Daniel in that outfit?" Flora
asked.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy sighed. "Yes, Mother. I had no time to come home and
change. It's a perfectly good suit."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"It's drab and off the rack. It's a good thing Daniel is
as fond of you as he is. I'm surprised he allows you to dress the way you do
sometimes."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy's eyes flared but she held her tone. "It's hardly
Daniel's decision how I dress for an afternoon at the orphanage, is
it?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"You're going to be his wife soon. Your appearance will
reflect on him."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I promise I'm not going to get married in a gray flannel
suit."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"Goodness, I should hope not," Flora said.
"Have the two </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">of you settled
on a date?"<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lucy let her gaze drift away casually. "Daniel suggested
mid-July."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"In the middle of the summer heat! Oh, I don't know,
Lucy."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy shrugged. "It's just a suggestion. We
haven't decided </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">anything."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"Perhaps I'll have a word with his mother. We don't want
to let it become an urgent question."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy smiled. Daniel was of course correct
that the mothers </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">would have
strong opinions. "The only urgent question I'm facing is what to wear for dinner
tonight." She looked from one parent to the other, then took her sulking
father's elbow and turned him around. "Why don't the two of you relax in the
parlor? Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher can have Bessie bring you some
refreshment."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I'll call for her," Flora said, taking her husband's
other arm.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"I had hoped Aunt Violet would be here," Lucy said. "It's
Thursday."<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"She telephoned this afternoon to say she is otherwise
engaged," her mother explained.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">"Then I hope she's enjoying herself."
Lucy's words masked her disappointment. </span><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Aunt Violet, where are you when I need
</span></i><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">you?</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">By the time Lucy left her parents in the
parlor, Flora was talking about the redecorating that should be done before
</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">the wedding. As she turned
back toward the stairs, across the </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">foyer Lucy saw movement in the dining
room. She paused long enough to see it was the new maid beginning to lay the
</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">table for dinner. The girl
looked up just long enough to catch </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Lucy's eye before busying herself with the
china.<o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Something's wrong</span></i><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">,</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"> Lucy thought, </span><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">but not what Father thinks</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><o></o></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a;">Bio: Olivia Newport's novels twist through time to
discover where faith and passions meet. Her husband and two twenty-something
children provide welcome distraction from the people stomping through her head
on their way into her books. She chases joy in stunning Colorado at the foot of
the Rockies, where daylilies grow as tall as she is.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o></o></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">To
order: </span><a href="wlmailhtml:{247A85F2-029D-414F-9765-DA66687A8652}mid://00000055/!x-usc:http://www.amazon.com/Pursuit-Lucy-Banning-Avenue-Dreams/dp/0800720385/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337950953&sr=1-1"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman;">http://www.amazon.com/Pursuit-Lucy-Banning-Avenue-Dreams/dp/0800720385/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337950953&sr=1-1</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> <o></o></span></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="color: white; height: 0px;">
__._,_.___</div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-58701586693972299262012-05-11T16:47:00.002-06:002012-05-11T16:52:14.184-06:00Hannah's Joy<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39qY_NnUwP809UpTFU9C7XJZUQ7xLhSQI0PrJijIJZwLPJMOvBXRPCN4snn8dBU10clKNw8lt-AE1Ykg4JTCYclpjugh6btjzIpYIU8TdhShbSCbsILzOsjAA-OC3D-blCPYe/s1600/hannah's+joy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39qY_NnUwP809UpTFU9C7XJZUQ7xLhSQI0PrJijIJZwLPJMOvBXRPCN4snn8dBU10clKNw8lt-AE1Ykg4JTCYclpjugh6btjzIpYIU8TdhShbSCbsILzOsjAA-OC3D-blCPYe/s320/hannah's+joy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">Returning to Pleasant Valley is giving Hannah Conroy a much-needed chance
at a new life, but now she must discover her true place in the world, when
opposition comes from every side.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">HANNAH'S JOY, Pleasant Valley Book 6, Berkley Books, May,
2012</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">Available now wherever books are sold. For a signed bookmark and
Pennsylvania Dutch recipe brochure, contact Marta Perry at </span></span><a href="mailto:marta@martaperry.com"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">marta@martaperry.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">Do
Not Reproduce without Permission</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: x-large;">HANNAH'S
JOY</span></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">Chapter
One</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> A man in Army fatigues stepped off a bus just down the
street at the Pleasant Valley bus stop. Hannah Conroy clutched the stroller
handle as an onslaught of dizziness hit her. She fought the irrational surge of
joy that turned in an instant to ashes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> It wasn't Travis. It was an unknown young soldier,
moving into the welcoming arms of his family—mother holding him, fighting back
tears; father standing stiffly as if to deny his emotions; a girl of about ten
waving a welcome sign.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Not Travis. Travis had lain beneath a marker in
Arlington National Cemetery for well over a year. He wasn't here on a warm
September day in Pleasant Valley.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Two women in Plain dress stopped next to her on the
sidewalk, their faces blurred by the tears she wouldn't let fall. One reached
out a tentative hand.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Are you all right? You are Hannah, ain't so? Paula
Schatz's niece?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> She nodded. She couldn't cry. Jamie would be frightened
if he saw his mother in tears. But he was almost asleep in the stroller, one
chubby hand still grasping his toy dog.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "I'm fine." Hannah almost managed a smile. "Thank
you."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "You're going into the bakery, ja? Let us help you get
the stroller inside." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">The woman motioned to the
other…a girl in her early teens, Hannah saw now…who pulled the door open,
setting the bell jangling. Together they maneuvered the stroller inside Aunt
Paula's bakery, where the aroma of fresh-baked bread surrounded her, easing the
hurt.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Thank you," she said again. The grief and pain ebbed,
leaving her as lost as a leaf in the wind.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "It's nothing." The woman patted her arm with a
feather-light touch, the girl nodded, and they were
gone.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Aunt Paula, as round and comforting as one of her own
dumplings, glanced up from the customer she was serving, her eyes clouding when
she saw Hannah's face. By the time Hannah reached the kitchen door, Aunt Paula
was there, wiping her hands on the white apron she wore over her traditional Old
Order Mennonite dress, its tiny print faded from many
washings.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Hannah? Was ist letz?" Aunt Paula spoke English most
of the time, but in moments of stress she was apt to slip into Pennsylvania
Dutch. "What's wrong? I saw Leah Glick and her daughter helping
you."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Nothing." Hannah bent, the action hiding her face for
a moment, and lifted Jamie from the stroller. He was relaxed and drowsy, a
precious, heavy armload now at twenty months. "I'm
fine."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">She didn't want Aunt Paula
worrying about her. It was enough that her aunt had made a home here for her and
Jamie.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> But Hannah couldn't stop herself from glancing at the
window. The family, their faces animated with love, moved toward a
car.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Aunt Paula followed her gaze. "Ach, I see." Her voice
was soft. "I know. After your uncle passed, I'd see a man with wavy hair like
his, or his way of walking, and my heart would stop, as if it reacted faster
than my brain did."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "It's been almost a year and a half." Hannah cradled
Jamie close, and he snuggled his face into her shoulder, his soft breath against
her neck. "I'm better. But sometimes—"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Ja. Sometimes." Aunt Paula patted her. "I
know."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> The bell jingled on the bakery door, and Aunt Paula
turned to greet the man in Amish garb. In all the years since she'd lived here
as a child, Hannah had nearly forgotten the peculiar mix of Amish,
horse-and-buggy Mennonite, black bumper Mennonite, and English that made
Pleasant Valley so unique.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> William Brand was Amish, and he worked with his cousin
Caleb in the cabinetry shop down the street. Hannah had learned that much from
him, but it had taken persistence. William stuttered, and like many stutterers,
he took refuge in silence much of the time.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Banishing thoughts of the past, Hannah moved to the
counter, smiling. William was silent enough already. She didn't want him to
think she was avoiding speaking to him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">"Good
morning."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> He ducked his head in a nod. Tall for an Amish man, and
broad-shouldered, he wore the traditional Amish black broadfall trousers with a
blue shirt and suspenders, the usual straw hat on his head. In his mid-twenties,
William was probably a year or two younger than she was, but his fresh color and
the shyness in his blue eyes made him seem even younger. Next to him, she felt
ancient.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> And what did he make of her, with her denim skirt, pink
lipstick, and curling ponytail? Did he find it odd that Paula Schatz had such a
modern niece?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "H-H-Hannah," he managed, as if determined to say her
name. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Then he looked at her son, and his face softened. He
held out a work-roughened hand, and Jamie latched onto it, saying something that
might have been an attempt at William's name.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "S-sleepy time, Jamie?" </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Jamie shook his head vigorously, but the movement was
interrupted by a huge yawn that showed every one of his baby teeth, and they
both laughed. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Funny, how William's stutter seemed to ease when he
spoke to Jamie. Once, a lifetime ago, she'd planned to become a speech
therapist, and her interest stirred at the observation.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "He just doesn't want to admit he's tired. I thought he
was going to fall asleep in the stroller," she said, reminding herself to speak
naturally to William. Talking with a stutterer required more patience than many
people had.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "H-h-he's a-afraid he'll m-m-miss
something."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "That's for sure." She tickled Jamie's belly, loving
the way he chuckled, eyes crinkling.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Aunt Paula returned to the counter, carrying two
coffees in foam cups and a white bag. "There you are, William, your usual
coffee, just the way you and Caleb like it. And a couple of crullers to tide you
over to lunch."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "D-d-denke." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">He handed her the money. With
another smile for Jamie, he went quickly out, perhaps relieved not to have to
engage in any further conversation. His straw hat shielded his face from
Hannah's view as he passed the window.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> She stood watching his tall figure for a moment, and
then went to get Jamie's plastic cup of milk from the small refrigerator behind
the counter. She focused her mind on him, trying not to let it stray toward
those moments on the sidewalk. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;">"Has William always
stuttered?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Aunt Paula leaned against the display case, seeming
ready for a comfortable gossip. "I don't know about always," she said. "Anyway,
it's a big family, and William is the youngest. His mamm and daad were both
sickly off and on, and it seemed like William kind of got lost in the shuffle,
what with his oldest brother, Isaac, taking over the farm and always barking
orders at the younger ones. I'm not sure when the stuttering started, but it was
before William went to school."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Hannah nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. William
hadn't had it easy. "That's typical. It's usually in those early years when a
child is starting to talk. How did the family handle it? Did they get help for
him?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Not that I know of." Aunt Paula frowned. "I think the
schoolteacher tried to help him, but seems like the other kinder were always
impatient, finishing his sentences for him, acting like he was...well,
slow."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "I don't think he's that." She'd seen quick
understanding in William's face in their few conversations, even when he didn't
speak.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Ach, William's bright enough, and the best thing that
could have happened to him was going to work with his cousin Caleb in the shop.
The boy will maybe find a little respect for himself
there."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Not a boy," Hannah murmured, taking the cup from
Jamie, who was nearly asleep on her shoulder. She rubbed his back, cherishing
the feel of his small warm body against her.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "I'm nearly forgetting." Aunt Paula's voice
lifted. "That's what you were studying in college, wasn't it?
Before you got married, I mean?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Speech therapy." She'd gotten interested when she'd
babysat for a family with a child who stuttered. The Davises had been so
helpful, encouraging her and aiding her with loan applications so she could go
to school. That had been her only goal, until Travis came along.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> But Travis had loved her. It had seemed meant to be,
that they should love each other and get married and make a home together
always.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> <u>Always</u> hadn't lasted very long. Just a few short
years of moving from one Army base to another. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "You could help William." Aunt Paula, not able to
follow Hannah's thoughts, smiled broadly. "I don't know why I didn't think of
that before. You can teach William, help him get over his
stutter."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> "No, no, I couldn't," she said quickly. "I'm not
qualified. I never finished school, and besides—"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><span style="font-size: small;"> Besides, she intended to go back to the outside world
as soon as she could swing it financially. </span></span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-91033911434003033862012-04-30T10:03:00.000-06:002012-04-30T10:03:26.793-06:00After All<br />
<div align="center" class="FreeForm" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 19pt;">a hanover falls
novel</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Deborah Raney</span></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o></o></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: small;">Eighteen months after the tragic Grove
Street Fire took the life of her husband and four other heroic firefighters,
Susan Marlowe thinks she's finally beginning to heal.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"> </span>But then she
discovers that David carried a secret to his grave-a secret that changes
everything she thought about their marriage.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"> </span>For the sake of
their sons, can Susan forgive the unforgivable?<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<o> </o></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAdooUiUKMDI-uY_onz3xGZVGjq5cE7cSSrtNcTatHjAZWvxPuNYdksoD5iTzqiejTd-8nNFmkQaMvRvfoPzqxA_uJagPmIY5f6yXbtjH5u5Btn85_0nqbi-eLqQAON38R6DH/s1600/after+all.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAdooUiUKMDI-uY_onz3xGZVGjq5cE7cSSrtNcTatHjAZWvxPuNYdksoD5iTzqiejTd-8nNFmkQaMvRvfoPzqxA_uJagPmIY5f6yXbtjH5u5Btn85_0nqbi-eLqQAON38R6DH/s1600/after+all.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #800100; font-size: 14pt;">Deborah
Raney's <i>After All</i> is a poignant story of betrayal, forgiveness, and
love.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: #800100; font-size: 14pt;">If you've ever felt betrayed by someone
you cared about, Raney has created a story that offers hope for your
heart.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: #800100; font-size: 14pt;">After All</span></i><span style="color: #800100; font-size: 14pt;"> portrays the freedom found through
forgiveness, and the joy found in the courage to love again.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o></o></span></div>
<div align="right" class="FreeForm" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #800100; font-size: 14pt;">–– Ginny L. Yttrup,
author of <i>Words</i> and <i>Lost And Found</i></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o></o></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #800100; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"> </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Susan stacked
clean mugs in the cupboard above the snack counter in the shelter's commons area
and dumped the dregs of this morning's coffee into the sink. The aroma, stale as
it was, revived her a little.<o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">It was after
eight o'clock. Almost dark, and the first-shift volunteers still hadn't shown
up. She blew out a sigh. She always sent out e-mail reminders to the shelter
volunteers at the beginning of each week, but made it a point never to call
anyone who didn't show. They didn't owe her anything, and it was their own time
they were sacrificing. That was just one downside to running a homeless shelter
that depended almost solely on volunteer staff.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"You're still
here?" Charlie Branson rolled his wheelchair out of the men's sleeping quarters
and gave her a look intended to make her feel guilty.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"We're
shorthanded tonight."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Charlie was
technically a resident of the shelter, a disabled Vietnam vet who'd been
relocated to a shelter in Springfield after the original Grove Street shelter
burned down. But once it was up and running at this new location, Susan had
persuaded Charlie to return to the Falls, and offered him room and board in
exchange for some light housekeeping duties and an unofficial title of assistant
manager. He took the title very seriously, and the other clients respected his
authority.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">The shelter
operated as overnight only, which served to keep the population to a manageable
level. What David had called the "chronically homeless" usually migrated on to
Springfield where there were full-time shelters. Here in the Falls, local
churches took turns serving a light dinner each evening, and provided breakfast
fixings for anyone who got out of bed in time. But the shelter was vacated at
eight sharp every morning and they locked the facility during the day until
Susan or Charlie opened the doors again at five p.m.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Charlie worked
at the library downtown shelving books and doing odd jobs, but he was always
back in time to open the shelter, and Susan had given him permission to be in
the building during daytime hours.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Susan helped
Charlie set out leftovers for breakfast and for those who'd be packing lunches
tomorrow. Fortunately, they were under capacity this week, with eleven men and a
family of five. Two of the guys who worked the night shift hadn't checked in
yet, and the rest of the men were either in bed already or in the dayroom
watching TV.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Charlie took the
dishrag from her and finished wiping off the serving bar. "I've got everything
under control here. You go home."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I will in a few
minutes. But I think I'll go catch up on some paperwork first." She could
probably trust Charlie to keep things under control until the night shift showed
up, but sure as she did that, something would go wrong. She unplugged the
coffeemaker and checked the stove one more time, making sure everything was off.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">The fire––a year and-a-half ago now––had made everyone extra
cautious.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She settled in
at her desk, but a minute later Charlie wheeled into the office holding up a
bottle of red liquid––cheap wine, by the looks of the label.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"What on
earth…?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Charlie wore a
triumphant smirk. "Found this behind the refrigerator."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"You're
kidding?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Well, it sure
ain't mine." He looked offended.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I know that.
But you're sure it's not just––"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Before she could
finish her sentence, Charlie had the lid off the bottle. He waved it under her
nose.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Whew… Okay,
okay… It's the real deal." Great. Now she had to deal with it. This was the part
of the job she hated.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"You know whose
it is, of course."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She eyed him. "I
have my suspicions."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">He harrumphed.
"You'd almost think that jerk wanted to get caught."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Charlie––"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Sorry." He
waved a hand. "I'm just sayin'."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I'll handle
it." She took in a deep breath and blew it out.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Thankfully,
Charlie wheeled out of the office and headed for the dayroom––no doubt to a spot
where he could still listen in on the altercation that was sure to
ensue.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She slid her
chair back and went to find Earl Eland. If he failed the Breathalyzer test, it
was three strikes. She couldn't afford to look the other way, but if Charlie
hadn't been watching to see how she handled this, she would have quietly
discarded the bottle and pretended she never saw it.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She didn't think
Earl would give her any trouble if she asked him to leave––especially if he was
drunk. But on the off chance he refused, she did not want to have to call the
police. The <i>Courier</i> would love nothing more than a juicy story about
trouble at the shelter.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Earl was in the
dayroom, glued to a sitcom with the other residents. Being careful not to make
eye contact with Charlie, Susan cleared her throat. "Earl? Could you come here
for a minute?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">He pointed at
himself and gave her a questioning look, as if he hadn't heard her.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She nodded and
motioned for him to follow her. He eased out of the shabby recliner and shuffled
to the office.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She closed the
door and looked him in the eye. He didn't look drunk, but then she wasn't sure
she'd ever seen him completely sober. She walked around her desk, picked up the
wine bottle, and held it up.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">His face gave
away nothing.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She unlocked a
desk drawer and retrieved a Breathalyzer kit. "I'm sorry, Earl, but I need to
have you take this."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">He looked away.
"Rather not."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Earl, you're
putting me in a tough spot here. You know the rules."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I know… I
know."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Is this
yours?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">He looked
directly into her eyes. "I can truthfully tell you that it's not." His impish
half-grin gave him away.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">She almost
laughed. He was probably telling the truth––because he'd stolen the bottle. Or
"borrowed" it from one of the lowlifes he hung out with. She replaced the
Breathalyzer kit in the desk, closed the drawer, and locked it. She'd probably
be sorry, but if he failed that test, she'd be forced to kick him out. She
simply didn't have it in her tonight to deal with the fallout.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Okay, Earl,
here's the deal." She looked at him hard, hating how often this job made her
sound condescending and snobbish. "I'm going to trust that you're technically
telling me the truth. This bottle is going into a random Dumpster in an
unidentified town on an undisclosed date"––that earned her another grin––"and
you are going to recognize that you've been given a chance you probably didn't
deserve, and you're going to appreciate it and not blow it because unlike God, I
do not have an unlimited amount of grace to offer. Is that
understood?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Understood." He
grinned big enough to reveal the gaps where important teeth were
missing.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"And I'll be
mentioning this incident to your social worker and you'll have to work something
out with her. Okay?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">He nodded,
looking only slightly penitent. "I think I'm gonna hit the hay, if that's okay
with you, Blondie."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I think that's
a very good idea." <i>Before I punch your lights out. </i>She'd let him get away
with calling her "Blondie" before, so she couldn't very well say anything about
it now. Though it hadn't sounded so disrespectful before. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Earl reached for
the door just as the night shift volunteers came through.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Susan glanced at
her watch. "You guys are early."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"And you're
still here," Garrett Edmonds said. "When do you ever sleep?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"The early shift
didn't show."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Susan! You
should have called," Bryn said. "We would have come earlier."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"I know, but
that's not what you signed up for."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Garrett and his
wife, Bryn, were newlyweds who often volunteered for the overnight shift. Bryn
had served many hours of community service for claiming responsibility for the
fire that killed David, along with Bryn's first husband, Adam, and three others,
including Garrett's first wife, who was also a firefighter. It had been a
careless accident––Bryn had left a candle burning in the upstairs
office.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">But Susan had
never blamed Bryn. That act of negligence had changed so many lives, but it
could have happened to anyone. If anything, Susan blamed herself for not having
had stricter rules in place.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Well, we're
here now." Bryn put her purse in a drawer of the file cabinet and shrugged out
of her jacket. "So would you please go home and get some sleep?"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Susan gave her a
grateful smile.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">"Everything calm
here tonight?" Garrett asked.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"><o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">From Howard/Simon &
Schuster<o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">© 2012 Deborah
Raney<o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Do not reproduce without
permission.<o></o></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Available in bookstores
everywhere, or order online at <a href="http://www.christianbook.com/fiction?event=AFF&p=1142383"><span style="color: #000099;">CBD.com</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prairie-Christmas-Collection-Historical-Romances/dp/1616260041?&camp=212361&creative=383837&linkCode=wss&tag=deboraraneyof-20"><span style="color: #000099;">amazon.com</span></a> or other bookstores
online.<o></o></span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-1885147123921349932012-04-24T14:20:00.000-06:002012-04-24T14:20:32.113-06:00Lady Anne's Quest<div id="ygrp-text">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #990000;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Lady Anne's
Quest</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">By <b><span style="color: #073763;">Susan Page
Davis</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Lady Anne believes her
prayers are answered and she has at last found her long lost uncle. But she and
her friend Dan Adams are convinced the man introduced as her uncle is an
impostor. They decide to head into Oregon's mining country and continue the
search for the new Earl of Stoneford. But now the swindler is on their trail,
hoping to steal Uncle David's inheritance. Dan has his hands full trying to
protect Anne, but he finds he must guard his heart just as carefully. Even
though he's good at keeping her safe, he knows he'll never convince Anne to
become a farmer's wife in Oregon when she has her sights set on returning to her
home in England. But as Anne's quest becomes even more difficult—and
dangerous—she begins to see Dan differently. Will she soon be envisioning a new
life in America? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NCPXnGOuF41Ystjap1U9p-dMm0C02UNdxBv63AtKjmFbOXzzdmQySYXlI5PhyphenhyphenDCADL9OM-zJb-HyYRUmB8Hvu2DBH6G8gr0oAlrchJ1Az3STWDUrLT2i1o9FrYpk29AlryXL/s1600/lady+anne.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NCPXnGOuF41Ystjap1U9p-dMm0C02UNdxBv63AtKjmFbOXzzdmQySYXlI5PhyphenhyphenDCADL9OM-zJb-HyYRUmB8Hvu2DBH6G8gr0oAlrchJ1Az3STWDUrLT2i1o9FrYpk29AlryXL/s1600/lady+anne.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Oregon,
1857</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Chapter
Two</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne gulped. How could
this man be her uncle? Impossible.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>She
sucked in a deep breath. Though he repelled her, she must use her manners and
greet him warmly. He was now her closest living relative. Or was he? Could there
possibly be two men named David Stone in the territory? Perhaps this was all a
mistake. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Her
stomach plummeted at the thought, but she pasted on a smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Hello. I'm searching
for Mr. David Stone. Would you happen to know where he lives?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He laughed, a big, noisy
guffaw. "Why, sweetheart, you're lookin' at him." He moved down onto the next
step, and Anne backed away, into the solid bulk of Dan Adams. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Daniel," she
gasped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Dan touched her back
only for an instant, and she took comfort from that reassuring pat. He stepped
around her, between her and the stranger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Howdy. Are you Mr.
Stone?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Yes, I am," the other
man said. He held out a meaty hand. "I'm this little gal's uncle. And who might
you be, mister?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"My name is Daniel
Adams."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The man's eyes narrowed
to slits as they shook hands, as though he was trying to categorize his guest,
but Dan didn't offer more information.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne recovered at least
a portion of her poise and moved up next to Dan. "I'm sorry, but you're not at
all what I expected." She eyed the man. He was several inches taller than she
was, but not nearly as tall as Daniel. She gazed at his fleshy face, his flinty
eyes, and his slicked-back, badly barbered hair. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">She longed to bring out
the miniature portrait in her handbag, but an inner restraint told her not to.
This man could not be the same one who posed for the portrait twenty years ago.
Or could he?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"You wrote that you
wanted to see me and give me some news," the man said. "Come on
in."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne looked at Dan. He
arched his eyebrows, seeking her opinion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Well, I. .
."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Come on." The man
started up the steps again, beckoning with his beefy arm. "Millie's got supper
ready."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne swallowed hard and
looked to Dan again. He held out his crooked arm. She took it and walked with
him up the steps and into the little house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Her eyes took a moment
to adjust to the dim interior. The house appeared to be divided into two rooms,
and they had entered the kitchen. A cook stove stood to the right, with a
stovepipe reaching up and bending to meet the chimney. A ro<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>ugh wooden table stood in the middle of the floor, and a woman
came past it with her hands extended in greeting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"So you're little Anne."
She smiled broadly and seized both Anne's hands. "Oh, my, what a lovely young
woman you are." She threw the man a reproachful glance. "David, you should have
told me."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He shrugged. "Didn't
know. This here's Millie."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne found it hard to
rip her gaze away from him and appraise Millie. The woman's thick auburn hair
hung loose about her shoulders, and she wore lip rouge. Beyond that, the dim
lighting left her in mystery, but her gathered and flounced dress looked to be
of decent quality, unlike the man's clothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Is this your husband?"
Millie asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"No," Anne said quickly.
"Dan is just a friend. He offered to ride down here with me, since I didn't want
to travel alone." She eyed the stocky man as she spoke, hoping to shame him at
least a little for not offering to go to Corvallis for her, but he only smiled
and nodded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Well, let's sit down,
folks. You must be hungry. Millie's been keeping a pot of stew simmering all
day. We thought you might get here this afternoon."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Millie hurried to a bank
of curtained shelves on the far wall and pushed the calico curtain aside. "I
only set up for three, but you're welcome to join us, Mr. Adams." She turned
with a tin plate and a thick china mug in her hands.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Let me help you," Anne
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Oh, no, that's all
right. Sit right down." Quickly Millie laid another place setting for Dan. "Just
grab that little bench by the window, Mr. Adams."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The four of them sat
down at the table, and Millie began ladling out portions of stew. No one
mentioned giving thanks for the food, which Anne found unsettling. The Stones
had always been God-fearing Anglicans. She glanced at Dan, and he gritted his
teeth then said, "Would you mind if I said grace?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Their host stared
blankly at him, but Millie said, "Go right ahead."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Anne closed her eyes.
She'd never heard Dan pray before, but his quiet words soothed
her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Dear Lord, we thank you
for a safe journey and for the food we are about to receive.
Amen."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Amen," Anne whispered.
She opened her eyes. Millie stood with the ladle in her hand, watching Dan as
though waiting for a cue to continue serving.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"So you had a good trip
down here from Corvallis?" the man asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Well enough," Dan
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He looked at Anne. "And
did you come all the way across the country, or did you sail?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"We came by wagon
train," she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Is that right?" He
shook his head. His drying hair tumbled willy-nilly down his forehead. "Rough
trip. Isn't that right, Millie?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"It's bad enough." She
handed him a bowl of stew. "Pass those biscuits around,
David."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The food was more
palatable than Anne had dared hope, and she ate two biscuits with apple butter
and a large bowl of beef stew.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Your stew is
delicious," she said to Millie. "Thank you so much for feeding
us."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Yes," Dan said. "Mighty
fine meal, ma'am."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">"Oh, it's nothing." But
Millie's smile said it was something. "What was the family news you hinted at in
your letter to David, Miss Stone?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">For more
information about Susan and her books, please visit </span><a href="http://www.susanpagedavis.com/"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.susanpagedavis.com</span></span></a><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Lady
Anne's Quest</span></i><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> can be
purchased at Christian Book (</span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lady-annes-quest-susan-page-davis/1104273764?ean=9781607428206&itm=5&usri=susan+page+davis"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lady-annes-quest-susan-page-davis/1104273764?ean=9781607428206&itm=5&usri=susan+page+davis</span></span></a><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> ),
Amazon (</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lady-Annes-Quest-ebook/dp/B006VO3S1C/ref=sr_1_22?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326201481&sr=1-22"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/Lady-Annes-Quest-ebook/dp/B006VO3S1C/ref=sr_1_22?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326201481&sr=1-22</span></span></a><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> ), and
fine bookstores everywhere.</span><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Copyright
2012 Susan Page Davis. Do not reproduce without permission.</span><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<br /></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-54145907965564023202012-04-16T10:41:00.000-06:002012-04-16T10:41:28.040-06:00The Chase<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DaaJf1ISCKVIEUYubZcuhdQjZUwpzEuVYhg3dP2O6ufag8o-mPP_4S9GGTjUR4r0sgDlgrYsyLgNt29CQYOKatcSYy-IbH9e9wfSsH9FOxJPDJX93KVICBwZsnEmjEwrhLSz/s1600/the+chase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DaaJf1ISCKVIEUYubZcuhdQjZUwpzEuVYhg3dP2O6ufag8o-mPP_4S9GGTjUR4r0sgDlgrYsyLgNt29CQYOKatcSYy-IbH9e9wfSsH9FOxJPDJX93KVICBwZsnEmjEwrhLSz/s320/the+chase.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="color: #990000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Crime Scene:
<st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1></span></strong></span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">DiAnn Mills</span></span></span><br />
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></o></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">To the FBI it's
a cold case.<o></o></span></span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">To Kariss Walker it's a hot
story...<o></o></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Drawing from a real-life
cold case, bestselling novelist DiAnn Mills presents a </span>taut collage of suspense, faith, and
romance in <i>The Chase</i>.</div>
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></o></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"I was chasing the pages, flipping them
as fast as I could while holding my breath to find out what Kariss and Tigo
would get caught up in next. The Chase is an edge-of-your-seat fun read everyone
will enjoy." - <b>Debbie Macomber</b>, #1 New York Times bestselling
author</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"></span> <br />
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"DiAnn Mills is not only one of our best
writing mentors, but she also proves her reputation with meticulously researched
thrillers like The Chase. Another breathless winner for her many fans." -
<b>Jerry B. Jenkins</b>, novelist and owner of the Christian Writers
Guild </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 8pt;"><o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></o></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o></o></span></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Chapter 1<o></o></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Present
day<o></o></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">June<o></o></span></b></div>
<div class="body-text">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif';"> </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><b>K</b>ariss had
fulfilled all her dreams but one by age thirty-five. Most women would bask in
such a claim, but not Kariss. The one mountain yet to climb beckoned her to
strap on hiking boots and make her approach. The peak held her in fascination,
and failing meant losing everything she'd ever gained. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Her heels clicked along
the marble flooring of the Marriott hotel's lobby adjoining <st1>Houston</st1>'s
<st1><st1>Intercontinental</st1> <st1>Airport</st1></st1>. Ten minutes early for
her appointment with her literary agent and she could use the time to make sure
her responses to Meredith were gracious and resolute. A mouthful for sure.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Sinking into a plush
chair, she took a deep breath and waited. With all of her prolific abilities,
why couldn't she respond with words that relayed her passion for this story? But
now she had the opportunity to convince Meredith of her sincerity. A little
encouragement went a long way when calling up the powers of inspiration and
creativity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Right on time, Meredith
Rockford slipped into a chair across from Kariss, sipping on a cup of tea, no
doubt Earl Gray. Dressed in a black traveler's knit jacket and pants, the only
color emitting from Meredith was her crimson lipstick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"You could have texted me
that you were early," Meredith said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Kariss smiled. "Just got
here. Did you have a good night's rest?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Meredith lifted a brow
while taking a sip of her tea. "My head is killing me. I had to fly from
<st1>New York</st1> to <st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1>. Arrived late and had to
cancel our dinner appointment, and</span>you ask me if I slept
well?" She set the cup on a table in front of them. "The only thing that will
give me a good night's sleep is for you to abandon this ludicrous idea of
changing genres."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Kariss valued integrity
above all things, and she refused to lose control. "Please understand I have
given this writing project considerable thought. I need a break from writing
women's fiction. I'm not discounting what you've done for my career,
my </span>friends who continue to
write women's fiction, or my faithful readers. But I have a deep need to write a
suspense novel."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"You rehearsed your spiel
very nicely, but let me give you the facts: you, Kariss Walker, are about to
commit publishing suicide. Changing genres in the middle of <i>New York
Times</i> bestselling status means starting all over."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"I was hoping you'd
champion my goals."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"My goal is to make sure
my writers and my agency make money while ensuring the publishing community has
quality writing projects." She crossed her arms. "<i>After Sunrise</i> has held
the number two slot for three months. <i>Always a Lady</i> sold over six hundred
thousand copies each along with a sweet spot on the bestseller list. You write
women's fiction. Period. Not suspense. Your ratings are going to plummet like an
avalanche."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Kariss uncrossed her legs
and allowed her arms to lay limp at her side. How much more open could she be?
"Ten novels in five years is a bit much, don't you think? Suspense intrigues me.
Remember the eight years I spent reporting evening news on
<st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1>'s Channel 5? I have more ideas than I will ever
have time to write."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"It won't work. Your
readers want stories about women. They'll drop you tomorrow if you switch to
suspense. Now send me the proposal for the next story. The one we chatted about
in <st1><st1>New York</st1></st1> will do nicely. You're the only writer who can
remind the reader that the victim isn't just a case file, but a human
life."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Meredith started to
stand, but Kariss gestured for her to stay. "Please hear me out. Deep inside me
is a well of passion for stories that burst onto the suspense scene. These are
real and happening in my city. One in particular touched my heart several years
ago and has never let me go. I cannot <i>not</i> write this. It doesn't matter
that I don't have a contract. If one of the big six doesn't want to publish it,
I'll self-publish."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"If you do not adhere to
the demands of the publishing world, your actions may dissolve our
representation of your work." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Kariss moistened her
lips. "I am fully aware of the consequences."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"Are you? You may never
publish again." Meredith retrieved her cup of Earl Gray and left the
lobby.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span></o></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Kariss gathered her purse
and laptop before leaving the hotel. She had two hours until her appointment
with Lincoln Abrams, special agent in charge of <st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1>'s
FBI, referred to as the SAC. Five years had passed since she'd linked arms with
law enforcement </span>agencies and enlisted
public support to help find criminals. Excitement with a twinge of apprehension
grabbed hold of her senses. If only her agent held the same enthusiasm about her
writing a suspense novel. Maybe if she knew the real reason why Kariss wanted to
protect children. . .</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">This story meant more
than all the six-figure checks combined. In five years, no one had solved the
crime stalking her, and she didn't possess the skills to smoke out a killer. But
in her novel version, the perpetrator would be brought to justice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Drinking a double
espresso, his breakfast of choice, Tigo drove through the seedy neighborhood off
South Main in <st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1>, looking for the dark-green van last
seen at the shipyards speeding away with two hundred and fifty grand of stolen
AK – 47 rifles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">The area looked deserted
except for the battered vehicles matching the twisted and dented people who hid
behind their weapons and bravado.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Some residents were
simply poor and trying to eke out a living. Why they stayed made no sense. But
those weren't the ones Tigo wanted to question. He needed Cheeky and his gang of
Arroyos behind bars for gun smuggling. Add to that the identity of the dealers
who were selling them weapons, and he was a happy man. <st1>Houston</st1> ranked
as <st1><st1>Mexico</st1></st1>'s largest gun supplier, and Tigo intended to
drop that stat like a live grenade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">He drove slowly, studying
each peeled-painted house for signs of rodents. He didn't really expect a
tattooed ganger this time of the morning, but he also knew they could tear
through a door at any moment ready to blow him to pieces. He risked the
encounter and hoped they were sleeping off the previous night. His appointment
was critical to draw out those who continued to break the law, one important
enough for him to break the </span>rules and work alone.
He'd long ago given up trying to figure out if he wanted credit for the arrests
or if he didn't want to endanger another agent. Probably both.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">The gangs living here
counted coup on law enforcement types.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Tigo eased to the curb
next to a bungalow with boarded-up windows. Turning off the engine of the
twenty-year-old <st1><st1>Toyota</st1></st1> minus the fender and hubcaps, he
waited for his guest and drank the espresso.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">A toddler pushed open the
door of a house across the street. Wearing nothing but a diaper, he carried what
looked like a rag — probably a substitution for his mother. The reality of the
kid's future yanked at Tigo's thoughts, along with the likelihood of him already
being an addict. How long before he was dealing and carrying a piece?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">No one else ventured from
the neighborhood. But Tigo couldn't wait forever. Linc wanted to see him about
something. Glancing at his watch and rolling down the window, he gave himself
fifteen minutes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Candy was ten minutes
late. Maybe she'd overslept, since her career kept her occupied at night. But
the olive-skinned beauty had always been prompt, especially when the extra money
didn't touch her pimp's pockets. She seemed to sense Tigo's drive to nail the
gang, but he refused to psychoanalyze that. She claimed to have the information
he needed to close down the <st1><st1>Houston</st1></st1> operation, including
names of arms dealers and details about those dealers raising prices on their
weapons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Five more minutes passed,
and the espresso cup lay crumpled on the passenger's seat. Candy wouldn't have
left him waiting without a call. Lately she'd grown bolder . . . maybe too bold.
After all, meeting here at seven-thirty had been her idea. Late nights ate up
her earning power. She claimed his presence looked like a john leaving, and the
neighborhood slept until noon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Tigo punched in her
number. Four rings. "This is Candy. I'm busy right now." A giggle with a
Hispanic accent. "Leave a message, and I'll get back to you."</span></div>
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to leave a message.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">They'd met five times,
and he believed each one raised the bar on their trust. She wanted to leave her
sordid life, but she needed money until she landed a respectable job. Even asked
for the name of a shelter. Said her two kids would have a better future. That
suckered him in. Now suspicions about her motives called him a fool.</span></div>
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MILLS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">All rights reserved. No
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from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">in critical articles or
reviews.</span></div>Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25113566.post-23202861989955574232012-03-26T12:10:00.000-06:002012-03-26T12:10:11.940-06:00Stuart Brannon's Final Shot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0JeGU-SVPm2y1xQpkzJFnn7jWtE6swXeD2i7EJH4GEHY0qaFrsHZe0LqfsOoK8zQeQmfCkPRDiJj3yNAR6s1SBJoDuT0ecgBw8KkowvIz6em7cRnF2uirOCo-sQ1y9skFMmEF/s1600/BLYBOOK+Stuart+Brannon%27s+Final+Shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0JeGU-SVPm2y1xQpkzJFnn7jWtE6swXeD2i7EJH4GEHY0qaFrsHZe0LqfsOoK8zQeQmfCkPRDiJj3yNAR6s1SBJoDuT0ecgBw8KkowvIz6em7cRnF2uirOCo-sQ1y9skFMmEF/s1600/BLYBOOK+Stuart+Brannon%27s+Final+Shot.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #351c75; font-size: x-large;">Stuart Brannon's Final Shot</span><br />Historical Fiction by <b style="color: #990000;">Stephen Bly</b><br />with <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Janet
Chester Bly, Russell Bly, Michael Bly</span></b> & <b style="color: #3d85c6;">Aaron Bly</b><br /><br />Finishing Dad's
novel was a family affair. Can a committee create fiction? We had the passion to
find out. Here's how we did it: <a href="http://www.christianfictiononlinemagazine.com/home_publisher.html">http://www.christianfictiononlinemagazine.com/home_publisher.html</a><br /><br />It's
1905. Two orphans flee from Oregon's Tillamook Head. One of them is branded a
hero. Do they tell the truth and risk the wrath of a dangerous man? Meanwhile, a
retired lawman searches for his missing U.S. Marshal friend while he grapples
with the game of golf on behalf of a celebrity tournament.<br /><br />Rancher and
widower Stuart Brannon had no intention of leaving his beloved Arizona Territory
to attend the Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition in Portland. His life no
longer consisted of men to track down ... outlaws trying to kill him ... gangs
preying on the innocent. Then the telegrams came ... how could he refuse Lady
Harriet Reed-Fletcher and the President of the United States?<br /><br />"Stuart
Brannon's Final Shot delivers and reminds us what we'll miss most about the
beloved author." Jerry B. Jenkins, NYT Bestselling novelist &
biographer<br /><br />"Bly throws his readers into the fray from the first page and
never lets up...." Award-winning author Kathleen Y'Barbo<br /><br />Michael Ehret,
Christian Writers Guild editor-in-chief: "...unusual experience... I found it a
fascinating look into the process (of the writing of Stuart Brannon's Final
Shot)."<br />"...comes alive with vivid details...has all the adventure one would
expect from a Western, with enough humor to appeal to non-Western readers."
Jennifer Slattery, CWG reviewer<br />"a rich tale...so much wisdom...I loved the
story...(and) the colorful characters" Angie Arndt, ACFW Carolinas Coordinator
<br /><br />~~~~~<br /><br />CHAPTER ONE <br /><br />Sunday afternoon, June 11, 1905, south
of Portland<br /><br />"I thought you was dead." The words rumbled out of some deep,
dark pit of tales told at late night campfires and smoky saloons. Thick drops of
dirty sweat careened down the bearded man's face. A ripped-in-shreds shirt
sleeve exposed a long, jagged old scar on his left arm. Bloodshot brown eyes
glared into the future as if forecasting bad news. Very bad news.<br /><br />"A
common mistake."<br /><br />A faded, red bandana brushed the man's bulging neck. His
bronzed face held to the tight expression of a man looking for an advantage. "No
foolin'. Argentiferous Jones said he shot you dead over a poker hand in Bisbee.
I believe you was packin' three queens."<br /><br />"He was wrong." Every eye in the
dining car watched the trigger of Stuart Brannon's drawn Colt .44 revolver,
ready to witness a sudden blast.<br /><br />"I can see that now and would like to be
given a chance to atone for my erroneous assumption."<br /><br />"I'm sure you
would. You stopped this train on a tall trestle in the middle of a river,
cold-cocked the conductor, stole the possessions of all the passengers and
whatever else of cargo you found on board, and in the mix scared the women,
children, and most of the men near to death. Out West a man can hang for such
offenses."<br /><br />He tried to straighten his bow-legs, puffed out his huge
chest. His good eye glared at Brannon like the headlight of a locomotive. "What
do you get out of this? Surely you don't expect to shoot me in front of these
delicate ladies. What if I just put down my pistol and . . ."<br /><br />Brannon
glared right back. "And what do all of us get out of that?"<br /><br />The man
croaked out the words. "A clear conscience?"<br /><br />"Already got one." Brannon
shoved the muzzle closer to the man's ripped ten-gallon-hat with the creased
crown and molded brim.<br /><br />"What if I return the money and goods to all these
fine folks on the train?"<br /><br />"That's a start."<br /><br />He dropped a leather
sack to the carpeted floor, stepped back, and raised his hands. "What else can I
do?"<br /><br />"Hike down the track to the next town and turn yourself in to the
sheriff for robbing this train."<br /><br />"You mean, turn myself in on my own
accord?"<br /><br />"Yep. You can do it. We'll just ride on up ahead and let them
know you're on your way."<br /><br />"No one does that, especially Slash Barranca."
He studied Brannon to watch for the reaction.<br /><br />Brannon didn't blink.
"Well, Slash, here's your chance to stand out from a crowd of
no-goods."<br /><br />"So, you know who I am?"<br /><br />"Nope. Never heard of
you."<br /><br />"Are you sure you're the original Stuart Brannon?"<br /><br />"The real
question is, do you trust that I'm Stuart Brannon? If you aren't certain, then
make your move and see what happens. And if you still wonder, then say goodbye
to these nice folks. I'm pullin' this trigger right now. So, what's your
choice?"<br /><br />The man looked over the crowd. His gaze stopped at two men in
their fifties in brown suits. One of them glared a kind of warning. The other
looked down. Brannon wondered if Barranca was going to make an appeal to them.
But his chin drooped to his chest and his words blurted out with such force, the
windows almost rattled. "Yeah, you're Brannon, all right."<br /><br />"Good. Leave
the stash, your gun and your boots in the car. Then, start
walkin'."<br /><br />"Now, how do you expect me to make it to town without
boots?"<br /><br />"Very slow. By the time you get to the other side of the bridge,
there should be a nice little posse gathered. And don't think about diving over
the edge. You've got one foot of water and a fifty foot drop."<br /><br />Slash
Barranca pulled up his pants' legs as he climbed out of the train and stepped
onto the rough track surface. Applause and "hurrahs" rocked the car as the train
rolled away without the bootless outlaw. The staff seemed eager to return order
and routine for the passengers as quick as possible. Announcements of supper
followed with beefsteak, fried eggs and fried potatoes wheeled out to the dining
car. A little overdone, but no one complained.<br /><br />A huge sign made of logs
greeted them at the next stop when they transported the injured conductor off
the train.<br /><br />100 Miles to Portland, Oregon<br />Home of the world's
famous<br />Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition<br /><br />Brannon stretched his
arms and legs and tried to remove the dust from his travel suit. No amount of
brushing or shaking made a dent. He pulled out a copy of Treasure Island by
Robert Louis Stevenson that his daughter-in-law, Jannette, had given him before
he left Arizona, but his mind wandered. He ran through the recent events once
more.<br /><br />It started at the Prescott Post Office with one of those
rosy-scented letters from Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher.<br /><br />When Lady Fletcher
sends you a scented letter, it's a dangerous omen.<br /><br />The answer he gave her
was "no."<br /><br />At fifty-eight years old, Stuart Brannon had no intention of
leaving his beloved ranch or Arizona Territory, not even for a long-time, good
friend like Harriet. No matter how many times she offered her appeal—"I need one
more celebrity . . . It's for the Willamette Orphan Farm . . . It won't cost you
anything." But she could not convince him to go to Oregon, especially to
participate in a golf tournament charity event in conjunction with the Lewis and
Clark Centennial Exposition.<br /><br />What was she thinking?<br /><br />Yes, Captains
Lewis and Clark were his heroes.<br /><br />Yes, they deserved a gala
celebration.<br /><br />And yes, from what he heard, the Oregon coast promised a
refreshing change from the desert landscape.<br /><br />But he had never once picked
up a golf club. An old rancher and retired lawman playing on a golf course? What
a ridiculous idea.<br /><br />And the Triple B ranch needed him.<br /><br />Or he needed
the ranch, since his adopted son, Littlefoot Brannon, could oversee and do most
of the work.<br /><br />Life had become a peaceful routine. L.F. and his wife,
Jannette, provided him with four over-active grandchildren, who played tag,
leapfrog, hopscotch and occasional simple card games, but more important,
listened to his stories.<br /><br />No more evil men to track down. No one trying to
shoot him in the back. No lawless gangs preying on the innocent . . . not near
his ranch anyway.<br /><br />Then the telegram came from another friend, Theodore
Roosevelt. Stuart, I need you in Portland. Tom Wiseman is missing. I think
there's a cover-up going on. Say you're going to the Exposition. Find out how a
U.S. Marshal can disappear and no one knows why. T.R.<br /><br />If Tom Wiseman had
vanished, Brannon suspected the marshal initiated the event. But why? And
where?<br /><br />But he was too close a friend to ignore this plea. As a government
worker, as well as an Arizona rancher, Tom Wiseman had aided him with personal
and legal problems. And many times Tom Wiseman had stood with Brannon against
lawbreakers, when no one else could or would.<br /><br />And how could he refuse a
request from the President of the United
States?<br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /><br />Copyright©2012 Please do not reproduce
without permission.<br /><br />Stuart Brannon's Final Shot now available in hardback
& via all popular ebook formats. Paperback edition coming soon. Order
through your local bookstore or online at sites such as <a href="http://www.blybooks.com/">http://www.BlyBooks.com</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/">http://www.amazon.com/</a> or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/</a><br />Donita K. Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09652376147614891898noreply@blogger.com0