The O.L.D. Blog - Other Literary Dabblings

2012-01-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

LOVE FINDS YOU ON

CHRISTMAS MORNING

(`Tis the Season)

When personal chef Nikki Tronnier moves back home to Cary, North Carolina, she plans to fulfill a lifelong dream and buy back the family home built by her great-grandfather for his bride. But before she is able to make an offer, someone else buys the house. Just as she prepares for a fight, she learns that the very person who stole her dream is the man who has also stolen her heart. Unaware, handsome new owner, Drew Cornell, seeks Nikki's help in restoring the home to its historic beauty in time for Christmas.

Award-winning novelist Trish Perry has written nine inspirational romances for Harvest House Publishers, Summerside Press, and Barbour Publishing, and she has co-authored two devotionals. She has served as a columnist and as a newsletter editor over the years, as well as a 1980s stockbroker and a board member of the Capital Christian Writers organization in Washington, D.C. She holds a degree in Psychology.

Trish's latest novel, Love Finds You on Christmas Morning, written with Debby Mayne, released November 2011.

Excerpt from `Tis the Season:

Do Not Reproduce without permission.

CHAPTER ONE

"Have I ever told you why I stole you away from Armand, Nikki?"

Nicole Tronnier dusted flour off the tip of her nose and gave old Mr. Fennicle a smile. "Of course you have, Harvey. I amazed you with my culinary prowess and sparkling personality."

She placed a basket of warm rosemary biscuits near his plate. The pumpkin-potato puree and veggie medley looked perfect next to his rack of lamb. The rich winter colors were almost as important to her as the fragrance and taste of the food she served. "If anyone deserves the very best personal chef in North Carolina, it's an absolutely spoiled multimillionaire like you."

She saw him fight against the twitch of a smile.

"I resent your insinuation about me, young lady."

"I call 'em as I see 'em, Harvey."

"I'm an absolutely spoiled billionaire, at the very least. And that's not why I lured you away. I've always been very fond of Armand and his fine restaurant. It's one of the reasons I opened a plant in Charlotte, so I could visit him and still make money. Pilfering his star chef gave me no pleasure, and I could have found an equally gifted chef elsewhere, I'm certain."

"But?" She crossed her arms. She adored this old man, and it had taken so little time to settle into fond banter with him once she joined the staff of his spacious Cary, North Carolina, mansion almost a year ago.

"But I saw you do something that put you over the top, in my book. Do you remember that odd fellow who made off with a dish full of food the day I met you?"

She frowned. "Odd fellow. No. What do you mean he made off with—oh, you mean the homeless guy in the fake waiter suit."

"I was outside in my limo when that happened. I was on the phone with one of my more boring advisors. I saw that fellow rush out of the restaurant, glancing back, forth, and behind. He was protecting that plate of food as if eagles would swoop down and carry it off."

"Poor guy," Nikki said. "I think he just wandered in off the street to beg—from our customers or from the restaurant. But he was in that old black suit, and a customer handed her dish to him to bring it back to the kitchen for reheating or something. She thought he was a waiter. And he thought he hit the jackpot."

Harvey laughed. "When you stormed out the front door after him and nearly tripped over him, sitting there—"

"You never told me you saw all that, Harvey!"

"I did indeed."

"Yeah, I remember it now. It was just like you said. He was so hungry he didn't even run beyond the front stoop. Broke my heart. I had to redo the customer's order anyway. No sense in wasting food. And that's why you hired me?"

He focused on cutting his lamb. "Says a lot about a person, the things they'll do when they think no one else is watching. If I'm going to have someone join my live-in staff, I want to make sure she's made of the right stuff, not just able to make the right stuff."

"Yep." She nodded. "I'm pretty special, all right."

Nikki rested her hand on Harvey's shoulder. "Okay, I'll leave you to it, then. Do you need anything else?"

"Only the fountain of youth, dear."

She squeezed his shoulder and almost gave him a kiss on his feathery-haired head. "I'll check on you in a little while. I have something special for your dessert."

She returned to the kitchen and started tidying up. Harvey's panna cotta was ready in the refrigerator. She only needed to drizzle the rose syrup over it before she served it to him. He loved trying new flavors, and this would be exactly that. Her old boss, Armand Gaudet, had introduced her to Italian rose syrup while she apprenticed under him in Charlotte.

Not for the first time, Nikki felt the tiniest twinge of guilt about leaving Armand, even though he had been completely gracious when Harvey offered her this job. There had simply been too many "God things" involved for her to ignore the opportunity.

Although she had moved away from Cary years ago in order to attend college and then train under Armand, she was definitely a family girl. She loved the city but missed her hometown. So for the location alone, she gave Harvey's offer serious consideration as soon as he made it.

But there was another reason she couldn't refuse the offer to work as personal chef to the eccentric Harvey Fennicle. He had doubled her income with a stroke of his pen on her employment contract. Nikki wasn't money-hungry, but as long as she could remember, she had saved for a specific goal in mind.

Her family's old home here in Cary—the home her great-grandfather William Tronnier and his brothers built for William and his new bride, Lillian—had been on the market for a year or more. Neither her parents nor her grandparents had maintained ownership of the Tronnier home.

But Nikki's fondest early childhood memories were wrapped up in that home. As a little girl, she'd thought Granny Lillian, Grampa William, and the entire family would spend every holiday, especially Christmas morning, celebrating in their home. She wanted to bring those memories back into her family's lives and futures.

The house was still beautiful but needed considerable refurbishing. Until Harvey Fennicle came into her life, Nikki had little hope of saving enough to purchase and remodel the home. Now she was close to having saved a sizable down payment. It wouldn't be long before she could make an offer to the current owner. The house had been vacant for quite a while. Nikki had confidence in her chances.

She couldn't think of anything or anyone that would stand in her way now.

~ Trish Perry ~ True Love. Real Laughs. Pure Fiction.

www.trishperry.com

Buy Love Finds You on Christmas Morning at fine bookstores or online at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, or www.christianbook.com

Excerpt copyright 2011

* * *

Armed

By Jeff Gerke

"And…I've…gotcha."

My glove turned bright orange as I grasped the glowing chunk of ore. Funny how it twisted in a my wrist a bit as I plucked it from its eternal tumble through weightlessness. Almost as if a billion years of perpetual motion gave it a bit more inertia than its mass would suggest.

The nebula was spectacular here. All purple and teal laid like a semitransparent layer over the endless stars beyond. I tucked the ore into my pouch and then just hung there, drifting in a slow cartwheel. Depending upon where you were viewing it from, the Butterfly Nebula resembled a crescent wafer, a dented basin, or some long-extinct insect that had evidently had wide wings.

For me, it was just a gold mine of free-floating armalcolite ore.

I let my own motion spin me away from the nebula. The respiration system on my suit gave its quiet squew every time I took a breath, sounding like a leisurely laser battle far away. My samples pouch was full, but if I happened to spot any other chunks of ore floating around nearby, I'd snag them. Who knew how long this would be my own private cache?

The stars around me were mostly galaxies, I knew. I loved the variety in their form. Some were white, while others were yellow or orange or blue or pink. Some seemed like glowing orbs, while others were dots or spirals or dyads or crosses or lines with a bulging middle like pregnant uikke worms. Then there were the clusters, smash-ups of three or five types merged by a trick of distance. In one blink, I took in ten thousand galaxies, which translated to more habitable planets than I could fathom.

I sighed, suddenly melancholy.

My eyes caught a flash of something big. I thought at first it might be a gleaming boulder of armalcolite, but then I saw it was just the Hector. Wallop, I'd drifted off a long way.

I extended my legs and hit the goose-jets. The tubes circling the soles of my boots shot a burst of my expelled carbon dioxide out the bottom, propelling me toward my ship. The jets always felt like someone smacking the bottoms of my feet with a crossbeam, but I had at least learned a position to get into so the burst didn't send me into another vomit-inducing tumble across the heavens.

Slowly, the Hector grew in my vision. The green numbers displayed on my faceplate spun down through the kilometers as I approached the cruiser. I gave the jets another burp and then shut them down. I could go faster, but then I'd spend too much time and CO2 slowing so I didn't hit the ship like a meteor. I wasn't confident enough yet to try that. Better to just go slow and enjoy the ride.

Squew. Squew. Squew.

The Hector was a beautiful ship. More ship than I deserved, actually. It was white and sleek. Refined. Curved sinuously like the hip of a beautiful woman.

Instantly, heat flared in my suit and a yellow warning corona glowed at the edges of my faceplate display. Overheating. Too funny. I needed to find a place with some women my age, if only for pleasant conversation. Space could be a very lonely place.

Red and yellow lights blinked periodically off the ship's bow, aft, top, and bottom. Its twin Gexule-Hyath rockets swam in my vision as the plasmanites encircled them, itching to push the ship wherever I needed it to go.

The long slope of the cockpit Emul-glas reflected the aquamarine of the nebula. Even from this distance, I could see the amber of the dash panel displays bathing the interior. It almost looked as if the embers of a relaxing campfire smoldered within. The observation panels along the side of the ship stood like black trapezoids against the white hull. The ship had lots of room. More than enough for a companion.

Time to decelerate. I did the tuck-and-flex move I'd figured out over the last several weeks, deftly flipping until my feet pointed down at the Hector as if I were going to land on it. Now the ship was my "down." When I got old, would my brain still be fluid enough to handle hemispheric changes like that?

With a last pfft of the goose-jets, I touched down on the hull right at the side egress panel. I pressed the button on my right forearm, and the panel slid open.

Thirty seconds later, I was safely inside the ship, breathing without my helmet, and enjoying the d-com spray. Uncle Wyatt had somehow given the spray a fragrance—something called mint—that always made me feel invigorated.

I peeled out of the suit and stuffed all the pieces into the netting against the bulkhead. In my grey flightsuit I floated into the interior of the ship, pushing the bag of ore before me. As I entered the main cabin, the lighting blossomed from all around, giving the empty space its customary shadowless illumination. The central stripe light along the ceiling hissed when it came on, like it was booing me. Or about to burn out.

Either way, it didn't bode well.

I pushed off the engineering pod and stopped at the science table. A press of a button, and the bag of armalcolite adhered to the white tabletop as if under gravity. It was some combination of magnetics and resonance differentials—Wyatt had tried to explain it once—but all I cared about was that it held stuff down even in zero-g.

I had twenty-six pieces, all emanating a vaguely orange luminescence. They ranged in size from one twice as big as the last one I'd grabbed all the way down to one barely bigger than the tip of my pinky. I stared at them feverishly.

I was rich.

I planted my feet on the wall and launched myself headlong toward the cockpit, laughing like a lunatic. Finally, something I'd done myself! I grabbed the bulkhead over the instrument board and hooked my feet through the restraining belt. As I hovered over the keyboard, I called up the interface to stake my mining claim on this sector of space.

The combination of conditions in this quadrant—the mathematical formula I had devised and bet my last peptoles to test—had, in fact, resulted in a find so rich that ore was just floating around to be picked up by hand. And if the thermal emission spectrometer could be believed, I would be picking it up for a long time to come.

My mind spun even as I logged the coordinates for my claim and submitted the application for approval. I would need to hire miners to come here to harvest everything. Then it would have to be transported for sale. Or should it be refined first? Where was the best place to sell the stuff? But I couldn't hang around here to oversee this find. The formula worked! I had to be out using it to find other undiscovered sectors and staking those claims.

But the formula—I had to hide it. Bury it. It was an industrial secret that corporations would resort to anything to obtain. Whom to trust?

Ah, the possibilities! I could hire people to do all of this for me. I could retire before I'd even really had a job. It was too much.

And surely some beautiful woman would be enticed by a young man of wealth and good looks. Or at least wealth. Security, she'll call it when explaining to her mother why she's marrying someone like me.

I drifted back toward the ore I'd plucked from the ether, floating like a dust mote toward my source of wealth. Something about its warm glow, almost as if it were not entirely of this universe, sent my mind to a place I rarely went anymore.

Um, God, it's me. Reedophilus Graaber. Most people call me Reed. You can too, I guess. I just, you know, want to thank you. For…for letting me be smart. And for how Uncle Wyatt helped me. Oh, if you see him— I mean, of course you see him. Wait…would you? Aw, I don't know that stuff. Anyway, if you see him, tell him thanks. Tell him I did good with his stuff and…and…I'll try to walk tall and keep my nose clean and stuff. Aw, that's no good. I should quit. But…bye. For now.

I found myself staring out the ob-portal at the Butterfly Nebula. From here it looked like a blue and green splash thrown up by a comet slamming into the edge of space. Fiery and violent and beautiful.

I had my future to seize now. Time to go.

To buy the collection on Kindle or Nook go to: http://www.marcherlordpress.com/books/ether_ore.html

False Report, Broken Sight

2012-01-13T15:35:00.002-07:00

False Report

By Veronica Heley

While Bea Abbot worries that she's lost control of her domestic agency, she's asked to find some domestic help for an eccentric little musician falsely accused of murder. She doesn't realize how dangerous this might be until Jeremy – fleeing from attempts on his life – lands on her doorstep.

As a business woman and owner of a thriving domestic agency, Bea Abbot knew that there was no such thing as a free meal. And, if she'd realised this particular invitation was going to involve her in a murder, she'd have said, `Certainly not!'

`Nance, where are you?' A man's voice, hoarse. `Josie's dead!'

`What! You shouldn't have let her out of your sight.'

`I couldn't lock her up, could I? I told her punters never carry through their threats, but she said if I didn't give her the cash for a ticket home, she'd get it from someone else. She ran out, on the phone to the music man—'

`Him? He wouldn't help her, would he?'

`I ran after her, down the alley. She was begging him to meet her. A crowd of drunken yobs came storming through, and I lost her. I looked everywhere, tried the little man's flat, rang his doorbell, no reply. Came back through the alley, saw her lying in the bushes. She's dead, all right.'

`If he killed her, use a public phone, tell the police you overheard a young girl pleading with a man on her mobile, and later saw her body in the bushes. Give the police his name.'

The Abbot agency had a reputation for providing reliable domestic staff, but – although she couldn't put her finger on it – Bea felt something was amiss. She was not the sort of person who blamed other people for her mistakes. Somewhere along the line she'd made a bad decision . . . but exactly what had it been?

She needed advice. So when she received an invitation to tea from an old friend, she jumped at the chance. She took the afternoon off work, brushed her ash-blonde hair so that her fringe lay slantwise across her forehead, and renewed her make-up, paying attention to what her husband called her `eagle's eyes'.

CJ was a mandarin used by the police as an expert in matters too complicated, he said, for the ordinary man or woman to understand, but no one talked of such things while having tea at the Ritz, that prestigious, if slightly stolid hotel. Did they? The clients were dressed in their garden party best, the décor was over the top with gilding and stands of orchids, the waiters wore tail coats, and a pianist entertained at a grand piano.

Bea relaxed. What a treat! Just fancy: there was a whole menu devoted to different types of tea. There were six different kinds of sandwiches; three different pastries; two of cake. Would madam like a refill of tea, or perhaps another sandwich or two? Is there anything else madam fancies?

`That was just wonderful, CJ. I'd been letting things get on top of me at the agency —'

`Ah. Hmm.' He steepled his long fingers, and gave her a sideways glance.

She felt the first intimation of disquiet. He'd helped her agency to clear up a couple of nasty criminal cases in the past, so she owed it to him at least to listen to what he had to say.

`I was visited this morning by the police, asking if I could provide an alibi for a man called Jeremy Waite, who's accused of having killed an underage girl. I confirmed he'd been with me all evening, upon which they said I'd been set up to provide Jeremy with an alibi, while he arranged for someone else to kill the girl.'

The head waiter tendered the bill, and CJ paid it with a card. `Have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy? A stroll around the pictures is just what we need after that tea, don't you think?' It wasn't a question.

She was almost as tall as CJ when he held the door open for her. A grey man, well-brushed, well tailored.

`I went to a concert by a string quartet at the parish church last night. I thought I recognised a man sitting nearby, but couldn't place him.'

CJ steered Bea across the road, as if she were incapable of judging for herself when the traffic lights had turned red.

`Afterwards, he went up to speak to the cellist. She cut him dead, saying in a loud voice that he'd got a nerve approaching her, when he'd seduced an under-age girl, been thrown out by his wife and sacked from his teaching job.

`I remembered where I'd seen him before; at a fund-raising event. He taught music at a school in Kensington, but had begun to write for films and television programmes under another name.'

CJ turned Bea into the quiet of the Royal Academy courtyard, and ushered her to a pair of isolated chairs.

`Shall we sit awhile?' Again, it was not a request. `I was intrigued. So, as we left the church, I introduced myself and asked if he'd like to join me for supper.'

`In spite of what he'd done?'

`I thought it unlikely he'd seduced anyone. We adjourned to my place for coffee after supper, where he received a phone call from a girl – I could hear her high, clear voice – on his mobile. He refused to meet her, and shut her off.

`He explained that a young girl he'd befriended had been causing him no end of trouble. She'd lost him his teaching job but he had plenty of other work on and he wasn't going to let it get him down. He's renting a small flat near you, but he's not domesticated. I said you'd find him someone to come in several times a week to look after him.'

Bea gave him an old-fashioned look. `You doubt that he's really squeaky clean, and want me to spy on him?'

CJ got to his feet as an attractive little man approached them. `Judge for yourself. Jeremy, this is my good friend Bea Abbot, who runs a domestic agency and may be able to help you out.'

Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com

Available from fine bookstores everywhere.

Do not reproduce without permission.

* * *

Broken Sight: A Rescue Ops Adventure

by Steve Rzasa

The dark days are over.

The secret religious police, Kesek, no longer holds sway over the Realm of Five. Freedom of belief is returned. Now Lieutenant Commander Brian Gaudette of Rescue Operations doesn't have to hide his own beliefs. He can read his Bible in peace.

Too bad he doesn't even want to look at it.

He has a new, state-of-the-art starship ready for its maiden cruise— but the first officer is an ex-pirate, and the crew fight over suddenly legal religious differences. The Crown Marshals want their people aboard to hunt down Kesek's remnants. His wife has taken his daughter away for fear of his beliefs. And Brian has to wonder whether his God—who never seems to be around—will ever give him a straight answer.

When his ship responds to a distress call on a remote planet, Brian will find his faith and duty challenged in ways for which he is unprepared.

Because Kesek is not gone. They are biding their time. And they have found a weapon that can threaten the balance of power in the galaxy . . .

EXCERPT

Katarina ran.

She stumbled through the shadowy corridor. Her feet padded on the deck tiles—white flesh on silver metal. Pale orange lights flickered every few seconds, illuminating the immaculate, polished deck and the glistening pine panels inlaid on the white bulkheads. Framed images of mountains, forests, coastlines, and entire worlds were interspersed among the hatches and access panels.

It wasn't much farther.

Muffled gunshots barked somewhere. A deck or two above her? Katarina couldn't tell. She paused mid-step. Shouting—more than one voice. Two? Or three? Or more? Thudding boots. The sounds were moving away from her. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and continued on.

A narrower corridor crossed the main one at an intersection ahead. Katarina eased up to the bulkhead. The corridor ahead of her was dark, except for more orange pinpoints of light. She saw no one to her right—it led back toward cargo storage. Katarina peered around the corner to her left. Nothing.

She wished her heart would stop hammering so.

Her stared back at her from the shining surface of a landscape painting. Her cheeks were pink and taut. Katarina's fear diminished as her anger grew. How dare they? Boarding her own ship! If she could, she would fight them all off herself. Make them pay. Her father had been a fusilier. She remembered his legion's motto—more like a toast, actually.

Na smierc. To death.

Katarina looked down at herself. She doubted any fusilier had gone into battle wearing a loose, flowing satin robe of crimson and black. No weapons on hand, either. She reached into one of her pockets.

The journal was there. Its ruddy cover was supple and not yet worn from use. It was safe. She exhaled.

Footsteps. Behind her.

Katarina pressed flat to the bulkhead. Her hands ran over a surface that was colder, smoother than the rest of the bulkhead—a cabin hatch? The control panel must be nearby. There it was. She pressed the switch. The hatch hissed open.

The boot steps were getting closer. But she couldn't see anyone. Whoever it was stayed out of sight around a distant, shadowy bend in the corridor.

Katarina slipped inside the hatch. She was in a crew cabin. Two bunk beds were attached to one wall. A small desk with its accompanying chair sat in the corner. A bathroom cubicle took up much of the rest of the space.

She went to close the hatch and hesitated. This running had to stop.

Na smierc.

She hauled herself onto the top bunk and pressed herself into the darkest recess against the bulkhead. Her legs tightened behind her. She was ready to spring. Hardly dignified.

It would have to do.

The boot steps grew closer—and slowed. Orange flickers failed to penetrate the open hatchway into the dark cabin. Then the shadow appeared.

Katarina held her breath until it hurt.

A silhouetted figure loomed in the hatch. Male. Stocky, wide, and muscled. She could tell that much. And he had a gun.

He stepped through the hatch with practiced ease. His weapon swept the interior in slow arcs. This man was well-trained. Disciplined. No pirate.

That only infuriated Katarina more.

She waited until he had turned slightly away. He reached to his belt for an oblong object.

Beacon.

Katarina kicked off from the wall. She saw his face for an instant before her arms jammed against his shoulders. It was a blur of features she could not recall. They went to the deck in a heap.

The gun clattered into a corner. Somewhere. She couldn't see it.

They wrestled for advantage. A boot struck Katarina's shin, but she refused to cry out. Tears stung her eyes. She jabbed an elbow. It dug into something soft and unresisting. Her assailant choked, a terrible sound.

His throat.

Katarina's hands scrambled for capture. She caught hold, felt the jagged Adam's apple and coarse whiskers. His breath carried a hint of ning. Fine coffee.

She gave a mental cry for strength from her ancestors and squeezed hard. Then she twisted her hands sharply.

The man's hands stopped grappling with her. He went for her wrists. She could feel the desperation in his grasp. She ignored it. Made herself cold. For all she knew this man had shot and killed her crew.

She twisted harder.

A sickening crack shattered the silence. The body slumped.

It was over.

Katarina's chest heaved. She gasped and choked. Then she vomited on the decking. Chills shook her. She wiped the sour liquid from her mouth with the back of her hand.

He was dead.

She scrambled to her feet. Where was the gun? She felt for it on the deck but couldn't—all she felt was cold metal. Katarina didn't dare waste more time. She had heard more voices before. Go, now!

Silence outside the hatch. Katarina peered out. No one. She stepped out and sealed it. She slid along toward the intersection.

"Mama!" The whisper flitted to her through the air.

They were all right. Thank the stars.

Katarina slipped into the short corridor. She saw an open hatch at the end. A small, scared face peeked out.

"Mama! Hurry!"

Katarina stumbled silently through the hatch and over the arm's length threshold. Her eyes were drawn to a boxy console of flickering lights and buttons hanging from a strut above the seat opposite the hatch. There were five seats altogether, pressed in one circular bench around the edge of the room. Each was perched over a small cabinet with recessed latch. The seats were home to webs of straps and restraints that reminded her of the leash she used for her pet Rozsade gyrpanther. She wondered if she'd ever see Lotny again.

Thank her great-grandmother's spirit, both her children were crouched in the middle of the rough decking, unhurt. They wore identical tight fitting survival jumpsuits of brown and midnight blue. Her daughter seized her about the legs. "Mama!"

Katarina bent and wrapped her in a crushing hug. When she pulled back, her daughter's eyes were bright with tears. She was pretty, with blue eyes that were lovely even when she was frightened. Katarina brushed a strand of curly blond hair from the girl's face. "It is all right, Elzbieta. I'm here. My little Ela, be brave."

2011-12-30T15:43:00.004-07:00

FREEZING POINT

by Elizabeth Goddard

Romantic Suspense from LOVE INSPIRED SUSPENSE

When investigative reporter Casey Wilkes unwittingly stumbles upon a smuggling ring, she jeopardizes Homeland Security Jessie Mitchell's covert and his life, as well as her own.

Secrets Under The Ice

Casey Wilkes didn't realize her simple human-interest story would put her life at risk—again. After fleeing her home and journalism job in Portland, she wanted to live under the radar for a while. But when her interviewee starts dodging her questions, her reporter instincts kick in and she finds herself in over her head…

Homeland security agent Jesse Mitchell has been undercover as an ice sculptor for months, trying to infiltrate a smuggling ring. He wants to avoid trouble, and that's just what Casey brings. Now someone has a target set on Casey. Saving her could blow his cover, but leaving her unprotected endangers him even more—especially his heart.

A quick read, lots of action to keep your attention and a sweet love story to end it all. Definitely a great way to spend an evening!! 4 stars –The Suspense Zone

Chapter One

Beautiful…but dangerous.

Jesse finished shoving the last block of dry ice into the back of the specially designed truck—well insulated, yet ventilated to allow for sublimation—the melting that would give off deadly CO2 gas.

The solid form of carbon dioxide would be used to create the snow effect around the ice sculptures along with fog—a mysterious yet stunning display.

He tugged off the gloves used to protect his hands from ice burns or, worse, frostbite. Because his father was a chef and master ice sculptor, Jesse had learned a few techniques of his own, even entering competitions during his college days.

That's what made him the perfect candidate for this covert operation, and the only reason Robert McCoffey, his superior, had pulled Jesse from the desk job and visits to the psychiatrist and put him back into the action. Working as an undercover agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Jesse had nearly blown his last assignment and thought he'd never get the chance to restore his reputation and career.

But ICE's bulk cash and smuggling division decided Helms Ice and Trucking Company was hot—laundering money for the Mexican cartel—and they wanted someone on the inside. Since the trucking company also had a catering side business specializing in ice sculptures, Jesse was it.

He shoved his hand through his hair. God had some sense of humor.

Miguel grinned as he assisted Jesse in closing off the back of the truck. He signaled to the driver that the truck was ready to go, and it lumbered away from the loading dock.

"You okay today?" Miguel asked.

"Everything's great," Jesse lied. With his superiors breathing down his neck, he had to come up with something and soon. He'd already been working undercover too long for his own good.

"You'd better get back to your hole. You got another gig in a few days." Miguel strode over to a counter and grabbed a pack of cigarettes.

Though Miguel referred to the ice-sculpture competition that Jesse needed to prepare for, Jesse was concerned about a far different gig, and that's what had him on edge today. He was desperate to get in on what he believed would be the next transport of bulk cash. As the truck departed, Jesse fought the tensing in his gut. Could this truck be driving off with millions in cash tucked away behind or in the ice, and Jesse had somehow missed it?

Carlos returned from his break. "We expecting another truck in a few?"

"You're not going anywhere. Jesse's got his own work. You're lucky he was here to cover for you," Miguel said.

Carlos gave a halfhearted snarl. Jesse didn't like the guy. After years spent working undercover assignments, Jesse had learned there were some people you met while undercover that you grew to care about and others you grew to hate. Carlos was someone to hate. He had no doubt that Carlos was capable of much worse than smuggling cash. He might have committed the murder on the loading dock that occurred several months ago, bringing the police down on this place and the cash smuggling operations to a complete halt for a few weeks.

Jesse had to remain and bide his time until things began moving again. Though he had proof of several small transactions, those crimes had already occurred. His goal was to gather intelligence, figure out all the players and be witness to the movement of a large amount of cash—catching them in the act. This would bring stiffer penalties under federal law.

When Carlos's eyes slid toward him, Jesse turned his back on the man. "Later," he said, and headed for the exit.

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Guys like Carlos were the reason Jesse had grown to loathe working undercover. Memories from his last assignment flooded his mind—a man struggling with the thugs of a drug ring Jesse had infiltrated. He'd lived with the nightmare day and night. Jesse could have stepped into the fray, but that would have been kicking his cover in the teeth. He'd almost cracked under the moral dilemma. If only Jesse had gone a little out of his way, he could have prevented the man from strolling around the corner at that precise moment—the exact wrong moment. He would never allow that to happen again.

He promised himself then that once he got out, he'd never go back. In the end, he'd almost blown the mission and been reprimanded before being returned to a desk job. After months living life undercover as a drug runner, learning to walk and talk like them, to avoid the cops, he'd struggled to fit in with his fellow agents again.

What had the psychiatrist told him? "You 're suffering from anxiety and extreme suspiciousness." That he was near the breaking point.

A shiver swept over him when he passed the room-size freezer that took up a quarter of the loading dock.

At the moment, he felt like he was near the freezing point—if he worked like this for much longer, his heart would turn stone-cold.

Right now, he knew one thing—if he wanted to transfer programs within the agency, he'd have to earn back the respect of his supervisors and the confidence of his fellow agents.

In order to do that he'd have to see this case through and make the bust of these so-called untouchables.

Nothing or no one would stand in his way this time. Nor would he allow anyone to stumble upon Carlos and Miguel on the loading dock. Not again. Not on his watch.

Buy FREEZING POINT now at http://elizabethgoddard.com/StandaloneNovels.html

Read more about Elizabeth Goddard's books at http://elizabethgoddard.com

* * *

The Restorer

-Expanded Edition

Book One in the Sword of Lyric series

By Sharon Hinck

About the book:

Susan Mitchell thought she was an ordinary homemaker.

She was wrong.

Pulled through a portal into another world, she finds a nation waiting for a promised Restorer. Could she be the heroine they are waiting for? She tackles an enemy that is poisoning people's minds, uncovers a corrupt ruling Council, and discovers that God can use her floundering efforts in surprising ways.

This groundbreaking series is now being released in expanded editions, including an in-depth devotion guide, bonus scenes, and other fun extras.

"Because of Sharon Hinck, I have fallen in love with a new genre. The Sword of Lyric series is exactly what Christian fiction should be. Bravo, bravo…and more please!" –Susan May Warren, best-selling author of dozens of CBA novels

"Fresh and compelling. Sharon zigged every time I expected her to zag, and the world she created is full of mystery and suspense and the awe of discovery. But it's the characters who keep you coming back for more".– Robin Parrish, author of Vigilante

From the new back-of-the-book extras:

Bonus Scene after Chapter 4

Tristan:

"She warned me." I tossed back the last swig of clavo and wiped out the mug before tucking it away on a recessed shelf. Not that there was any real need to clean up. The place probably wouldn't see another person for seasons to come. I was stalling, and I knew it.

Kieran leaned against the open doorway, squinting into the distance. "Who warned you of what?"

"My mother. She tried to stop me."

"We all tried to stop you. You did what you had to."

I slung my pack over one shoulder and met Kieran at the door. "She warned me that revenge wouldn't change anything. She begged me to stay in Braide Wood."

Kieran shook his head. "You've got new things to worry about. By the way, she headed toward the center of town."

I sighed. Not the direction I needed to go. "Of course she did." I followed Kieran outside and pulled the door closed.

"I still say you should leave her here and get back to Lyric for some damage control. The Council has probably figured out by now that you aren't where you're supposed to be."

More regret slammed into me. I hadn't cared about what my mother needed, I hadn't cared about the guardians in my command, I hadn't cared about anything but tracking the Rhusican. Every day I'd woken with desperate hope that tore my insides like a rizzid's claws. Hope that confronting the Rhusican would bring me answers. Hope that justice would ease my pain. Hope that I'd be able to talk to the One again without shaking with rage. And now . . . now I just felt empty.

"Hey." Kieran shoved me, a little too hard to be playful. "Stop it. Second guessing makes you weak."

I swatted him aside and tightened my sword belt. "It's not weakness to analyze my choices."

"Choices? You didn't have choices. You told me he attacked you."

"He did. But it was still my sword that took his life. I could have—"

"Let him kill you?" Kieran spit the words out through a clenched jaw.

I took a step back. "What are you so mad at me for?"

"Because you're an idiot. He did more than enough damage, but you insist on making it worse by torturing yourself." Kieran raked a hand through his dark hair, haggard lines deepening on his face.

Another person I hadn't considered. He'd been devastated too. My shoulders slumped. "I wish I could bring her back."

Pain flashed in Kieran's eyes. He turned away and cleared his throat. "Go track down your protégé before she wanders into a clay pit. Although, come to think of it, that would solve a few problems."

With a dry chuckle, he strode down the street, heading toward Hazor. I shook my head, picked up the extra pack I'd assembled, and walked toward the center of town to find Susan. Unlike Kieran, I could dare to hope for a Restorer. After all, what else could explain what we'd both seen? Her crumpled, lifeless body had healed. Still, she seemed awfully small and confused to be of much help. If I were still on speaking terms with the One, I'd ask Him what her appearance meant, but for now I'd hope someone in Braide Wood could figure out what to do with her.

(Copyright Sharon Hinck, 2011. Used with permission. Please do not reproduce.)

For more information about Sharon and her books, visit www.sharonhinck.com

The Restorer-Expanded Edition is available at Marcher Lord Press:

http://www.marcherlordpress.com/books/the_restorer_se.html

On Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005VM4XL4/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=sharonhcom-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005VM4XL4

And on Nook:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-restorer-expanded-edition-sharon-hinck/1106492301?ean=2940013309265&itm=2&usri=the%2brestorer

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2011-12-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

Christmas Greetings from the authors of Chapter-a-Week!

Dear loyal Chapter-a-Week readers,

I am so thankful for you! Oh, how joyous the news the angels brought all those years ago—a child, born to die, out of love for us. My wish for you this Christmas is that you will know the deep, deep love of Christ anew this coming year. May He fill your longings as He conforms you into the person you were meant to be. If you, like me, are missing loved ones this Christmas I pray His arms will surround you with comfort.

Warmly,

Traci DePree

Wishing you peace in the chaos, joy in the struggle, and time to reflect on the perfect gift sent from above on that silent, long-ago night. Merry Christmas from the Hunter family! Denise Hunter

Wishing all of you a very Merry Christmas! Whether it's been a year of trials, a year of joys, or something in between, I pray that this Christmas season will be a time to stop and reflect on the blessings and lessons of the year behind us, and on the hope of new beginnings that Christ offers all of us in this new year ahead. Merry Christmas!

~ Deborah Raney

Wishing all of you a warm and wonderful Christmas 2011. I am so thankful for each and every one of you who buy and read my books, who tell others about them, who visit with me on Facebook, and who send me emails of encouragement. May your New Year be filled to overflowing with good books to read and with the people you love and who love you in return.

In the grip of His grace,

Robin Lee Hatcher

I hope this year has been kind to you and has brought you closer to the Lord for many reasons. May this Christmas season be one of your best. And go ahead--eat that cookie. Life is short.

Trish Perry

Thanks to my readers who have given me such joy with your letters, cards, emails and plane old reading my three novels released this year. I was excited to have a Christmas book to share with you. It's a blessed season and one that I hope blesses you as well. I wish you and your family a joyful Christmas and a new year filled with all good things. Happy Holy-Days.

Gail Gaymer Martin

May the celebration of Jesus birth surprise you this year with fresh insights and new joy

over the infinitely blessed meaning of "God with us."

Stephanie Grace Whitson

To all of the Chapter-a-Week readers, may you have a sweet, sweet Christmas with much time to reflect on the birth of our Savior. Imagine! The one who spoke the world into being lowered himself to becoming a human baby, for the sole purpose of taking the punishment for our sins. It's mind-boggling. Don't miss that shocking reality in all the busy-ness of the season. Merry Christmas!

~Terri Blackstock, Author of Intervention, Vicious Cycle, and Shadow in Serenity

To our beloved readers, who have sent us wonderful encouragement this year. May you be blessed and filled with peace this season when Christ is celebrated.
Hannah Alexander

In preparing for the Christ Child, may you be blessed and humbled by the most precious gift ever given.

Joy! ~Kristen Heitzmann

I'm praying for a blessed Christmas for all of my readers. When the road is
difficult, I pray that stories of struggle and faith will bring
encouragement and inspiration. –Sharon Hinck

Before we approach the wrapped presents under the Christmas tree this year, I'll be counting the gifts I've already received: a new profession, complete with caring colleagues and enthusiastic readers; a wonderful family whose love is constant; good health (despite a few aches and pains); and the greatest gift of all, the One whose birth we celebrate this season.

Merry Christmas, all.

Richard Mabry

I wish all you Chapter-a-Week readers a very Merry Christmas, and may there be many books under your tree.

Remember, Jesus is the reason for the season.

Vickie McDonough

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year's to all the Chapter-a-Week readers! I'm praying this holiday season brings an exceptionally full cup of blessings to you and your family, and that 2012 proves to be a banner year for us all. Thank you for your continued support of authors--we wouldn't be here without you!

Sincerely,
Alison Strobel

Merry Christmas to each one of you and your families. I hope that the Christmas season and the coming year is wonderful for you and your loved ones.

Margaret Daley

Ellie Quicke and Bea Abbot join me in wishing you a Merry Christmas. They hope that all the books you read in the New Year will leave you with happy memories of hours well spent in the reading of a good story. Both Ellie and Bea will be bringing you new books in 2012; MURDER IN MIND for Ellie in the summer and FALSE ALARM for Bea next winter.

From my heart to yours at this special time of the year...

Veronica Heley

Merry Christmas to readers everywhere! May the season take your breath away with the One True Story that became fact, and may the New Year inspire you to embrace the adventure God is calling you to, with purpose and passion!

Tracy L. Higley

I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and add to it a wish for peace in our world.
Lyn Cote

It is never often enough that writers get to thank our readers for choosing to read our books and so often passing the news on to their friends and families about their delightful find. So this Christmas season, I am wishing you and yours the most blessed of holidays with holy times, all the love and laughter you need and desire, not only now but through the year. I pray for us all that our attitudes of gratitude grow deeper and richer and front and center in our lives. May you be visited with delightful surprises and the absolute knowledge of how much God loves you. Merry Christmas, happy new year and joy filled hearts be yours.

Hugs too,

Lauraine Snelling

"Merry Christmas, everybody! One of the best things about Christmas time is the chance to send out greetings to friends like you. I love sharing stories so 2011 was a good year for me with two new books, Angel Sister and The Blessed. It was also a difficult year with my mother's failing memory and health, but isn't that the way of every year for all of us? Happy times and other more challenging times. I'm thankful the Lord blesses us in all times, and I am so blessed with a wonderful family and many reading friends like you. May you have a beautiful Christmas with every gift wrapped in love. And a blessed and happy New Year too."

Ann H. Gabhart

Thank you to all who have traveled back to Old Testament times with me in the stories of the Wives of King David. I pray God's blessings on each one of you. And from our house to yours, Merry Christmas!

Jill Eileen Smith

Wishing you all the joy of Christmas,

Marta Perry

Merry Christmas to all you wonderful readers of Christian fiction for you are obviously people of taste, wisdom, and insight. May the Lord richly bless you through the season and all next year.

-Gayle Roper

Merry Christmas, reading friends! May God fill your life with His wondrous joy and give you the gift of extra hours for reading in the New Year. Blessings to you and your family!

--Marlo Schalesky

Merry Christmas from Tracey Bateman! To all readers of Christian fiction, thank you for supporting our efforts to bring faith-centered stories of hope and healing. May God bless you this Christmas season and in the coming year and may He be glorified as you live, move and have your being in Him.

Merry Christmas!

Tracey Bateman

Hello my Chapter-a-Week friends, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas
and a blessed New Year! One thing I especially love about that week
between Christmas and New Years is that I can finally slow down and
READ, something that becomes more of a luxury the busier I get. My
wish is that you'll be able to do the same.

Thanks so much for your support of Christian fiction throughout the
year! May you have a wonderful holiday with time for family, friends,
and curling up somewhere comfy with a cup of hot chocolate and a
delicious new book.

Blessings,
Mindy Starns Clark

May the Lord's presence and truth be with you this holiday season, and throughout the New Year!
Many Blessings,
Maureen Lang

Dear Readers,

One of the greatest (and most unexpected) blessings about writing are the relationships I've made with you. Thank you not only for reading my books, but for coming alongside me and taking these journeys with me, for embracing these characters like I do. Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and God's richest blessings in this New Year.

Warmly,

Tamera Alexander

"Somehow not only for Christmas
But all the long year through,
The joy that you give to others
Is the joy that comes back to you."

Thanks for letting me be a part of your life through books! Wishing you a joy-filled celebration of Jesus' birth!
Susan Meissner

Greetings from Kentucky! I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and lots of family time.

Susan Page Davis

2011-12-20T12:30:00.001-07:00

Smitten is an anthology about friends written by real life friends Colleen Coble, Kristin Billerbeck, Diann Hunt and Denise Hunter.

Synopsis

Four friends devise a plan to turn Smitten, Vermont, into the country's premier romantic getaway-and each finds her own true love along the way. With Smitten Lumber closing, residents wonder if their town can stay afloat. Then four friends and local business owners-Natalie, Julia, Shelby, and Reese--decide the town is worth saving. How will they do it? They'll turn Smitten into a honeymoon destination! As Natalie, Julia, Shelby, and Reese work to save the town, each discovers romance in her own life. Meanwhile, the faith of a little child reminds the whole town what it means to have real faith in the God who is the always and forever Love.

Natalie

Colleen Coble

The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee overpowered the less appetizing smell from the drum roaster in the back room. Natalie let her employee Zoe handle the customers at the bar and took the hot beverages to the seating area by the window where she and her friends could see white-topped Sugarcreek Mountain. Spring had come to their part of Vermont, and the sight of the wildflowers on the lower slopes would give her strength.

"So what are we going to do?" she asked, sinking onto the overstuffed leather sofa beside Reese Mackenzie.

"Do? What can we do?" Reese asked. Her blond ponytail gleamed in the shaft of sunlight through the window. She was the practical one in the group. Reese was never afraid of hard work, but while Natalie saw only the end goal, Reese saw the pitfalls right on the path. "We can't make them keep the mill open."

While rumors about the mill had been floating for months, no one had really believed it would fold. The ramifications would be enormous. Natalie's business had been struggling enough without this added blow.

She took a sip of her mocha java. A little bitter. She'd have to tweak the roast a bit next time. "If the mill closes, the town will dry up and blow away. We can't let that happen." If Mountain Perks closed, she didn't know how she would provide for Mia.

And she wasn't leaving Smitten. Not ever. After being yanked from pillar to post with an alcoholic mother until she was ten, Natalie craved the stability she had found here with her aunts and her friends.

Julia Bourne tossed her long hair away from her face to reveal flawless skin that never needed makeup. "This is one of those things outside your control, Nat. I'd guess we'd all better be looking for jobs in Stowe."

Shelby Evans took a sip of her tea and shivered. Her Shih-poo, Penelope, dressed in a fashionable blue-and-white polka dotted shirt, turned around in Shelby's lap and lay down on her navy slacks. "I don't know about you all," Shelby said, "but I wanted my kids to grow up here."

The women had no children of their own—and none of them was even close to thinking about settling down—but that was a moot point for Shelby. She had a storybook ending in mind that included a loving husband and two-point-five children for each of them. Natalie was sure her friend would find that life too.

Natalie moved restlessly. "There has to be something we can do. Some new export. Maple syrup, maybe? We have lots of trees." She glanced at Julia. "What about your New York friends? Maybe you could ask some of your business friends for advice?"

Julia shrugged her slim shoulders. "They know spas. I hardly think a spa is going to save us."

Reese had those thoughtful lines on her forehead. A tiny smile hovered on her full lips, and her hazel eyes showed a plan was forming. "We don't have time for exports, but what about imports? Tourists would love us if they'd come visit. We have heart." She took out her ever-present notebook and pen and began to jot down ideas.

"They come to ski in Stowe anyway," Shelby said. "All we have to do is get them here."

Natalie rubbed her forehead where it had begun to ache. "But what do we have to offer that's different from any other town?"

Julia crossed her shapely ankles. "Smitten is cute with its church and all, but cute doesn't bring tourists. I can't even get a decent manicure in this dinky town. People aren't going to pay for ambiance. We need some kind of gimmick."

Reese tapped her pen against her chin. "I have an idea," she said. "Everyone jokes about the town name. Why not capitalize on it?"

"How do you capitalize on a name like Smitten?"

"What does Smitten make you think of?" Reese asked. "Love, right? What if we turn the town into a place for honeymooners?"

Julia snickered and nodded toward the man striding past outside the window. "I have a feeling Carson would have something to say about that. He hated all the jokes about his name in high school."

Natalie followed the angle of Julia's nod. Her gut clenched the way it always did when she saw Carson Smitten. He was a man who attracted female attention wherever he went. He looked like his lumberjack great-grandfather, with his broad shoulders and closely- cropped dark hair.

Natalie dug a paper and pen from her purse, a Brighton that Julia had given her for her last birthday. "There needs to be a cohesive plan. What would this love town look like? Besides romantic songs playing over speakers around town."

"The honeymooners won't spend all their time in their rooms," Reese said, her eyes gleaming. "We offer great outdoor activities. The skiing here is as good as anywhere in the country. People just don't know about us." She gestured toward the mountain. "And look at that view."

This was not going to be an easy sell to Carson Smitten. Natalie stared out the window again and watched the man yank on the door to his hardware store in his usual confident way. She had no doubt she could convince the rest of the town over his objections. After all, what did they have to lose?

Available at bookstores everywhere. You can purchase online at http://www.amazon.com/Smitten-Colleen-Coble/dp/1401684947/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323797829&sr=1-1

Or from CBD at http://www.christianbook.com/smitten-colleen-coble/9781401684945/pd/684945?item_code=WW&netp_id=898031&event=ESRCG&view=details

Visit Colleen's website at www.colleencoble.com

Mistletoe Mayhem

2011-12-12T12:37:00.002-07:00

MistletoeMayhem

Novellain anthology entitled Season of Danger

LoveInspired Romantic Suspense – December 2011

A romance-shy veterinarian and a widowed health inspectorhunt the killer who used mistletoe extract to poison pets and people in a Tennessee mountain town.

After being jilted by her fiancé, Kelly Granger buries herbroken heart in her work as a veterinarian in her home town of Abbottsville,Tennessee, located in the Great Smoky Mountains. She and her assistant, Tim Hallock, battle tosave community pets from a violent and mysterious illness. Is this sickness adanger to humans? Her question is answered when state health inspector MattBennett is sent to investigate local eating establishments, including Kelly’ssister’s restaurant, for the cause of poisoning among the patrons. Kellyrefuses to believe that her sister served toxic mistletoe extract to hercustomers—yet mounting evidence points in that direction. Kelly puts herself inharm’s way, facing down a vicious dog and even more vicious people, to uncovera common denominator between the human and animal illnesses. Matt has his handsfull keeping up with her, as well as proving himself worthy of her trust—andhopefully, her love. Unless she has her heart set on her veterinary assistant, TimHallock. The question won’t matter if his investigation sends Kelly’s sister tojail. She’ll never have anything to do with him then. They need to uncover thetruth. But will the answer cost them more than their romance? Will it cost themtheir lives?

CHAPTER ONE

Kelly Granger stared into Nick Milton’s bloodshot eyes andsuppressed a shiver. It wouldn’t do to betray her fear of him, any more than togive that advantage to a wild animal.

Beefy face taut, Nick leaned toward her over the counter ofthe veterinary clinic’s reception area. “If my dog don’t perk up and shake offthat drug you pumped into him, I’ll come lookin’ for you. He’s been layin’around all afternoon, worthless as a tick.”

The slurred words betrayed the alcohol he pickled himself indaily. How did Chelsealive with this guy?

“Mr. Milton, Brutus’s behavior posed a danger to himself,the staff and other animals. In order to give him his check-up andvaccinations, it was necessary to administer a mild sedative first. I assureyou, he will be himself by morning, barring a little stiffness in thevaccination site, which will also disappear.”

There, she’d delivered a reasonable explanation, and hervoice didn’t even quiver. If she’d discovered any sign of abuse on Nick’sDoberman, she would have turned the dog over to the SPCA to get the animal awayfrom his disgusting owner.

“Highfalutin, la-de-da doctor!” Nick shook a ham-sized fistin her face. “I’m holdin’ you to them words.”

Kelly gripped the edge of the counter. She would not backaway. This creep might have a reputation for temper, but she was not going to be cowed. This was her clinic, and she’d done nothing wrong. . . except send her assistant, Tim Hallock, home early. Tim might be halfNick’s size, but at least he could have called the cops.

Nick turned and stomped out the door, admitting a burst ofchill air, which washed over Kelly. She allowed herself a shiver. Some peopleneeded a muzzle and leash more than their pets. She wouldn’t mind calling thepolice to let them know that Nick Milton was driving drunk again, except hewasn’t driving.

The Milton’sbeat-up van sat in a parking spot outside the clinic’s picture window. Nick’sson, Greg, perched behind the wheel. Kelly’s glance met the teenager’s, and kidoffered his usual juvenile leer. She marched to the door and turned thedeadbolt as the van chugged out of the parking lot, spewing dark smoke from itstailpipe.

Releasing a breath, she looked out the picture window, whichrevealed a panorama of white-topped mountain ridges looming over the strugglingbusiness district. Even with Christmas nearly upon them, traffic was thin thisearly evening. Vehicle headlights vied with the twinkle of Christmas lightsadorning the facades of buildings. Thankfully, no one seemed headed for theveterinary clinic. She’d dealt with enough excitement for one day.

Brutus had been the easiest patient—a routine well-check.Six other pets, cradled by distraught owners—one of them Kelly’s sister—hadbeen presented this afternoon, each animal exhibiting the same awful symptoms.She was keeping most of them overnight on IVs to rehydrate them. Her patientswould live, but more by the grace of God than human skill. She’d never seenanything like it and prayed she never would again.

Had Tim remembered to prepare the biological samples forsubmission to the state lab? They needed to discover what had made the pets soill.

Kelly headed for the pharmacy, loafers squeaking faintly onthe linoleum. Her pharmacy was more like a large closet than a room. Thepackage lay wrapped and labeled on the counter. Kelly smiled. Reliable wasTim’s middle name.

A note in his handwriting sat by the box. She picked it upand read, “Courier service unable to make the pick-up until late tomorrow afternoon. One of thehazards of living in a Tennesseemountain town.”

Kelly groaned. Compared to the frenzy of her Nashville vet school experience, she’d loved returning tothe gracious pace of life in Abbottsville, nestled in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. But around here, tomorrow was soonenough for anything to happen. Might as well get home and put her feet up.

On the drive to her modest bungalow, her thoughts refused towind down. What if the illness was an epidemic—something bacterial . . . or evenviral? Or maybe it was as simple as a contaminated batch of pet food? But whatif this was a contagion that could affect people? What if . . . Whoa, girl! No point in stressing overwhat had hit the pets in Abbottsville until the lab returned results.

Darkness had fully fallen when she turned the final corneronto her street. She accelerated and then eased off the gas pedal. What was upwith this? The automatic timer on her Christmas lights should have had herplace aglow with festive decorations, but the single-story home was dark. Afaulty timer? Better than some expensive electrical issue. It wasn’t a poweroutage. The porch light glowed on the two-story house next door, but no holidaydecorations. Probably because her yet-to-be-seen neighbor had moved in onlyyesterday.

Kelly wheeled the Explorer into the driveway, and theheadlights passed over a scene of Christmas decoration carnage strewn acrossher snow-dusted lawn. What in the world? She halted the SUV at an angle andscanned the mess of tinsel, strings of lights, straw from the crèche and hollyand pine garland. Her stomach knotted. Who would do such a thing? Then shespotted the vandal, and her jaw dropped.

Available at fine bookstores everywhere, plus outlets atWalmart and Target, as well as on-line bookstores.

For more informationand a chance to win a signed copy of the book, drop by http://www.jillelizabethnelson.com, jillelizabethnelson.com.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0373444699/jillelizabeth-20

CLICK HERETO BUY THE BOOK NOW!

Merry and Blessed Christmas to All!

Jill Elizabeth Nelson

www.jillelizabethnelson.com

Jill Elizabeth Nelson is an award-winning author of mystery and suspense. She writes what she likes to read—tales of adventure seasoned with romance, humor, and faith. Jill speaks regularly at conferences, writer’s groups, library associations, and civic and church groups. When teaching classes for writers, she delights in bringing the “Ahah! moment” to her students, so they can make a new skill their own. Jill and her husband live in rural Minnesota where they raised four children and are currently enjoying their grandchildren. Visit Jill on the web at: www.jillelizabethnelson.com or look her up on Facebook or Twitter:

https://www.facebook.com/JillElizabethNelson.Author or @jnelson57.

Mistletoe Mayhem; His Holiday Family

2011-12-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

Mistletoe Mayhem
By Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Novella in anthology entitled Season of Danger Love Inspired Romantic Suspense – December 2011

A romance-shy veterinarian and a widowed health inspector hunt the killer who used mistletoe extract to poison pets and people in a Tennessee mountain town. After being jilted by her fiancé, Kelly Granger buries her broken heart in her work as a veterinarian in her home town of Abbottsville, Tennessee, located in the Great Smoky Mountains. She and her assistant, Tim Hallock, battle to save community pets from a violent and mysterious illness. Is this sickness a danger to humans? Her question is answered when state health inspector Matt Bennett is sent to investigate local eating establishments, including Kelly's sister's restaurant, for the cause of poisoning among the patrons. Kelly refuses to believe that her sister served toxic mistletoe extract to her customers—yet mounting evidence points in that direction. Kelly puts herself in harm's way, facing down a vicious dog and even more vicious people, to uncover a common denominator between the human and animal illnesses. Matt has his hands full keeping up with her, as well as proving himself worthy of her trust—and hopefully, her love. Unless she has her heart set on her veterinary assistant, Tim Hallock. The question won't matter if his investigation sends Kelly's sister to jail. She'll never have anything to do with him then. They need to uncover the truth. But will the answer cost them more than their romance? Will it cost them their lives?

CHAPTER ONE

Kelly Granger stared into Nick Milton's bloodshot eyes and suppressed a shiver. It wouldn't do to betray her fear of him, any more than to give that advantage to a wild animal. Beefy face taut, Nick leaned toward her over the counter of the veterinary clinic's reception area. "If my dog don't perk up and shake off that drug you pumped into him, I'll come lookin' for you. He's been layin' around all afternoon, worthless as a tick." The slurred words betrayed the alcohol he pickled himself in daily. How did Chelsea live with this guy? "Mr. Milton, Brutus's behavior posed a danger to himself, the staff and other animals. In order to give him his check-up and vaccinations, it was necessary to administer a mild sedative first. I assure you, he will be himself by morning, barring a little stiffness in the vaccination site, which will also disappear." There, she'd delivered a reasonable explanation, and her voice didn't even quiver. If she'd discovered any sign of abuse on Nick's Doberman, she would have turned the dog over to the SPCA to get the animal away from his disgusting owner. "Highfalutin, la-de-da doctor!" Nick shook a ham-sized fist in her face. "I'm holdin' you to them words." Kelly gripped the edge of the counter. She would not back away. This creep might have a reputation for temper, but she was not going to be cowed. This was her clinic, and she'd done nothing wrong . . . except send her assistant, Tim Hallock, home early. Tim might be half Nick's size, but at least he could have called the cops. Nick turned and stomped out the door, admitting a burst of chill air, which washed over Kelly. She allowed herself a shiver. Some people needed a muzzle and leash more than their pets. She wouldn't mind calling the police to let them know that Nick Milton was driving drunk again, except he wasn't driving. The Milton's beat-up van sat in a parking spot outside the clinic's picture window. Nick's son, Greg, perched behind the wheel. Kelly's glance met the teenager's, and kid offered his usual juvenile leer. She marched to the door and turned the deadbolt as the van chugged out of the parking lot, spewing dark smoke from its tailpipe. Releasing a breath, she looked out the picture window, which revealed a panorama of white-topped mountain ridges looming over the struggling business district. Even with Christmas nearly upon them, traffic was thin this early evening. Vehicle headlights vied with the twinkle of Christmas lights adorning the facades of buildings. Thankfully, no one seemed headed for the veterinary clinic. She'd dealt with enough excitement for one day. Brutus had been the easiest patient—a routine well-check. Six other pets, cradled by distraught owners—one of them Kelly's sister—had been presented this afternoon, each animal exhibiting the same awful symptoms. She was keeping most of them overnight on IVs to rehydrate them. Her patients would live, but more by the grace of God than human skill. She'd never seen anything like it and prayed she never would again. Had Tim remembered to prepare the biological samples for submission to the state lab? They needed to discover what had made the pets so ill. Kelly headed for the pharmacy, loafers squeaking faintly on the linoleum. Her pharmacy was more like a large closet than a room. The package lay wrapped and labeled on the counter. Kelly smiled. Reliable was Tim's middle name. A note in his handwriting sat by the box. She picked it up and read, "Courier service unable to make the pick-up until late tomorrow afternoon. One of the hazards of living in a Tennessee mountain town." Kelly groaned. Compared to the frenzy of her Nashville vet school experience, she'd loved returning to the gracious pace of life in Abbottsville, nestled in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. But around here, tomorrow was soon enough for anything to happen. Might as well get home and put her feet up. On the drive to her modest bungalow, her thoughts refused to wind down. What if the illness was an epidemic—something bacterial . . . or even viral? Or maybe it was as simple as a contaminated batch of pet food? But what if this was a contagion that could affect people? What if . . . Whoa, girl! No point in stressing over what had hit the pets in Abbottsville until the lab returned results. Darkness had fully fallen when she turned the final corner onto her street. She accelerated and then eased off the gas pedal. What was up with this? The automatic timer on her Christmas lights should have had her place aglow with festive decorations, but the single-story home was dark. A faulty timer? Better than some expensive electrical issue. It wasn't a power outage. The porch light glowed on the two-story house next door, but no holiday decorations. Probably because her yet-to-be-seen neighbor had moved in only yesterday. Kelly wheeled the Explorer into the driveway, and the headlights passed over a scene of Christmas decoration carnage strewn across her snow-dusted lawn. What in the world? She halted the SUV at an angle and scanned the mess of tinsel, strings of lights, straw from the crèche and holly and pine garland. Her stomach knotted. Who would do such a thing? Then she spotted the vandal, and her jaw dropped.

Excerpt. © Jill Elizabeth Nelson, 2011.

Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Available at fine bookstores everywhere, plus outlets at Walmart and Target, as well as on-line bookstores.

For more information and a chance to win a signed copy of the book, drop by http://www.jillelizabethnelson.com
CLICK HERE TO BUY THE BOOK NOW!

Merry and Blessed Christmas to All! Jill Elizabeth Nelsonwww.jillelizabethnelson.com

* * *

His Holiday Family

(1st book in A Town Called Hope Series)

By Margaret Daley

Love Inspired, December 2012ISBN #978-037387711-9Margaret Daley's website://http://www.margaretdaley.com

Purchased the book following link on this page: http://www.margaretdaley.com/all-books/

In the aftermath of a hurricane will Kathleen Hart and Gideon O'Brien, two scarred people, find hope and love?

Blurb for His Holiday Family: When Hurricane Naomi tears through a small Mississippi town, a daring rescue unites two heroes. Nurse Kathleen Hart is a single mom racked by guilt over her husband's death. Firefighter Gideon O'Brien—orphaned as a young boy—has lost too many people he cared for. To rise above the storm's devastation, Gideon helps Kathleen and her sons rebuild their home. As Christmas approaches, they discover that even the strongest of storms can't destroy a romance built on the foundation of faith.

Excerpt from His Holiday Family:Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Gideon O'Brien hopped down from Engine Two and assessed the chaos in front of him. Strapping on his air pack, he started toward his captain. A hand gripped his arm and stopped his forward progress. He turned toward the blonde woman who held him, her large blue eyes glistening with tears. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place where he knew her from. His neighbor's daughter, perhaps? "My two sons and my cousin—their babysitter—must still be inside. I don't see them outside with the other tenants." Her voice quivered. She tightened her hand on his arm and scanned the crowd. "I'm Kathleen Hart. My sons are Jared and Kip. I tried Sally's cell but she didn't answer. Please get them out." A tear slipped down her cheek. "Where are they?" Gideon moved toward his captain, his palm at the small of her back, guiding her in the direction he wanted her to go. Yes, he realized, she was his neighbor Ruth Coleman's daughter. "Sally's second-floor apartment is on the east side, the fourth one down on your right. Number 212. Hurry." Her round eyes fastened on the fire consuming the three-story apartment building on Magnolia Street. Gideon paused in front of Captain Fox. "Mrs. Hart says her sons and babysitter are still inside. Pete and I can go in and get them." He looked toward the west end of the large structure where the men of Engine One were fighting the flames eating their way through the top level. "There's still time." "Okay." His captain surveyed the east end. "But hurry. It won't be long before this whole building goes up." The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air. The hissing sound of water hitting Magnolia Street Apartments vied with the roar of the blaze. Gideon turned toward the mother of the two boys. "We'll find them." He gave her a smile then searched the firefighters for Pete. When Gideon found him a few feet away, he covered the distance quickly. "Let's go. There are three people trapped on the second floor. East end." At the main entrance into the building Gideon fixed his mask in place, glancing back at the blonde woman standing near his captain. He had seen that same look of fear and worry many times over his career as a firefighter. He wouldn't let anything happen to her sons and Sally. Gideon switched on his voice amplifier and headed into the furnace with Pete following close behind him. Through the thick cloud suspended from the ceiling in the foyer, the stairs to the second floor loomed. Crouching, he scrambled up the steps. The higher he went, the hotter it became. On the landing, he peered to the right, a wall of steely smoke obscuring his view. To the left, the way he needed to go, the gunmetal gray fog hovered in the hallway, denser at the top. Gideon dropped to his hands and knees and crawled toward Sally's apartment. Sweat coated his body from the adrenaline pumping through him and the soaring temperature. The building groaned. Visibility only three feet in front of him, he hugged the wall, his heart pounding. He sucked air into his lungs, conscious of the limited amount of oxygen in his tank. Calm down. Not much time. In and out. Mindful of every inhalation, he counted the doors they passed in the corridor. One. Two. Three. The next apartment was Sally's. His breathing evened out as he neared his goal.At number 212's door, Gideon tried the handle. Locked. He rose and swung his ax into the wooden obstruction, the sound of it striking its target reverberating in the smoke-filled air. When a big enough hole appeared, Pete reached inside and opened the door. A pearly haze, not as heavy as in the corridor, engulfed the room. His partner rushed into the apartment, Gideon right behind him. In the small foyer, he noticed a large television on in the living room but didn't see anyone in there. "I'll take the left. You the right," Gideon said, making his way down the short hallway to the first bedroom. "Fire department, is anyone here?" His gaze riveted to a double bed. He quickly searched everywhere two young boys might hide. Nothing. For a few seconds a memory intruded into his mind, taking his focus off what needed to be done. He shoved it away, went back in the hall and crossed to the other bedroom. After checking it, he came back out into the corridor and opened the last door to a bathroom. Empty. He pictured his neighbor's daughter next to his captain, waiting for them to bring her sons out safely. The thought that he might not be able to quickened his breathing for a moment. When he met up with Pete in the small entryway, his partner said, "All clear in the kitchen as well as the living and dining rooms." "The same in the bedrooms." "Gideon, Pete, get out. Mrs. Hart sees her children and their babysitter. They just arrived and are safe," his captain's deep gravelly voice came over the radio. "We're on our way." Relieved the two boys and Sally were all right, Gideon and Pete made their way back into the main hallway. The smoke had grown thicker, darker. The crackling and popping sounds of the fire overrode the rumbling noise from the water continually bombarding the structure. A warning went off, signaling Pete only had five minutes of air left in his tank.Our time is running out.

2011-12-06T10:19:00.001-07:00

Marcher Lord Press – October 2011 The desolate world Mikuhr is home to a proud people now on the verge of extinction. Conflict explodes when apprentice priest Kiel Caldwell arrives to investigate rumors of new spiritual revelation, but he is kidnapped by a renegade who thinks he might be a predicted messiah. And when Kiel's loose-cannon military brother Kinnor arrives to investigate, it's up to returning Mikuhran diplomat Wind Haworth to head off a conflict that could have spiritual, political, and military repercussions—but no one has foreseen the consequences of introducing diplomat Wind Haworth to military Sentinel Kinnor Caldwell. "Wind and Shadow transports readers into the same vibrant story world that Tyers created for her popular `Firebird' trilogy. Once again she blends high stakes adventure and heroic sacrifice with a seamless science fiction setting. Her rich characters capture our hearts as they grapple with faith questions along with dire dangers. Suspenseful and thought-provoking." —Sharon Hinck, author of the award-winning Sword of Lyric series Chapter 1 Wind Haworth had risen early, eager to face this day. She sat on a stone bench inside Haworth housing's broad courtyard, calling up the day's tasks on her handheld: Main Air, meet shuttle at Inport— He's finally arriving. Overhead, past the courtyard's transparent ceiling, the big outdoor day lights flickered on. For one moment, Wind made out the higher, thicker dome skin of Baseline Settlement outside the clan's housing blister—three layers protecting her from Mikuhr's airlessness. Above the courtyard dangled dozens of ceiling streamers, the thinnest mere gossamer ribbons. Even the heavy narrative hangings helped young air flow techs study fluidic patterns, since Clan Haworth maintained air quality inside Baseline Settlement. Wind Haworth simply liked sitting here to watch the thin ones dance. Like flickering flames, they revealed unseen air currents, working together with the heavier hangings—just as she wished her own people would work with the occupying Federates. For many of her conquered people, that was a traitorous hope. But he's coming today. Maybe he can help with that. Her broad green sleeve had gotten draped over her handheld. She pulled it away to eye her list once more: First, a fast check of Main Air's master board. Report any anomaly to Occupation Governor Dardy as well as her clan great-aunt, Dowda Haworth. Second, in the time slot when she normally met with Governor Dardy— He's arriving today! No one ever visited Baseline Settlement. The world of Mikuhr was occupied, blockaded, and proscribed by Federate Regional Command. Maybe her guest—here on a special waiver—would join her for list item #3, her environmental committee meeting— The handheld let out a blat, and Wind nearly dropped it. She touched the screen to receive the incoming message: Get in here, girl. Wind gathered her flowing green robes around her and hurried to Dowda Rava Haworth's office. Oddly, Dowda Haworth was not sitting behind the stone surface of her desk. The Dowda wasn't tall, but she stood aggressively upright, as if she would like to challenge the Federate occupation force. Straight black hair dangled to her waist, and keen black eyes gleamed over her narrow cheeks. Thanks to selective breeding she looked thirty, or possibly forty. She was 108. Beneath another set of streamers, a stranger lounged in the comfortable side chair. His long face, black hair and eyes were typical of her people. She saw those features each morning as she washed and dressed. But through her mind's shields came an eerie, unfamiliar chill. Although his face looked unlined at first glance, fine wrinkles surrounded his eyes. He had to be even older than the Dowda, maybe the oldest person Wind had ever met. That meant he'd been an adult before the world fell to Federate forces. He might have been tube born in the Golden City. He would not call himself Mikuhran—but Shuhr. "Come in and shut the door," the Dowda snapped. Wind cautiously strengthened her mental shields and walked into the office, sending the door closed behind her. On the chamber's opposite side, shaded by a light filtering pane, hung a tapestry woven with bold geometric designs, a treasured artifact of the lost home world of Ehret. Since the Dowda had spoken aloud, Wind took that as her cue. She should not subvocalize mind-to-mind in front of this stranger, who might take it as an insult. Early childhood memories made her want to run and hide. When she'd been a child growing up on green Thyrica, the Shuhr—City people, like this man—had stalked her nightmares. A female City scout had eyed her for several seconds one day before deciding, apparently, she was not worth the trouble to torture and kill in some hideous experiment. Wind took her position at the Dowda's left hand. "So you're the one." The stranger spoke with a sneer. Wind stared back at him, still unauthorized to answer. The old caste rules came crashing back: When a powerful telepath spoke aloud, he meant it as a grave insult. Wind kept her emotions as passive as she could. If she provoked him, he would kill without a second thought. He finally stood, and words slithered into Wind's mind. A Caldwell. You're bringing us a Caldwell. Chilly disdain overlaid those silent words. Several weeks ago, Wind had queried the Federacy about a local spiritual issue. To her delight, they were sending a Na'marr or priest in training, a man she already admired. Kiel Caldwell. This time, the stranger wanted an answer. Wind used submissive vocal speech. "Sir, I did not request him, but I'm glad he's coming. Surely you've heard the rumors. New wisdom, encoded in the ancient holy books—found by a Mikuhran. Can you imagine how that could raise our standing in Federate eyes?" Who cares about Federate eyes? He kept staring, lips unmoving. In her mind's eye he appeared as a blur of raw power. Anyone besides you? You abandoned us. You are not welcome back. She gathered her courage. In front of her clan aunt, the highest local leader in Baseline Settlement, it might be safe to argue. I abandoned no one. I was taken as a five-year-old, stolen from my home, brought to a world where I was seen as an enemy. Catching herself, she suppressed the old anguish. Sir, we share the Sentinels' ancestry. Those holy books are ours, too— A Caldwell! He barely closed a hand down at his side, as if gripping something invisible. Among Golden City Shuhr, that had been a threatening gesture. We danced with that family for ten generations. Such fun, dangling their own prophecies in front of them. He widened his lips in an awful smile. His teeth looked as if they'd been artfully stained blood red. Don't say you weren't warned. © 2011 Kathy Tyers, used by permission. Do not reprint or reproduce without permission. To read the rest of Chapter 1, visit www.kathytyers.com. To order in paper or ebook format, visit www.marcherlordpress.com. DUTY TO PROTECTRoxanne RustandDecember, 2011

Love Inspired Suspense She needed a safe haven... After nearly a lifetime in witness protection, Emma White depends on the anonymity of her false identity. But when her mother dies under suspicious circumstances, her father is shot and Emma is framed for murder, all of her security is gone. There's nothing left to do but run. Montana cop-turned-rancher Jake Kincaid is an unlikely defender. Why would an ex-cop believe an accused killer? Though he is determined to find the truth, he is an honorable man who makes Emma feel safe. With his drive to protect her, she knows staying on his ranch endangers him both and she needs to leave--yet now that he has captured her heart, she's not sure she can walk away. CHAPTER 1 The soft blanket of new snow glittered under the street lamp and muffled her steps as Emma strode from the city bus stop at the end of the block to the side door of her garage. Anxiety twisted her stomach into a tight knot of fear. The snow could muffle the sound of someone else's steps, too. And even now, that unknown person could be watching her. Waiting. Just as he had waited for her father last week. She'd been only a few feet away from her dad, pushing a cart of groceries in the busy Safeway parking lot. He'd suddenly faltered to a stop. Started to whisper a warning to her. "We've got to leave," he'd said urgently. "I just saw-- Then he'd fallen face first, a widening pool of crimson spreading through the slushy snow beneath him. He died at her feet, and she hadn't even heard the gunshot. Had he seen his killer's face? Why hadn't the shooter taken her out, too? The melee of screaming, frightened people running for cover would have given the shooter ample opportunity to pull the trigger, and he probably wouldn't have missed. From the perfect placement of the single bullet in her father's skull, the cops figured the killer possessed ample sniper experience. Which meant it was someone sent by the drug organization that had been trying to kill Emma and her family for over ten years. And now she was the only one left. Taking a slow breath, she willed away the horrific images of blood and panicking people, and willed her heartbeat to slow. I'm okay. I'm almost home. She unlocked the door of the garage and slipped inside, then rounded the rear bumper of her old Blazer, thankful that the dark, smoke-tinted windows hid its contents. No one could look inside and guess at what she planned to do tomorrow--not that anyone was likely to drop by. No one ever did. The witness protection program was no place to make friends. From somewhere inside the house came a thud. She paused, her hand on the door leading from the garage into the tiny entryway off the kitchen. That hadn't been the sound of the furnace kicking in. There was no one else who had a key. A crazy longing flitted through her thoughts. It's just Dad-- But he was dead and so was her mom, and now she totally and forever alone. Surely she was just hearing things. She lowered her gaze to the doorknob. Started to fit her key into the deadbolt. But then she heard another thud. An anguished moan. And were those voices inside? Not possible. She'd locked all the doors and armed the security system when she left. Not even her WITSEC contact knew the code--yet there were intruders inside. So where were the sirens? The squadron of patrol cars that should be closing in? Had the alarm even triggered? Warning bells sounded in her head. An inner voice screamed at her to run. Rising on her tiptoes, she braced her trembling fingertips on the doorframe for a quick glance through the rectangular window set high in the door. A narrow separation of the loose-woven curtains on the inside revealed just a slice of the kitchen, but the bright lights inside illuminated more than enough. Horror and disbelief swept through her as she stumbled away from the door, caught herself, and swallowed hard, trying to hold back a wave of sudden nausea. A body was lying face down on her kitchen floor, the hilt of her favorite carving knife rammed upright into his back. And the dark, wet crimson pool spreading from beneath him couldn't be anything but blood. Roxanne Rustandwww.roxannerustand.com Available at www.bn.com , www.amazon.com , www.christianbook.com and fine bookstores everywhere--This material is copyrighted. Do Not Reproduce without permission.

Silent Night, Deadly Night

2011-12-02T10:25:00.003-07:00

Silent Night, Deadly Night

A novella by Hannah Alexander

In an anthology titled Season of Danger (with Jill Nelson's Mistletoe Mayhem)

www.hannahalexander.com

After sabotage strikes the Vance Rescue Mission, volunteer Sean Torrance tries to guarantee the mission a safe Christmas. But can Sean protect Tess Vance when the sabotage becomes poisonous--with Tess as target?

At eleven-thirty on Tuesday night, two hours after the canned Santa Claus music had gone blessedly silent out on the street, a squeak that sounded like rubber-sole shoes on tile reached Tess Vance from the hallway outside her locked office door. She heard footsteps…almost rushed…sneaky.

She straightened from her computer keyboard and frowned. She knew the cadence of her brother's swift pace. Gerard Vance had the legs of a giraffe. He could cover the length of the hallway in less than ten steps, and he didn't walk as if he was sneaking anywhere. Neither did Sean Torrance, who also had his office up here. Besides those two men, Tess was the only person who had a key to the admin offices.

Tess stacked several sheets of information that needed to be entered into the data system. She was preparing to stand up and stretch her aching back when she heard another echo of footsteps, rushed as before. What on earth…?

Maybe it was just her imagination working overtime with the rest of her. She glanced at the phone on the corner of her desk.

A homeless woman, Carlotta, who had come to the mission more than once for food and a place to sleep, had been found dead two weeks ago, not far from here. It appeared she'd been ill, and exposed to the elements. No one suspected foul play except Tess…and possibly Sean and Gerard, though neither of them had told her what they thought.

Tess couldn't get that awful announcement from her mind. It had been related on the local Channel 11 as a brief aside, as if Carlotta didn't matter as much as someone with money and an address.

One channel that had treated the death as a tragic event had been KSFJ, 106.1 FM. It was the radio station that had been owned and managed by the Torrance family for the past two decades. After Sean inherited the station and took over management three years ago, he'd brought it to a whole new level of popularity…and compassion.

Despite Tess's anxiety—or perhaps because of it—she settled her thoughts on Sean, who had the ability to calm her tension with nothing more than a look, a gentle word, a touch on her hand. He was the person who had helped Tess, in the past eight months since joining Gerard in the work at this mission, to convince local churches to organize a system of volunteerism for the rescue missions and soup kitchens in the region.

Sean had been a godsend to Gerard, Tess and their older brother, Hans, and to the hundreds of homeless in multiple cities who benefited from his organizational skills. Everyone who knew him benefited from his big heart. But Tess couldn't help feeling she benefited the most.

Tess smiled to herself. In contrast to her brother's Nordic blond, rugged good looks, Sean had hair as dark as the night sea, and eyes the color of midnight surf. He did share Gerard's size and strength, and thoughtful consideration toward others—despite his wicked sense of humor when he and Gerard teased Tess.

She considered calling one of the two men. Just in case. She suddenly felt reluctant to wander these hallways alone tonight.

She reached for the phone and allowed her hand to hover over it, but quickly chastised herself for being jittery. She'd worked many late nights alone in the mission with less crew than they had tonight. There was nothing to worry about. She glanced over her shoulder toward the barred window that overlooked the street, and saw nothing but a reflection of those protective bars. No movement. Maybe one of the children had somehow slipped upstairs, had become lost trying to sneak back for more of the banana pudding cake that was Sean's special—and secret—recipe.

But the kitchen was downstairs, not up here.

Something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the measure of activity that had kicked into high gear here at the mission because Christmas would be here in a little over two weeks, or maybe it was the lateness of the hour. Gerard had been forced to rely more and more on volunteer staff since Tess arrived here nine months ago—he and Hans were saving for their next move in the rescue mission project. They wanted to establish a rehabilitation center.

With the exception of Sean, who was a tireless worker, the most experienced volunteers wanted to spend more hours shopping, decorating and prepping for Christmas parties. The Vance Rescue Mission had been left with seasonal help, folks with good hearts who knew little about the work involved.

Of course, Gerard's ground rules helped a lot—when an able adult refused to work, that adult didn't eat, so those in need of food knew that they might have the opportunity to earn their keep here. Gerard believed that this rule was not only helpful for the mission, but it engendered self respect for those who worked for their meals.

Another footstep echoed out in the hallway—the sound of hesitance, only one step, then silence.

Tess closed her eyes and waited. She knew she was still suffering from stress disorder after her fiancé's death in March. The sense of horror continued to follow her nine months after Tanner Jackson was intentionally run down and killed. She was jumpy, startled easily, and seldom felt at peace in her surroundings.

Her hand continued to hover. One place she did feel at peace was in Sean's presence. And why wouldn't she be? He was six foot four and weighed probably 220, all muscle. Was she simply looking for an excuse to see him one more time tonight?

His Holiday Family, by Margaret Daley

2011-11-28T14:51:00.006-07:00

"When I decided to write a series about a town that goes through a hurricane, I wanted to give tribute to all the people who have gone through a disaster and rebuilt their lives. This series was written for the heroes and heroines who help others in a time of disaster. "

When Hurricane Naomi tears through a small Mississippi town, a daring rescue unites two heroes. Nurse Kathleen Hart is a single mom racked by guilt over her husband's death. Firefighter Gideon O'Brien—orphaned as a young boy—has lost too many people he cared for. To rise above the storm's devastation, Gideon helps Kathleen and her sons rebuild their home. As Christmas approaches, they discover that even the strongest of storms can't destroy a romance built on the foundation of faith.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Gideon O'Brien hopped down from Engine Two and assessed the chaos in front of him. Strapping on his air pack, he started toward his captain. A hand gripped his arm and stopped his forward progress. He turned toward the blonde woman who held him, her large blue eyes glistening with tears. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place where he knew her from. His neighbor's daughter, perhaps?

"My two sons and my cousin—their babysitter—must still be inside. I don't see them outside with the other tenants." Her voice quivered. She tightened her hand on his arm and scanned the crowd. "I'm Kathleen Hart. My sons are Jared and Kip. I tried Sally's cell but she didn't answer. Please get them out." A tear slipped down her cheek.

"Where are they?" Gideon moved toward his captain, his palm at the small of her back, guiding her in the direction he wanted her to go. Yes, he realized, she was his neighbor Ruth Coleman's daughter.

"Sally's second-floor apartment is on the east side, the fourth one down on your right. Number 212. Hurry." Her round eyes fastened on the fire consuming the three-story apartment building on Magnolia Street.

Gideon paused in front of Captain Fox. "Mrs. Hart says her sons and babysitter are still inside. Pete and I can go in and get them." He looked toward the west end of the large structure where the men of Engine One were fighting the flames eating their way through the top level. "There's still time."

"Okay." His captain surveyed the east end. "But hurry. It won't be long before this whole building goes up."

The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air. The hissing sound of water hitting Magnolia Street Apartments vied with the roar of the blaze.

Gideon turned toward the mother of the two boys. "We'll find them." He gave her a smile then searched the firefighters for Pete.

When Gideon found him a few feet away, he covered the distance quickly. "Let's go. There are three people trapped on the second floor. East end."

At the main entrance into the building Gideon fixed his mask in place, glancing back at the blonde woman standing near his captain. He had seen that same look of fear and worry many times over his career as a firefighter. He wouldn't let anything happen to her sons and Sally.

Gideon switched on his voice amplifier and headed into the furnace with Pete following close behind him. Through the thick cloud suspended from the ceiling in the foyer, the stairs to the second floor loomed. Crouching, he scrambled up the steps. The higher he went, the hotter it became.

His Holiday Family, Love Inspired, December 2011
From This Day Forward, Summerside Press, September 2011
Hidden in the Everglades, Love Inspired Suspense, September 2011
http://www.margaretdaley.com
http://www.margaretdaley.com/margarets-blog/

The Long Trail Home; The Wishing Pearl

2011-11-18T09:46:00.007-07:00

Long Trail Home

By Vickie McDonough

Long Trail Home is the third book in the Texas Trails series that I'm writing with Susan Page Davis and Darlene Franklin. It is my first book in the series, and it is a stand alone book. For more information about this series, visit the Texas Trails website: www.texastrailsfiction.com

What others are saying:

Hold on to your heart—Vickie McDonough is about to steal it away with an irresistible love story so unique and fresh, it will leave you breathless. It may be a "long trail home," but the pages have never flown so fast! This is prairie romance at its very best—I loved it!

Julie Lessman, award-winning author of The Daughters of Boston and Winds of Change series

Blurb:

A weary soldier returns from the War Between the States to discover his parents dead, his family farm in shambles, and his fiancée married. Riley Morgan takes a job at the Wilcox School for Blind Children and tries to make peace with God and himself. When a pretty, blind woman who cares for the children reaches through his scarred walls and touches his heart, he begins to find renewed faith and hope for the future. But when he discovers Annie feigned her blindness just to have a home, will his anger and hurt drive him away and ruin all chances for a future filled with love, faith, and family?

WACO, TEXAS, 1858

That one right there—he's your mark."
Annie Sheffield slipped past her daddy and peeked around the corner of the building. A handsome youth with wheat-colored hair stood in the dirt road in front of the mercantile, a shiny pocket watch dangling from his fingers on a silver chain. Annie squinted when a shaft of light reflected off the watch, and she blinked several times, refocusing on her prey. A much younger boy with the same color hair reached for the watch, but the older boy lifted the treasure higher to safety.
The taller boy's look was stern but gentle. "No, Timothy. Remember this watch was Grandpa's. It's very old, and we must be careful with it."

The younger boy's face scrunched up but he nodded. Then the comely youth bent down and allowed Timothy to hold the shiny watch for a moment before he closed it and put it back in a small bag, a proud smile on his handsome face.
Ducking back into the alley, Annie leaned against the wall in the early evening shadows. She glanced at her daddy. "Do I have to?"
"You wanna eat, don'tcha? We need that watch."
"But that boy looks so proud of it."
Her father narrowed his gray eyes. "I'd be proud if'n it was mine."
Annie sighed. If her father possessed the watch, he'd just go hock it or gamble it away.
"Go on with ya." He flicked his thin index finger in the air, pointing toward the street. He tugged down on the ugly orange, green, and brown plaid vest that he always wore. "Scat!"

Annie peered around the building again, taking a moment to judge how fast she'd have to run and where she could hide once she'd taken the watch. She'd come to hate being a pickpocket. Ever since she heard that street preacher several months back in Galveston hollering to a small crowd that stealing was breaking one of God's special laws, it had nagged her worse than a swarm of mosquitoes. But she was hungry, and they had no money.

She studied the boy's long legs. Could she outrun him? And what about his little friend?

Her daddy was an expert pickpocket. He could snitch a wallet and disappear into a crowd like a crow in a flock, but when it came to running away from a target, well, that's where she came in.

The tall cowboy was probably only a few years older than her thirteen years. He motioned to the younger boy, and they hopped up on the boardwalk and strolled toward her, completely unaware they were being spied on. He held one hand on the younger boy's shoulder, as if wanting to keep him close. Now that they both faced her, she could see their resemblance.

They had to be brothers. The big boy glanced at his watch bag, tucked it in his vest pocket, and gave it a loving pat.

Annie jumped back. "He's coming," she whispered over her shoulder.

Her father scowled. "I want that watch. Go!"
He gave her a shove. She stumbled forward and turned. The youth's blue eyes widened. "Hey, look—"
They collided—hard. Annie was knocked backwards, arms pumping, and her cap flew off. The youth grabbed her shoulders, and in a quick, smooth move that had taken Annie her whole life to master, she slipped his watch from his pocket and into hers. She ducked her head and stepped back. "Sorry, mister."

Her apology was more for stealing his treasure than crashing into him. She spun around and ran, hating the baggy trousers her father made her wear so she'd look like a boy. Hating the life she was forced to live. Hating that the handsome youth would hate her. She ran past a bank and a dress shop, then ducked down another alley. Behind the building she turned right instead of going left and back toward her daddy. Right now she didn't want to see him.

"Hey! Come back here, you thief!"

Annie's heart lurched, and she switched from trot to gallop. She could no longer see the watch's owner, but she knew it was him hollering. Bumping into that young man had flustered her. She hadn't expected him to be so solid, not for a youth not even full grown yet. Men grew taller and tougher here in Texas than in the other cities of the South where she'd mostly grown up—a different city every few weeks. A thief wasn't welcome in town for long.

Loud footsteps pounded behind her. She ducked under a wagon that sat behind the smithy, rolled, and then dove into the open doorway. She crawled into the shadows of the building and curled up behind a barrel that had oats scattered on the ground around it. She took several gasps of air and listened for footsteps.
The watch pressed hard against her hipbone, causing her guilt to mount. A horse in a nearby stall snorted and pawed the ground. Annie's heartbeat thundered in her ears as she listened for her pursuer's footsteps. Would he thrash her if he found her?

She peeked around the barrel. The tall boy stood in the doorway, looking around. She shrank back into the shadows like a rat—like the vermin she was.

After a moment, he spun around and quick steps took him away. Annie leaned against the wall, hating herself all over. Why couldn't she have been born into a nice family who lived in a big house? She'd even be happy with a small house, if she could have regular meals, wash up every week or so, and wear a dress like other girls.

But no, she had to be born the daughter of a master pickpocket.

**For more information about Vickie McDonough and her books, visit www.vickiemcdonough.com

Long Trail Home is available in bookstores and online:

Christianbook.com - http://www.christianbook.com/the-long-trail-home-texas-trails/vickie-mcdonough/9780802405852/pd/405852?product_redirect=1&Ntt=405852&item_code=&Ntk=keywords&event=ESRCP#curr

Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Long-Trail-Home-Texas/dp/0802405851/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1319028952&sr=8-1

© 2011 by VICKIE MCDONOUGH

* * *

The Wishing Pearl
By Nicole O'Dell

"O'Dell's heart for young adults shines through. A story of hope in the midst of pain, poignantly-written with vivid characters facing real-life issues, THE WISHING PEARL is a can't-put-down must-read for teens!" --Tosca Lee, author of Demon: A Memoir

Series Description:
Diamond Estates. Three girls are on a journey to find hope and healing. Each coming to Diamond Estates seeking solace… Each with her own unique set of struggles… And each capturing hearts and challenging faith.

THE WISHING PEARL
Sixteen-year-old Olivia Mansfield dreams of a land far, far away. . .
A land far away from her stepfather's abuse and torment.
A land far away from her mother's blind eye.
A land far away from the haunting memories of her past.

But then reality sets in, and Olivia knows she must make the best of her dire situation—at least until her high-school graduation. But when poor choices lead Olivia to the brink of a complete breakdown and she finds herself dealing with the unexpected death of her best friend, she comes to a crossroads.

Will Olivia find the path to ultimate hope and healing that her heart longs for?
Or will the demons from her past prove too much to bear?

Chapter One
Even the happiest of songs could sound mournful on the oboe when it was played just right.

Olivia Mansfield pulled the instrument from between her lips and traced her fingers along the silver tracks and keys that reminded her of the braces she wore on her teeth last year. The oboe understood her. It sang her somber song. Melancholy and forlorn, her band director once called it. Perfect words to describe its cry and Olivia.

Buzz. Olivia jumped as the intercom in her bedroom suite intruded.

"Are you almost done with that incessant noise?" barked a crackling voice.

Five more minutes had been the plan—but not anymore. She hurried to the wall and jabbed the Talk button. "I'll be at least another half hour, Chuck." Charles hated when Olivia called him that, almost as much as he hated the sound of the oboe. Which wasn't nearly as much as he hated her.

"Well, hurry up." The speaker clicked and fell silent. Olivia tipped the bell of her instrument in the direction of the door and blew a long, angry note, loud enough to make her stepfather's acne-scarred skin crawl just like he made hers every time he came near. She could wait and practice later when he wasn't home, but why should she? Only two more years of high school band and then, hopefully, a prestigious music school somewhere very far away. Making that dream come true required practice—lots of it. It wasn't her fault Charles couldn't tolerate the sound.

The door to her room flew open. Mom rapped her knuckles on the frame then bustled in looking perfect as usual in her designer clothes and impeccable makeup. Her big brown eyes surveyed the room.

"Hi, Mom. Thanks for knocking." Olivia gave her a raised eyebrow then continued her song. If her room were smaller, it might be considered a pigsty. Luckily, the enormity swallowed the mess, making it look only mildly untidy. Hopefully Mom wouldn't complain too much about all the dirty designer clothes littering the walnut floors.

"Sorry. I'm just in a hurry." Mom rushed over to the king- sized four-poster bed and yanked the silk duvet cover up over the rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. "I wish you'd take better care of this beautiful room, Liv. Charles has been more than generous to pay for all of this and everything else you'd have only dreamed of having."

Yeah, Charles had bought Olivia all that stuff, but only so he'd look good to everyone else—certainly not to make her happy. "I never asked him for any of this." Olivia swiveled in the desk chair she'd pulled to the center of the room and gestured at her expansive quarters. The sitting area looked like a high-tech home theater pictured in a magazine, and the marble and granite bathroom would have satisfied a queen. The jetted tub was nice, but Olivia would never admit that to Charles. "Besides, I'm going to get in the bed in a couple of hours anyway, so why bother?"

Mom's spiked heels clicked as she strode across the room, swept up a pile of dirty clothes into her arms, then dumped them down the laundry chute near Olivia's bathroom door. "You know, Norma can't wash the laundry if you don't drop it down."

Whatever. Norma could come up here and get it if she wanted it—she sure got paid enough. Time to change the subject. "Where are you going anyway?"

"Don't you remember?" Mom turned to the mirror while she spoke and tucked a nonexistent errant hair back into her long dark waves.

When would she cut her hair into a more age-appropriate style—at least shoulder length? "Don't tell me this is your shop- ping weekend in Chicago."

"Yep. Tonight's a fancy downtown dinner with the girls and a night at the Ritz. Saturday is for shopping on Mag Mile and dinner again. Then we'll work off the calories with a lakefront bike ride on Sunday."

Two nights? Home alone with Chuck? "Will Jake be here?"

"Probably for some of the weekend. But he's definitely going to want to get out and have fun with his friends—he's only got three weeks left before he leaves for college. Try not to get in his way too much."

"That's my job. Stay out of everyone's way." Why should this weekend be any different? Olivia slumped in her chair.

Mom stacked some books that had slipped to the floor from Olivia's built-in bookcase. "Just try a little harder to be nice to Charles. He's never been anything but wonderful to you."

Gag. "No, Mom. Daddy was wonderful. Chuck. . .exists." Olivia threaded her fingers through the layers of her silky black hair to find the purple streak she'd added a few days ago. She twisted it around her fingers and put the ends in her mouth.

"Quit that. Do you know how many germs are in your hair?" Mom swiped the clump of hair from between Olivia's lips. "Now give me a hug. I'll be home in a couple of days. Just try to be pleasant. Okay?" She pulled Olivia back to arm's length and smiled as she slid her hand down the back of Olivia's head. "I'll buy you something special—purple to match that streak of rebellion in that gorgeous hair of yours."

Great. A present. Mom's answer for everything—she sure hadn't acted like that when Daddy was alive, and she wouldn't have even if she'd had the money. Olivia mumbled her thanks as Mom hurried from the room, high heels clacking on the wood.

Olivia rushed to lock the door, her plan the same as every other day: stay out of everyone's way. Nothing new. Probably shouldn't have started the weekend off with the oboe serenade though—much better not to draw attention to herself. But it was too late to worry about that. Her eyes drilled holes in the intercom. A shame she couldn't see through it into the rest of the house. Go down and make peace, or stay hidden as long as possible? It would help if she knew whether he was already drinking.

______________________________
Nicole O'Dell, founder of Choose NOW Ministries, battles peer pressure as she writes and speaks to preteens, teenagers, and parents about how to prepare for life's tough choices. She is the author of a bunch of YA books, including the popular Scenarios for Girls interactive fiction series and her recent release, THE WISHING PEARL, 1st in the Diamond Estates series. Non-fiction for teens includes Girl Talk, 2/1/12, which she wrote with her two daughters based on their popular blog column by the same name, and O'Dell's desire to bridge the gap between parents and teens is evident in her adult non-fiction like the upcoming Hot Buttons series.
Do Not Reproduce without permission.

A Lasting Impression

2011-11-11T11:11:00.006-07:00

A LASTING IMPRESSION

by Tamera Alexander

"Tamera Alexander has once again written a novel rich in storytelling and history, peopled with living, breathing characters who made me laugh, and cry. Better than sweet tea on a veranda, A Lasting Impression is a winner. I want to live at Belmont!"

~Francine Rivers, New York Times best-selling author of Redeeming Love

About the book…

A fake. A forger. That's what Claire Laurent knows she is, which is why she can't fathom working in the home of the richest woman in Nashville, let alone America. But when she meets Sutton Monroe––Mrs. Acklen's far too handsome and equally as discerning personal attorney––Claire's certain the first impression she made with him…will be her last.

Chapter 1

French Quarter, New Orleans,

Louisiana September 7, 1866

Claire Laurent studied the finished canvas on the easel before her, and though masterpiece hardly described it, she knew the painting was her best yet. So why the disappointment inside her? The fiendish fraudulence trickling its way through her like tiny beads of sweat beneath layers of crinoline and lace. She ran a hand through her curls and dropped the soiled paintbrush into a cup of turpentine, full well knowing why. And knowing only deepened her guilt.

Her gaze fell to the lower righthand corner of the canvas, the one reserved for the artist's signature. She hadn't yet been able to bring herself to sign this one. Not with that name. Because of all the landscapes and still lifes and portraits she'd painted, none had truly felt like hers . . .

Until this one.

A breeze, moist and swollen, heavy with the certainty of rain, wafted in through the open secondstory window, and she peered from her bedroom over the town, breathing in the tang of salty air moving in from the gulf.

She viewed the Vieux Carré below, the Old Square she'd painted so many times she could close her eyes and still see every detail—the rows of pastelcolored buildings clustered together and edging the narrow streets, their balconies of decorative black cast iron boasting hanging baskets that cascaded with late summer blooms. The combination lent a charm and beauty unique to this part of the city.

No wonder she'd fallen in love with New Orleans so quickly, despite the hardship of recent months.

The steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantel marked the seconds, and she released her breath with practiced ease. She rose from her stool and stretched, paying the toll for retiring so late in recent evenings and for rising so early, but there was no avoiding it. This painting had taken longer to complete than she'd estimated.

Much longer, as her father kept reminding her.

Almost half past two, and she needed to "take leave of the gallery no later than three," as her father had insisted. She knew she shouldn't allow his request to bother her. It wasn't the first time he'd demanded she leave while he "conferred" with gallery patrons. And it wasn't as if she didn't know what he was doing during that time. What they did as a family business.

His increasing agitation in recent weeks wasn't helping her attitude toward him, however. Though not a gentle man, by any means, he wasn't customarily given to a sharp tongue. But in recent days a single look from him could have sliced bread hot from the oven.

"Claire Elise? Où estu?" She stiffened at his voice. "Oui, Papa. I'm up here." She glanced back at the canvas, fighting the ridiculous urge to hide it. Something within her didn't want him to see the painting. Not yet. And—if it had been within her control—not ever. Maybe she could tell him it wasn't finished yet. But one look at her, and Papa would know. Pretense was a skill she'd never mastered—not like he had.

Hurried steps coming up the stairwell told her there wasn't enough time to stash the painting in the empty space behind the wardrobe, and throwing a drape over it was out of the question with the final brushstrokes only moments old. Maybe if she told him how much this particular painting meant to her, he would let her keep it.

But she had a feeling that conversation would go much like the one six months ago, following her mother's passing—when she'd told him, as forcefully as she dared, that she didn't want to paint "like this" anymore. Her father had never struck her, but she'd sensed he'd wanted to in that moment, and she hadn't considered broaching the subject again.

Until now.

"Ah . . ." His footsteps halted in the doorway behind her. "Finally, you have finished, non?"

His tone, less strident than earlier that morning, tempted her to hope for an improvement in his mood. "Yes . . . I've finished." Readying herself for his reaction—and critical critique—she stepped to one side, a tangle of nerves tightening her insides.

He stared. Then blinked. Once, twice. "Jardins de Versailles . . . again." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "This is not the painting upon which we agreed." He looked at her, then back at the canvas. Keen appraisal sharpened his expression. "But . . . it does show some improvement."

Claire felt her nerves easing at the merest hint of praise. Until she saw it. . . .

That familiar flicker in his eyes. Her father appreciated art, in his own way, but he was a businessman at heart. His pride in her artistic talent ran a losing footrace with the profit he hoped to make through selling her paintings.

Her paintings . . .

The irony of that thought settled like a stone in her chest, which sent an unexpected—and dangerous—ripple of courage through her. "Papa, I . . ." The words fisted tight in her throat, and he wasn't even looking at her yet. "I need to speak with you about something. Something very important to me. I know you're not—"

His hand went up, and she flinched.

But he seemed not to notice. "This isn't the landscape we agreed for you to paint this time, nor is it what I described to the patron, but—" He studied her rendering of Louis the XIV's palace and the surrounding gardens, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Given we are out of time, and that the patron very much desires to own a François Narcisse Brissaud . . . it will have to do." He nodded succinctly, as though deciding within himself at that very moment.

"Yes. I'm certain I can convince him of its worth. After all"—he smiled to himself—"the larger galleries in Paris often ship the wrong painting. But next time, Claire . . ." He looked down at her, his gaze stern.

"You must render, to the smallest detail, the painting upon which we have agreed."

Claire searched his face. His words stung, on so many levels. But the most disturbing . . . "You've secured a buyer for this painting? Before they've even seen it?"

To read the full first two chapters, click here:
http://www.tameraalexander.com/cmsdocuments/Alexander_LastingImpression_Ch1&2.pdf

About the author:

TAMERA ALEXANDER is a bestselling novelist whose works have been awarded or nominated for numerous honors, including the Christy Award, the RITA Award, and the Carol Award. After seventeen years in Colorado, Tamera and her husband have returned to their native South and live in Tennessee, where they enjoy spending time with their two grown children.

Website: http://www.tameraalexander.com

Blog: http://www.tameraalexander.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/tameraalexander

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/tameraalexander

Email: tameraalexander@ymail.com

A Lasting Impression is available at bookstores everywhere, on www.bethanyhouse.com, www.amazon.com, www.christianbook.com, and at your local Christian bookstore.

Copyright © 2011 by Tamera Alexander

ISBN 978-0764206221 Bethany House Publishers
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

The Loner's Thanksgiving Wish

2011-11-04T15:38:00.003-06:00

The Loner's Thanksgiving Wish

by Roxanne Rustand

The Rocky Mountain Heirs series

Harlequim Love Inspired Romance

Mei Clayton veered off the trail near the summit of Belle's Peak, found the edge of the cliff where she'd often picnicked as a teenager, and surveyed the panorama of rugged ranching country below.

To the west, shadowed by the massive, snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains, lay the distant, rustic cowboy town of Clayton, Colorado. Her hometown, named after a great grandfather she'd never met. The last place she wanted to be today, tomorrow or ever.

Especially for an entire, interminable year, though that's exactly what she had to do, thanks to a stipulation in her Grandpa George's will.

She would stay a year--but not one day more.

Mei and each of her five cousins all had to comply, or none would receive a single penny. And though Mei would have preferred to continue teaching in San Francisco, she just couldn't let the others lose out on the inheritance some of them badly needed.

Delaying her inevitable, awkward arrival, she'd parked along the highway to hike one of the easier trails in this part of the Rockies, just to savor one of the good memories she'd kept close to her heart during her years away.

Yet even up here, she hadn't found a sense of solitude and peace. The snow-dusted trail offered an easy climb and breath-taking vistas, and she'd already run into several other local hikers taking advantage of the unseasonably warm sunshine for the first weekend of November.

She'd hoped to do a little climbing and had brought her gear in a backpack. But the snow was deeper at this higher elevation, and she needed to turn back. Get in her car. And face her return to the town she'd so desperately wanted to leave as a teen.

Though it was her impending conversation with her widowed mother that truly had her stomach tying itself it a tight knot. How would Mom react when she heard the news about her son? Lucas had been in a few scrapes when he was a teenager, but nothing like this one.

At the sound of voices and the merry jingle of bear bells, she stopped at one side of the trail to let a pair of hikers pass.

One of them continued on, but the girl pulled to a stop. "Mei?"

At the soft, familiar voice, Mei looked up in surprise at the pretty teenager standing in front of her in a puffy pink down jacket and jeans. "Jasmine?"

The girl tucked a long strand of silky brown hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling. "What are you doing back in Colorado so soon? We didn't expect you until Christmas."

Warmed by the girl's obvious happiness, Mei felt some of her tension ease. "I...had a change of plans."

"Well, I think it's great you're here. Arabella has been looking forward to you living in town again, and now you'll be here in time for the wedding!"

"Whose?" Mei recalled her mother's last e-mail--a rare event in any case--that had mentioned the latest romance involving one of Mei's cousins, and smiled. "Arabella and Dr. Turner? Already?"

A flash of confusion crossed the girl's face. "Mine. You didn't hear about it?

"Yours?" Mei asked faintly. Jasmine had lived with Arabella for a couple years, and had graduated from high school this past spring. Maybe she was of legal age, but...

"We're getting married on Christmas Eve." Jasmine's smile widened as her hiking partner turned back to join her. "You remember Cade, right?"

"Cade Clayton?" A flood of memories rushed through Mei as she stared up at the handsome young man in a denim jacket and jeans looping an arm protectively around Jasmine's shoulders.

Oh, she remembered Cade, all right. Years ago, Cade's mother had married Mei's infamous cousin Charley.

Memories flooded back from the day when Mei was getting her hair trimmed at the Hair Today beauty salon, and Cade's mother happened to be sitting in the next chair.

Lorelai had freely admitted that she'd sought fame and fortune by marrying into the Clayton clan, but had picked the wrong branch of the family tree and definitely the wrong man.

She'd claimed that the only good thing that came out of that marriage was little Cade...but that she "was sure glad that at least her son Jack was no blood-kin to the Claytons."

Mei had been all ears, because at the time, she'd been in the throes of a long and futile high school crush on Jack--one of the more embarrassing points in her life.

Even after ten years, she felt a blush warm her cheeks. He'd been way out of her league. She'd known it from the start, but the humiliating whispers amongst her classmates about her foolish crush had been even more painful.

The last thing she'd wanted was to move back here, and she definitely didn't want to run into Cade's brother, ever again.

She could only hope that he'd moved far, far away.

* * *

The Loner's Thanksgiving Wish, by Roxanne Rustand

All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Visit www.roxannerustand.com for more information about the author, this book, and her other titles out in 2011.

The Loner's Thanksgiving Wish is now available in stores everywhere, and online at www.eharlequin.com, www.christianbook.com, www. Barnesandnoble.com. www.amazon.com, and other online retailers.

Christmas Gifts

2011-10-24T16:06:00.007-06:00

CHRISTMAS GIFTS

including Small Town Christmas

Love Inspired Duet - November 2011

Mini-Matchmakers And An Old Fashion Christmas

When the new second grade teacher, Amy Carroll, meets the precocious twin sisters, she knows she has her hands full, but when she learns they live on the street where she is staying with her grandmother and they have a single father who is handsome and needs help, Amy’s hands are beyond full. But Amy’s from Chicago and falling in love with a small town man is not part of her plan. Can God waylay Amy’s desire to return to the big city? Can Mike Russett open his heart to love?

Martin’s story contains strong characters and touching scenes - Romantic Times

Multi-award-winning novelist, Gail Gaymer Martin writes Christian fiction for Love Inspired and Barbour Publishing, where she was honored by Heartsong readers as their Favorite Author of 2008. Gail has forty-nine contracted novels with over three million books in print. She is the author of Writers Digest’s Writing the Christian Romance. Gail is a co-founder of American Christian Fiction Writers, a keynote speaker at churches, libraries and civic organizations and presents workshops at conference across the US. She was recently named one of the four best novelists in the Detroit area by CBS local news.

This duet novel also includes Brenda Minton's Her Christmas Cowboy

Available in all stores where books are sold

To Purchase online click link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product//0373877056?ie=UTF8&tag=novgaigaymar-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0373877056

Excerpt Chapter 1

“Mrs. Fredericks.” The office secretary leaned into the room. “Mr. Russet is here to see you.”

“The twins father.” A heavy sigh whisked the air. “Ask him to wait a moment.”

Amy took another step toward the door. No doubt the sigh signaled trouble.

“Please wait a moment, Miss Carroll. “The twins will be in your class. It might help you to meet the girls. They have a propensity for getting into trouble.” She motioned.

“They’re right across the hall in the cafeteria. It’ll give you a heads-up for Monday.”
Trouble. Amy swallowed. “I suppose that would be. . .practical.”

“Yes, and you’ll keep an eye on them while I talk with their father.” She chuckled and motioned her to follow.

Amy followed her across the hall and spotted the girls seated on each side of a cafeteria bench, cuter and sweeter looking than she’d imagined. Though not identical twins, their features were similar with bright Caribbean blue eyes.

The child with a tawny ponytail swung her legs over the bench. “It wasn’t me, Mrs. Fredericks.”

“Yes, it was.” The blonder twin slipped from her seat, her hair gathered into a ponytail on each side of her head. “Holly tore up my drawing in art class.”

“Please sit for a moment.” She gestured to the benches. “I want you to meet someone.”

They scrutinized Amy with a mix of speculation and determination. “Miss Carroll. This young lady is Holly.” She rested her hand on the one with honey brown hair and the deep frown. “And this is Ivy.”

Ivy gazed at her, curiosity written on her face.

Holly and Ivy? Amy wondered. She stepped closer. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Neither responded.

Mrs. Fredericks eyed them. “Miss Carroll will be your new teacher on Monday.”

Holly’s ponytail flipped as she swivelled toward Amy while Ivy stared at her wide-eyed.

“I’ll leave you with Miss Carroll, and you can have a nice talk.” She turned to Amy. “I’ll be back shortly.” She strode away but paused before exiting. “When I return, I’ll introduce you to the girl’s father. I’m sure you’d like that.”

“Our dad?” Two voices rang in unison.

Amy wasn’t sure she wanted her first parental contact to be with an irritated father, but she offered a nod. When she turned, the twins were peering at her again, Holly with her arms crossed at her chest and Ivy with her fist jammed into her waist.

She slipped around the end of the bench and sat at the table. Behind those sweet faces, Amy sensed sadness. She looked from one girl to the other. “What are you doing in the cafeteria.”

Holly looked away. “Mrs. Fredericks made us sit here.”

“Hmm?” Amy tapped her finger against her cheek. “I wonder why?”

Ivy bit her lip. “Kids who misbehave have to sit in here and wait.”

Holly’s frown deepened. “I didn’t do anything bad.”

Ivy pressed her face closer to Holly’s, her look searing through her sister. “You tore up my drawing.”

“But you said it wasn’t any good.”

Ivy fell back to her seat. “If I wanted to tear it up, I would have done it.”

“That’s right, Ivy.” Amy focused on Holly, monitoring her tone. “What kind of pictures were you drawing?”

Holly’s shoulders relaxed. “Pictures of Pilgrims and Indians for our social studies.”

Amy nodded. “For Thanksgiving.” Blending learning with fun was good classroom planning.

“Uh-huh, and. . .” A movement by the door caught her attention.

“Daddy.” The girls shot from the bench and ran to a harried looking man who stood inside the doorway, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

Amy’s heart gave a twinge. A five o’clock shadow encompassed his lean jaw, his chestnut hair tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it many times. His straight eyebrows stretched above his caramel brown eyes, flashing with emotion.

He rocked on his heels. “You must be Miss Carroll, the new teacher.” He strode toward her. “I’m the girls’ father, Mr. Russet. It’s nice to met you.” Frustration winked behind his pleasant grin.

Amy met him halfway while the twins hovered at his side. She dropped her palm into his, aware of his warm grip. “Good to meet you, too.”

Behind him Mrs. Fredericks grinned. “I’ll see you on Monday, Miss Carroll.” She gave her a wave and vanished.

When she looked back, the man studied her with curiosity. “I’m sure we’ve met.”

Amy drew back. “Met?”

“Years ago at Ellie Carroll on Lake Street.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Amy’s memory gave a tug.

“We live across the street.” The twins voices melded together.

“She stood bewildered.

His grin widened. “Maybe eleven years ago.”

“I don’t think so.” Yet a memory shimmered in her mind. “I was eighteen then.”

“I was twenty-three, working as a handyman.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll remember me as Mike.”

“Mike?” The recollection jarred her. “You dug out Grams old shrubbery and planted new ones.” She pictured him in the summer sun, his muscles flexing while his shirt hung on a deer ornament in the tree-sheltered yard.

“The same.”

Amy studied his face. His unruly hair hadn’t changed. She remembered how it ruffled in the breeze, his lean handsome face taut with concentration. She’d flirted with him. But when she went inside, her grandmother notified her he was newly married. Heat rose up Amy’s neck with the recollection. She hoped he didn’t remember she’d toyed with him.

Belonging

2011-10-19T12:44:00.004-06:00

BELONGING

Robin Lee Hatcher

"Belonging is vintage Robin Lee Hatcher: a touching, tender love story, filled with genuine conflict and characters that quietly build a nest in your heart. A skillful blend of description, emotion, and spiritual reflection, Belonging will sweep you away to late nineteenth-century Idaho, glad to have a seasoned novelist driving your buckboard wagon with a sure hand. By story's end you'll no doubt sigh with relief, smile with delight, and turn back to page one for a second visit with our determined Miss K. Loved it!"
— Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times best-selling author of Mine Is the Night

In the high desert town of Frenchman's Bluff, Idaho, Felicia Kristoffersen has set out to create a future for herself that is better than her painful past. Alone in the world with only her faith to sustain her, she must prove herself as this tiny community's new school teacher. She cannot, must not, fail. But there are those who never wanted her there to begin with. Five years after the death of his wife, local merchant Colin Murphy cares about just one thing: raising his daughter, Charity. Colin wants to give her the educational advantages he never had. The new schoolmarm's inexperience doesn't sit well with him, and if this teacher up and marries like the last one did, Charity's heart will be broken once again.

A woman who hasn't known love. A man who lost the love he had. In the midst of the wide, sage-covered plains, each is about to discover that life's bitterest circumstances truly can work together for good.

**********

Boise, Idaho, 1897

The journey by train from eastern Wyoming to western Idaho hadn't been a long one. Only a single night and a part of two days. Nonetheless, Felicia Brennan Kristoffersen felt bone-weary by the time she stepped from the passenger car onto the platform, where a hot August breeze tugged at the skirt of her black dress. She longed for a cool drink of water. But first she had to find Mr. Swanson, the president of the Frenchman's Bluff school board. He'd stated in his letter that he would be at the depot to meet her.

Whatever would she do if she couldn't find him, if he hadn't come for her after all? Her heart fluttered at the thought, but she quickly pushed the rising fear away. She wouldn't give in to it. Not even for a moment. She'd allowed too much fear into her heart through the years. Never more so than in recent months. But no more. God had not given her a spirit of fear.

Tightening her grip on the valise, she walked toward the doors leading into the station. Just as her hand reached to open it, she heard someone speak her name.

"Miss Kristoffersen?"

Relieved, she turned to face a short, squat man with generous white muttonchops and a friendly smile. "Yes, that's me. Are you Mr. Swanson?"

"Indeed I am. Have you been waiting long?"

"No. I disembarked only a few moments ago."

"Good. Good. And your luggage? I assume there's more than what you carry."

"Yes. I have a trunk." One trunk that held everything she owned in this world, although there was no need to tell him that.

"Why don't I take you to the wagon, and then I'll get it for you."

She nodded. "That's very kind."

Wordlessly, he held out his hand for her valise. She gave it to him and then followed him to the end of the platform, down a few steps, and around the side of the depot, where a buckboard pulled by two black horses awaited. Once there, Mr. Swanson dropped her valise into the wagon bed before helping her up to the seat.

"Be back directly, miss."

After Mr. Swanson disappeared inside the station, Felicia felt herself relax. Her journey was almost at an end. No catastrophe had befallen her. Soon she would be settled in a home of her own and could begin making a new life for herself. All would be well.

She sat a little straighter on the wagon seat and looked about. The terrain was similar to the area in Wyoming where she'd spent the past sixteen years—sagebrush and sand-colored earth in abundance—except Boise City had come to life along a river at the base of a pine-topped mountain range. That river now watered farms throughout the valley via a system of canals and creeks, bringing a lush green to land that was otherwise baked brown by the late summer sun.

"Right over there."

She turned to see Mr. Swanson walking toward the buckboard. Behind him was a porter pushing a cart that held her trunk. Thank goodness, for the heat was becoming unbearable, especially in her black gown and bonnet. She prayed it wasn't a long journey to Frenchman's Bluff.

Within minutes, Mr. Swanson had joined her on the wagon seat and the horses were turned away from the depot. They traveled east, leaving the city of Boise behind them. The road they followed was filled with ruts, and more than once Felicia wondered if her bones would be jarred from their sockets before they reached their destination.

"Folks are mighty excited that we'll have ourselves a schoolteacher again," Mr. Swanson said after a long period of silence.

Not for the first time, Felicia wondered how many other teachers had applied for the position before it was awarded to her. The salary was small, to be sure. It couldn't possibly support a man with a family. Which meant most, if not all, applicants would have been unmarried women like herself. Why the school board had chosen Felicia was nothing short of a miracle. An answer to prayer, surely.

But what did it matter why they'd offered her the position? She had employment, and she was out on her own. She'd even been promised a house to live in rather than having to board with a different family each month. Such a luxury. She would no longer be dependent on the whims of others. She wouldn't be responsible to anyone but herself and her God. And more important, she wouldn't have to deal with another member of the Kristoffersen family ever again.

"Like I told you in my letter," Mr. Swanson continued, drawing her thoughts back to the present, "we've been without a teacher since Miss Lucas moved away. Some of our womenfolk took over the instruction of the children as best they could to finish out the session, but the school needs a trained teacher. Right glad we found you when we did."

She offered the man a smile and a nod, but inside, turmoil erupted, as it often had since receiving the letter from Mr. Swanson, offering her the position. What if she failed as a teacher? It had been years since she'd completed her training. How would she support herself if she didn't succeed? For years she'd longed to leave the Kristoffersen homestead on the eastern plains of Wyoming, to experience a little bit of the world, but obligation had held her there. Now she had what she'd wanted, and she found herself scared half to death.

But could anything be worse than what I left behind?

She pictured Gunnar Kristoffersen, his face flushed. She heard his angry accusations and harsh demands. A shudder raced through her. No, it couldn't be worse. Whatever lay ahead of her had to be better than what she'd left behind.

**********

For more information about Robin and her books, please visit http://www.robinleehatcher.com. Belonging can be purchased at Christian Book (http://is.gd/9lHrdU), Amazon (http://is.gd/kbXGeP), and fine bookstores everywhere.

Copyright 2011 RobinSong, Inc. Do not reproduce without permission.

Lonestar Angel; The Lady'sMaid

2011-10-14T15:44:00.007-06:00

Lonestar Angel
By
Colleen Coble
Copyright 2011 © by Colleen Coble
ISBN: 1595542698

For Eden, hope is rekindled when her estranged husband delivers the astounding news: that their lost baby girl has been found.

Years ago Eden and Clay Larson's baby was stolen. Kidnappers demanded a ransom, but something went horribly wrong at the exchange: the kidnapper's car crashed into the river and was never recovered. Eden blamed herself, Clay lost himself in work. Their young and rocky marriage ended. Or so Eden thought. Now she and Clay must work together to reclaim their child—and their lost love—all while escaping the danger swirling around them at a remote ranch in Texas.

Excerpt from Chapter One

Silverware tinkled in the dimly lit dining room of Twenty, an upscale restaurant located inside a classy boutique hotel. Eden Larson smiled over the top of her glass of water at Kent Huston. His blue eyes were filled with intent tonight, and she had known what he had planned from the moment he suggested this place for dinner.

The piano player's voice rose above the music as he sang "Waiting for a Girl Like You." Kent had spoken that very phrase to her often in the year they'd been dating.

"Warm enough?" he asked.

"It's a perfect night."

"In every way," he agreed. "I want to—"

"Kent." She reached across the linen tablecloth and took his hand. "I need to tell you something."

Before he asked her to marry him, he needed to know what baggage she carried. She'd intended to tell him before now—long before. But every time she tried, the pain closed her throat.

Kent smiled. "Are you finally going to tell me what brought you to town? I don't really care, Eden. I'm just thankful you're here. I love you."

She wetted her lips. "Kent . . ." The sense of a presence behind her made her pause.

"Eden," a man said.

Her heart seized in her chest. She'd recognize the deep timbre anywhere. It haunted her dreams and its accusing tones punctuated her nightmares. The deep vibrancy of that voice would impress any woman before she ever saw him.

She turned slowly in her upholstered chair and stared up at Clay Larson, who stood under the crystal chandelier that was the centerpiece of the intimate dining room. "Clay."

How could he be here? He hadn't changed a bit. His hair was still just as black and curly. His dark blue eyes were just as arresting. And her pulse galloped the way it had the first time she'd set eyes on him.

"I need to talk to you," he said, stepping toward her. "It's important."

Oh, she should have told Kent before now. This was the wrong way for him to discover her past. He was beginning to frown as he glanced from her to Clay, whose broad shoulders and vibrant presence loomed over their table. Her pretend life vanished into mist. What had made her think she could escape the past?

"Who are you?" Kent said. "And what right do you have to interrupt a private conversation?"

"The right of a husband," Clay said, his gaze holding her.

"Ex-husband," she managed to say past the tightness of her throat.

"No, Eden. Husband." He held up a sheaf of papers in his right hand.

"What are those?"

"I never signed the divorce papers," he said quietly, just to her. "You're still married to me."

She heard Kent gasp in the silence as the song in the background came to an end. "That's impossible." She stared at Clay, unable to take in what he'd said. "We were divorced over five years ago."

"You sent the papers over five years ago," he corrected. "I just never signed them."

She stared at the blank signature line he showed her. Why had she never followed up? Because she'd been too busy running. "Why not?"

He shook his head. "I had my reasons. Right now, there's something more important to discuss."

"What could be more important?" she asked. Fingers clutched her arm and she turned her head and stared into Kent's face. "I . . . I'm so sorry, Kent. I was just about to tell you."

"Tell me that you're married?" Kent's eyes held confusion and hurt. "I don't understand."

She shook her head. "I'm divorced. Or at least I thought I was. I haven't seen Clay in five years."

Kent's frown smoothed out. "I think you'd better leave," he said to Clay. He scooted back in his chair.

She laid a hand on his arm. "Let me handle this," she said. Anger was beginning to replace her stupor and shock. "Why are you here, Clay?"

"Would you like to step outside so we can continue this in private?" Clay asked, glancing around the room.

Heat flamed in her cheeks when she saw the interested stares from the two nearby tables. "Just go away. We can talk tomorrow."

His firm lips flattened but he stayed where he was. "I've found Brianna, Eden. She's alive."

She struggled to breathe. She searched his face for the hint of a lie but saw only implacable certainty. She shook her head. "That's impossible. She's dead." She could almost smell the sweet scent of her lost baby, even though she'd been dead for five years.

Beside her, Kent jerked, his eyes wide. She half rose.

"I never believed it," Clay said. "Her body was never found so I kept looking. She's alive, Eden."

She studied his expression. He returned her stare. His face was full of conviction, and she felt a tiny flutter that might be hope begin to stir. "You're serious?"

"I know she's alive. I can't retrieve her alone. I need you to come with me."

"How do you know these things? I don't understand anything."

"I'll explain all of it. But come with me now."

She wanted to believe him, but it was impossible. "I need to talk to Kent first," she said.

"I'll wait outside your apartment."

"How do you know where I live?"

"I know everything about you. I always have." He strode away through a gauntlet of interested stares.

Lonestar Angel is available at bookstores everywhere.
http://www.amazon.com/Lonestar-Angel-Colleen-Coble/dp/1595542698/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316049014&sr=1-13

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http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lonestar-angel-colleen-coble/1104272533

Visit Colleen's website at http://www.colleencoble.com/.

* * *

The Lady's Maid

By Susan Page Davis

The Lady's Maid is Susan Page Davis's new book from Barbour Publishing. It's first in her new Prairie Dreams historical romance series. Elise Finster accompanies her young British mistress, Lady Anne Stone, on a voyage to America in 1855. Lady Anne's father has died, and her Uncle David is the new Earl of Stoneford—if he steps forward and claims the title. But David disappeared into the American West when Anne was a baby. Now it's up to her and Elise to find him. They join a wagon train in Independence, Missouri, not realizing they're leading a killer straight to David.

Reviewer Patsy Glans says in the October 2011 issue of Romantic Times Book Reviews: "Davis hits a grand slam with her new historical romance series, Prairie Dreams, which has romance and mystery, with some thrills thrown in. The characters are well rounded and the hero has grit and determination."

An excerpt from The Lady's Maid:

January, 1855--Stoneford, near London

"Come with me, Elise. I can't face him alone."

Lady Anne gripped her hand so hard that Elise Finster winced. She would do anything to make this day easier for her young mistress.

"Of course, my lady, if they'll let me."

The two walked down the sweeping staircase together, their silk skirts swishing and the hems of their crinolines nudging each other. Lady Anne kept her hold on Elise's hand until they reached the high-ceilinged hall below.

Elise paused at the doorway to the morning room and looked at her mistress. Lady Anne said nothing, but straightened her shoulders. A pang of sympathy lanced Elise's heart, but she couldn't bear this burden in the young woman's place. Anne Stone had to face the future herself.

"Good day, ladies." Andrew Conrad, the Stone family's aging solicitor, leaped to his feet from the velvet-upholstered sofa and bowed. "Lady Anne, you look charming. Miss Finster."

Elise murmured, "Hello, sir," while Lady Anne allowed Conrad to take her hand and bow over it.

From near the window, a tall, angular man walked forward—Anne's second cousin, Randolph Stone. Ten years older than Anne, the studious man lived in a modest country home with his wife and two young children and eked out a living on the interest of his father's meager fortune. Elise gritted her teeth, a reaction he always induced in her. With great effort, she had managed to keep Lady Anne from guessing how much she loathed Randolph.

"Anne." Stone took his cousin's hand and kissed it perfunctorily. He nodded in Elise's direction but didn't greet her.

"Randolph. I didn't expect to see you here." Lady Anne arched her delicate eyebrows at the solicitor.

"Mr. Stone had some questions, and I thought that if he came with me today, I could explain the situation to both of you at once."

Lady Anne said nothing for a long moment, then nodded.

"Er, if it pleases you, my lady, this is confidential business." Conrad shot a meaningful glance Elise's way.

Elise felt her face flush, but held her ground. She wouldn't leave until Lady Anne told her plainly to do so. Besides, he'd brought along an extra person. Why shouldn't Lady Anne have that right as well?

"I would like Elise to stay." The lady smiled, but with a firmness to her jaw befitting the daughter of an earl.

Conrad nodded. "As you wish. Shall we begin, then?"

Lady Anne sat on the upholstered Hepplewhite settee and signaled for Elise to sit beside her. Elise arranged her voluminous skirt and lowered herself, avoiding the direct gaze of Randolph Stone. He didn't care for her, either, and Elise knew exactly why, but she didn't believe in letting past discord interfere with the future.

"You must have news," Lady Anne said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have come."

"That is astute of you, my lady." Conrad reached inside his coat and brought out an envelope. "I've had news that is not really news at all from America."

"America?" Lady Anne's tone changed, and she tensed. "Is it my uncle David?"

Conrad sighed and carefully extracted a sheet of coarse rag paper from the envelope. "You are aware, dear lady, that I sent letters the week after your father died, hoping to locate your uncle—that is, David Stone."

"Earl of Stoneford," Lady Anne said gently.

"Yes, well, that's the point, isn't it?" Conrad sounded tired and the tiniest bit cross, as though he hated being beaten by the Atlantic Ocean and the American postal system. "If your uncle were alive, and if he were here, he would inherit your father's estate and be acknowledged as Earl of Stoneford, it's true. But after three months of dilly-dallying, all we have is a letter from the postmaster in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S. of A., declaring that while a Mr. David Stone did reside in the city some ten to fifteen years ago and apparently ran a business at that time, no one by the name of David Stone has been found living there now."

Anne's shoulders sagged. "Surely they're mistaken. The last word we had from him came from there."

Conrad shook his head. "I'm afraid we've reached the end of our resources, my lady. I had that letter a couple of weeks ago stating that the city had no death record for your uncle."

"That was a relief," Lady Anne said.

"Yes, but all it tells us is that he did not die in St. Louis. Now, the courts agree on the procedure. The trustees will continue managing your father's estate, but the peerage will remain dormant until your uncle is either found or proven to be deceased."

Lady Anne stirred. "And why is Randolph here?"

Conrad sighed. "You cousin is next in the line of succession, provided David Stone is proven dead and does not have a male heir. However, it is my duty to tell you both that those things may be impossible to prove."

"And the title will stay dormant and the estate unclaimed for how long?"

"As long as it takes." Conrad brought out a handkerchief and patted at his dewy brow. "There are titles that have been dormant for decades—one for more than a hundred years. It will probably never be claimed."

"But the estate, the property—"

"The crown may decide to dispose of it in time."

"Surely not, if Uncle David is still out there."

"The trustees will not spend your father's fortune in an attempt to find his heir. If you or Mr. Randolph Stone wants to spend your own money trying, that is your affair."

The Lady's Maid, copyright 2011 by Susan Page Davis, published by Moody Publishers. All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Visit Susan's website at: www.susanpagedavis.com

The Lady's Maid is available now in stores or online through:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/161626439X/suspagdav-20

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Building a Family

2011-10-06T14:58:00.005-06:00

Lawyer Eleanor Washburn defends wayward teenagers and supervises volunteers for Habitat for Humanity without missing a beat. But she is unnerved by fascinating single dad Pete Beck—especially since his chaotic life includes a little girl wishing for a mother. Sweet Cassie has Eleanor yearning for what's been missing from her lonely existence. Soon, both dad and daughter are chipping away at Eleanor's defenses. Can she find the courage to risk losing her heart to this ready-made family?

Lyn Cote
2011 ACFW Carol Winner for Her Healing Ways
http://www.BooksbyLynCote.com

For the latest Christian Fiction Market Update

http://www.booksbylyncote.com/publishers.html

Shadw in Serenity; Valley of Dreams

2011-10-01T15:11:00.006-06:00

Shadow in Serenity

By Terri Blackstock

(Zondervan)

Blackstock is a masterful writer; highly recommend this excellent title to fiction fans--Christian Retailing Magazine

Carny Sullivan knows a con artist when she sees one, and she's seen plenty, since she used to be one. But Logan Brisco is the smoothest fraud Serenity, Texas has ever seen. From his Italian shoes to his movie-star smile, he has them snowed. Carny's the only one in town who has his number, and if it's the last thing she ever does, she's going to expose him. But is she really a match for him?

Chapter 1

Logan Brisco had the people of Serenity, Texas, eating out of his hand, and that was just where he wanted them.

He worked hard to cultivate the smile of a traveling evangelist, the confidence of a busy capitalist, the secrecy of a government spy, and the charisma of a pied piper. No one in town knew where he'd come from or why he was there, and he wasn't talking. But he made sure they knew he was on a mission, and that it was something big.

From the moment he drove his Navigator in, wearing his thousand-dollar suit and Italian shoes, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, tongues began wagging. The most prevalent rumor was that Logan Brisco was a movie producer scouting talent for his latest picture. But the weekly patrons of the Clippety Doo Dah Salon were sure he was a billionaire-in-hiding, looking for a wife. And the men at Slade Hampton's Barbershop buzzed about the money he was likely to invest in the community.

Two days after he arrived, the UPS man delivered two large boxes marked "Fragile" and addressed to "Brisco, c/o The Welcome Inn." One of the boxes had the return address of a prominent bank in Dallas. The other was marked Hollywood, California. The gossip grew more frenzied.

For two weeks, he talked to the people of the town, ate in its restaurants, shopped in its stores, bonded with its men, flirted with its women. As soon as speculation peaked, Logan would be ready to go in for the kill.

This one might be his biggest score yet.

The next step would be to hold one of his seminars, the kind where people came in with bundles of cash and left with empty pockets and heads full of dreams. That was what he was best at. Building dreams and taking money.

On his second Saturday in town—which consisted mostly of four streets of shops, offices, and restaurants—the sun shone brightly after a week of rain. It was the day Serenity's citizens filled the streets, catching up on errands and chores. Perfect.

His first stop that morning was at Peabody's Print Shop, where yesterday he had talked Julia Peabody into printing a thousand fliers for him on credit. "I'm not authorized to spend money on this project without the signatures of my major investors," he'd told her in a conspiratorial voice. "Can you just bill me at the Welcome Inn?"

Julia, the pretty daughter of the print shop owner, glanced over her shoulder to see if her father was near. "Well, we're not supposed to give credit, Mr. Brisco."

"Logan, please," he said, leaning on the counter.

"Logan," she said, blushing. "I mean … couldn't you just write a check or use a credit card and let your investors pay you back?"

"I'm in the process of opening a bank account here," he said with the hint of a grin sparkling in his eyes. "Thing is, I opened it yesterday, but they told me not to write any checks on it until my money is transferred from my Dallas bank. Now, if I were to write you a check and ask you to hold it, that would be exactly the same thing as your giving me credit, wouldn't it?"

"Well, yes, I guess it would," she said.

He smiled and paused for a moment, as though he'd lost his train of thought. "You know, they sure do grow the women pretty in Serenity."

Julia breathed a laugh and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Logan said. "I changed the subject, didn't I?"

"That's okay."

"So … would you prefer a postdated check or credit?" While she was thinking it over, he dropped the timbre of his voice and said, "By the way, are you planning to be at the bingo hall tomorrow night?"

"I think so."

"Good," he said. "I was hoping you would."

Flustered, she had taken his order. "All right, Logan, I'll give you credit. You don't look like the type who would make me sorry."

"Just look into these eyes, Julia. Tell me you don't see pure, grade-A honesty."

Today, when he went back in to pick up the fliers, he turned the charm up a notch. "Not only are you the prettiest girl in Serenity, but you're the most talented too. These are excellent fliers."

Julia giggled and touched her hair. "Uh, Logan … I meant to ask you … what project is it that you're working on? I looked all over it, but the flier didn't say."

He shot her a you-devil grin and brought his index finger to his lips. "I can't tell you before I tell the rest of the townsfolk, now can I? It wouldn't be fair to cut you in before anybody else has had a chance."

"Oh, I wouldn't tell anyone," she promised. "Discretion is my middle name. Secrets come through this shop all the time, and I never say a word. Politicians, clergymen, what-not. Everybody in town knows they can trust me."

Chuckling, he handed her back one of the fliers. "Come to the bingo hall early tonight, and you'll hear everything you want to know. Now don't forget to send me that bill."

With a wink he was out the door, leaving her staring after him with a wistful look.

Stepping out into the cool sunlight of the May day, he looked down at the box of fliers. It shouldn't be hard to pass all of them out by tonight. And having the seminar at the bingo hall in the town's community center was a stroke of genius. That place drew hundreds of people on Saturday nights, and tonight they would just come a couple of hours early to hear him. By tomorrow, he'd be riding high.

He would hit the hardware store next, since it seemed inordinately busy today. Easy marks there—he'd hook every one of them.

He stopped, waited for a car to pass, then started to dart across the street. The sound of a Harley hog stopped him. It growled its warning as it tore its way up the street, breaking the relative quiet that he had come to associate with the town. He stepped back when it passed, but as its wheel cut through a puddle, it splashed mud onto the shins of his pants.

"Hey!" he yelled. The driver apparently didn't hear. Logan stared after the bike, which carried a woman and a little boy. The petite biker's shoulder-length blonde hair stuck out from under her tangerine helmet, softening the impression created by the powerful bike. As she went up the street, people looked her way and waved, apparently pleased to see her rather than annoyed at the disruption.

Terri Blackstock's Web Site: http://www.terriblackstock.co m

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/tblackstock

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com

Email: terri@terriblackstock.com

To purchase from the store of your choice or for more info, go to http://www.terriblackstock.com/books/stand-alone-books

* * *

Valley of Dreams

By Lauraine Snelling

In the first book of Lauraine's Wild West series, Cassie Lockwood is alone in this world, except for the performers of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show. When the show goes bankrupt, she decides to look for the valley, her father always spoke about. But she has only one clue-three huge stones that resemble fingers on a giant hand. With Chief, a Sioux Indian, who's been with the show for twenty years and Micah, the head wrangler she sets out on a wild and daring adventure to find her father's Valley of Dreams.

Who am I, daughter of the wind,

The wind that brings rain,

The wind that brings life?

I am she who breathes deep of that wind,

Drinks until full of the rain,

Lives so that others

Yearn for the wind.

"Just get through today," Cassie told herself, as she did every October first.

As far as she could figure, hard work was the only antidote to the grief that threatened to paralyze her. So far, on this day that had started, as every day, before dawn, she had given her trick-riding pinto, Wind Dancer, a bath, brushed him dry, and made sure not one tangle remained in his black-and-white mane and tail. She had cleaned and polished his hooves and would have brushed his teeth, if that were possible.

Her tent on the grounds of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show would meet military standards for order and cleanliness, the supplies in her trunk all folded or placed precisely. Her guns gleamed from polishing; no trace of gunpowder or dust would dare adhere to stocks or barrels. All were wrapped in cotton cloths and returned to their cases.

If George had allowed it, she would have scrubbed him too, but while the ancient buffalo bull enjoyed a good grooming, he didn't care for bathing. Even Cassie knew better than to push her friend too far. Her dog, Othello, on the other hand, had been scrubbed to the point of nearly losing his wiry hair—and his dignity. While he stayed near her in the corral, he kept his head turned the other way.

It was only three o'clock. If there had been a show today, she could have handled the memories better. Digging into the grooming bucket, she pulled out a carrot and fed it to George. The crunching brought Othello over to sit by the bucket, hinting that he'd like one too but was too miffed to ask.

Would the tears never cease? Such was the case every year, no matter how hard she fought to control her emotions. All the other performers had learned to leave her alone if they didn't want to lose their head.

Her mother and father had both died on October first, five years apart. For Cassie Lockwood, at age ten, losing her mother had taken the light from her world, but when she was fifteen and her father died, her life nearly went with him. Each of the five years since, she had struggled through this day of memory, praying for peace and comfort, feeling that God had left her right along with her parents.

George nudged her with his broad black nose, so she petted him some more too. Safe between her three animal friends, she wiped her eyes on her shirttail before tucking it back into the waistband of her britches. With her mother no longer around to force her into the niceties of womanhood, Cassie wore pants to work around the animals. As the star of the show with her trick riding and shooting, she pretty much did as she pleased, but when she entered the arena, she was all professional. Her mother and father, who headlined before her, had taught her well.

"Miss Cassie." Micah—he never had given a last name—waited patiently for her outside the corral.

"I'll be along soon."

"You are all right now?" While slow of speech and movement, Micah had a way with animals that bordered on legendary.

"Yes, thank you." Or at least I soon will be.

"The supper bell rang."

Really? I didn't even hear it. "Long ago?"

"Food will be gone soon. You hungry?"

Cassie thought a moment. Yes. That rumbling in her belly was most likely hunger now that the pain of grief had retired to await another vulnerable time. "I guess. You know what's for supper?"

"Smells like pork chops."

Othello whined, so Micah dropped a hand down to the dog's head. "I'll save you my bones. Don't worry."

October was usually the final month of the show season before they headed south to winter in warmer weather. When her father ran the show, they did enough gigs in the winter season to keep all of the cast and crew employed. Not so with Jason Talbot, her father's former partner and Uncle Jason to her, an honorary title for the family friend she'd known all her life. He'd promised both her and her father that he would see to Cassie's care as long as she needed him.

"Something strange going on." Micah held back the flap for her to enter the cook tent ahead of him.

"I know." But what? Cassie thought back as she returned greetings, making sure she smiled to let her friends know she was all right. When had she first sensed the feeling?

"John Henry is back."

"Good thing." Cassie grinned and headed for the serving line. John Henry had left the troupe to return home for a few days to bury his father. His second in command could make good soups, but the quality slipped on other entrees.

With their trays full, Cassie and her cohort made their way back to the table without incident, but several conversations had hushed as they passed. Folks always thought she belonged more on the management side, a slight cut above the performers. She might call him Uncle Jason, but the man had never shared business information with her, still thinking of her as that cute little pigtailed girl who used to sit on his knee. At least that was Cassie's take on things.

Halfway through her meal, weariness rolled over her like a huge wave, leaving her foundering in the backwash. She set the remainder of her plate on the ground for Othello, bid the others good-night, and headed for her tent. Tomorrow would be a show day, a better day for sure. So why was she so anxious?

To purchase this book visit www.LauraineSnelling.com, www.bethanyhouse.com, www.christianbook.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, www.amazon.com or your favorite bookstore. Do Not Reproduce without permission of Baker Publishing.

Captive Trail; Attracted to Fire

2011-09-27T14:31:00.006-06:00

Captive Trail

By Susan Page Davis

Captive Trail is Susan Page Davis's new book from Moody Publishers. It's part of the Texas Trails series, for which authors Vickie McDonough and Darlene Franklin are also contributing books set in different decades in Texas.

Award-winning author Loree Lough says, "Susan Page Davis's Captive Trail is a wonderfully descriptive tale that will lure you in on page one and not let go until you've read The End. Escape and freedom, courage and faith, and the sometimes fearsome beauty of the wild Texas landscape combine for a fast-paced, spirit-filled read. Make space on your Keepers shelf for this one!"

An excerpt from Captive Trail:

Chapter One

Plains of North Central Texas, 1857

Faster. Taabe Waipu had to go faster, or she would never get down from the high plains, down to the hill country and beyond. South, ever south and east.

Clinging to the horse, she let him run. The land looked flat all around, though it was riddled with ravines and folds. She could no longer see any familiar landmarks. The moon and stars had guided her for two nights, and now the rising sun told her which way to go on her second day of flight. She'd snatched only brief periods of rest. At her urging the horse galloped on, down and up the dips and hollows of the land.

Taabe didn't know where the next water supply lay. The only thing she knew was that she must outrun the Numinu—Comanche, their enemies called them. No one traveled these plains without their permission. Those who tried didn't make it out again. She glanced over her shoulder in the gray dawn. As far as she could see, no one followed, but she couldn't stop. They were back there, somewhere. She urged the horse on toward the southeast.

South to the rolling grasslands where the white men had their ranches. Where Peca and the other men often went to raid. Where Taabe was born.

The compact paint stallion ran smoothly beneath her, but as the sun rose and cast her shadow long over the Llano Estacado, his breath became labored, his stride shorter. Where her legs hugged his sleek sides, her leggings dampened with his sweat. He was a good horse, this wiry paint that Peca had left outside her sister's tepee. Without him she wouldn't have gotten this far. But no horse could run forever.

Taabe slowed him to a trot but didn't dare rest. Not yet.

Another look behind.

No one.

Would she recognize the house she'd once lived in? She didn't think so, but she imagined a big earthen lodge, not a tepee. Or was it a cabin made of logs? That life was a shadow world in her mind now. Fences. The warriors talked about the fences built by the white men, around their gardens and their houses. She thought she recalled climbing a fence made of long poles and sitting on the top. When she saw fences, she would know she was close.

At last she came to a shallow stream, sliding between rocks and fallen trees. It burbled languidly where it split around a boulder. She let the horse wade in and bend down to drink.

Taabe stayed on his back while he drank in long, eager gulps, keeping watch over the way they'd come. She needed to find a sheltered place where the horse could graze and rest. Did she dare stop for a while? She studied the trail behind her then took her near-empty water skin from around her neck. Leaning over the paint's side, she dangled it by its thong in the water on the horse's upstream side. She wouldn't dismount to fill it properly, but she could stay in the saddle and scoop up a little. She straightened and checked the trail again. The horse took a step and continued to drink.

She stroked his withers, warm and smooth. With a wry smile, she remembered the bride price Peca had left. Six horses staked out before the tepee. A stallion and five mares—pretty mares. Healthy, strong mounts. But only six.

The stallion raised his head at last and waded across the stream without her urging. They settled into a steady trot. Tomorrow or the next day or the next, she would come to a land with many trees and rivers. And many houses of the whites.

Would she have stayed if Peca had left twenty horses? Fifty?

Not for a thousand horses would she have stayed in the village and married Peca—or any other warrior. Staying would make it impossible for her ever to go back to that other world—the world to the south.

Eagerness filled her, squeezing out her fear. She dug her heels into the stallion's ribs. Whatever awaited her, she rushed to meet it.

The paint lunged forward and down. His right front hoof sank, and he didn't stop falling. Taabe tried to brace herself, too late. The horse's body continued to fly up and around. She hurtled off to the side and tucked her head.

Visit Susan's website at: www.susanpagedavis.com

Captive Trail is available now in stores or online through:

Christian Book Distributors: http://www.christianbook.com/captive-trail-susan-davis/9780802405845/pd/405845?item_code=WW&netp_id=892812&event=ESRCN&view=details

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0802405843/suspagdav-20

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/captive-trail?store=book

Books-A-Million: http://www.booksamillion.com/product/9780802405845?id=4988325581053

* * *

Attracted to Fire
DiAnn Mills

This masterfully crafted suspense novel immediately hooks the reader…a real page turner. – Booklist

Christy winner and prolific author Mills braids together romance and suspense in a compelling narrative about a young woman caught in the crosshairs of political ambition. Special Agent Meghan Connors's dreams of protecting the president become tainted by the vicious evil that overtakes those in power. Reeling from her own painful loss and head spinning from a new love that clouds her professional vision, Meghan must team up with Lindsay Hall, the daughter of the vice president of the United States, to uncover a conspiracy that's leaving a growing swath of death and destruction. But can she trust Agent Ash Zinders and the other agents? Is there someone on the inside who wants Lindsay dead? Taking place mainly in one locale—a West Texas ranch owned by the Halls—this stand-alone will delight and draw readers of Christian romantic suspense like moths to flame. Readers who prefer a slower paced, single-setting, focused character-building story to one that rushes headlong across international borders will be suitably "attracted." - Publisher's Weekly

CHAPTER 1

Washington, DC

"If he doesn't muzzle his daughter, he's going to lose the presidential nomination."

Special Agent Meghan Connors cringed at the TV anchor's analysis of Vice President Hall's campaign, even though the statement rang with validity.

"Although early popularity polls indicated Hall to be a strong contender for the presidential race, his ratings are dropping daily." The blonde reporting the news gave the camera a tilt of her head. "We are currently waiting for a statement from his office regarding Lindsay Hall's appearance on The Barry Knight Show last evening, where she made the following statement, 'My father is a poor excuse for the office of President of the United States.'"

The screen flashed a clip of Lindsay Hall sporting cleavage and lots of leg.

"And she's our new assignment?" Special Agent Bob Lawson eased back in his chair and stuck his thumbs inside his pants pockets. "I've heard she swears like a convict. Smacked a couple of agents in the face."

Meghan kept her opinions in check. She focused on the TV mounted in the corner of the coffee shop, the one located not far from the White House. Thank goodness the shop was empty except for the barista moving to whatever was playing on his iPod.

The news anchor continued her report. "Take a look at Lindsay Hall's escapade three nights ago." The screen reverted to footage taken in a local nightclub. Lindsay toasted the camera with a bottle of beer. Clearly inebriated, she sat in a booth enjoying media attention. The news anchor shook her head with a smile, an obvious display of her political preference. "Many are asking, 'If Vice President Hall cannot control his daughter, how can he effectively run our country?'"

Ouch. That nailed the situation. Meghan wrapped her fingers around the loop of her coffee cup and walked out onto a patio filled with umbrella tables and chairs. A steady mist filled the afternoon heat with humidity. She needed to focus on her new assignment—and the challenges ahead. Protecting the VP's daughter was supposed to be a promotion. If she failed, this could mean a permanent stall in her career.

Sensing Bob standing beside her, she turned to give him her views about their situation. "We're made of better stuff than the agents dismissed from Lindsay's protection team."

"I keep telling myself that."

"They let her manipulate them. Plain and simple."

"But we're not babysitters. We're Special Agents for the Secret Service."

Meghan didn't know the agents who'd been reassigned as a result of Lindsay's latest antics, but Bob had called them friends. She took a sip of her strong coffee, ignoring the raindrops gaining momentum. "Escorting her to the TV station and not informing the vice president was poor judgment. Her statements severely damaged the VP's image. Maybe even his chances of securing the party's nomination."

"Everything she says and does chips at his ability to lead the country. The Barry Knight Show and that entire TV network are out to crucify him and the party."

"So we're back to our assignment." Meghan stepped under the coffee shop's canopy to avoid the rain. "I'm committed to protecting her, and I know you are too."

"I have to be." Bob set his cup on an empty table. "Taking a bullet for her would qualify as above and beyond . . . ." He pressed his lips. "But that's what we do. Right? Can't let personal opinions get in the way of duty."

"Absolutely, and I'm sure there are plans to curb her actions. In fact—" Her phone rang, and she reached inside her shoulder bag. A quick glimpse told her it was Supervisor Tom Warrington from the Secret Service office.

"Bob there with you?"

"Yes sir."

"I need both of you in my office at 1400. Ash Zinders, the SAIC for this assignment, needs to brief you and the other agents assigned to the protectee."

Meghan slipped her phone back into her shoulder bag and relayed the information.

Bob whistled. "Good old A2Z isn't wasting any time."

The nickname for the Special Agent in Charge assigned to Lindsay Hall's protection detail wasn't a title any agent would say to his face. He was known for his obsession with detail and his domineering personality. Meghan hadn't met the agent, and she didn't look forward to his browbeating.

"It really bothers me that she now has six agents protecting her when any other VP family member has three." Bob pulled a dollar from his wallet and anchored it beneath his cup. "Did I say I regret accepting this assignment? Hasn't been two hours since the call."

"There's a reason, Bob. We were chosen because the VP needed agents who could get the job done. But I question the number of us, too, and what it means."

The potential to fulfill her dreams, the circumstances surrounding Lindsay Hall's unpredictable behavior, and the nightmare of working under Ash Zinders had Meghan wondering if the challenges ahead would be worth it.

Available at fine bookstores everywhere

I love Facebook and all the advantages of having wonderful friends like you. We have book launch parties, contests, and lots of fun keeping in touch. Please "like" my author page now - facebook.com/diannmills

DiAnn

Expect an Adventure

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Love Finds You on Christmas Morning

2011-09-23T11:03:00.003-06:00

Bio: Award-winning novelist Trish Perry has written nine inspirational romances for Harvest House Publishers, Summerside Press, and Barbour Publishing, as well as two devotionals for Summerside Press. She has served as a columnist and as a newsletter editor over the years, as well as a 1980s stockbroker and a board member of the Capital Christian Writers organization in Washington, D.C. She holds a degree in Psychology.

Trish just released Love Finds You on Christmas Morning, written with Debby Mayne. Her nostalgic romance novel, Unforgettable (Summerside Press), released in March and Tea for Two, Book Two in her Millicent's Tea Shop series (Harvest House), released in April. She invites you to visit her at www.TrishPerry.com

About the book: Love finds a home on Christmas morning in two heartwarming holiday stories.

Deck the Halls (Debby Mayne): In 1925, the wealthy William Tronnier becomes smitten with the lovely but penniless Lillian Pickard. Not one to give up easily, William pursues Lillian even though she does everything in her power to resist falling in love with a man from a completely different social class. As Christmas descends on the picturesque town of Cary, North Carolina, William plans to make Lillian a proposal she can't refuse.

Tis the Season (Trish Perry): When personal chef Nikki Tronnier moves back home to Cary, North Carolina, she plans to fulfill a lifelong dream and buy back the family home built by her great-grandfather for his bride. But before she is able to make an offer, someone else buys the house. Just as she prepares for a fight, she learns that the very person who stole her dream is the man who has also stolen her heart. Unaware, handsome new owner, Drew Cornell, seeks Nikki's help in restoring the home to its historic beauty in time for Christmas.

Online purchase links:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Finds-You-Christmas-Morning/dp/1609361938/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316190442&sr=1-1

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/love-finds-you-on-christmas-morning-to-be-decided/1101376108?ean=9781609361938&itm=1&usri=love%2bfinds%2byou%2bon%2bchristmas%2bmorning

CBD: http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?event=AFF&p=1155087&item_no=361938

Please let me know if you need any more info! Thanks,

Trish

www.trishperry.com
LFY on Christmas Morning, Tea for Two, and more

To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

2011-09-20T15:25:00.005-06:00

To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

Sandra Byrd

"...this stunning novel ...reexamines Boleyn's life from her beginnings to her rise and eventual fall in the Tudor court. Byrd's novel adds a depth to the character of Anne Boleyn that is often missing in other novels, and she brings the history to life in exquisite detail. Readers might indeed find themselves sympathizing with the young queen. Highly recommended for fans of Philippa Gregory. "

Library Journal,
Starred Review

To Die For, is the story of Meg Wyatt, pledged forever as the best friend to Anne Boleyn since their childhoods on neighboring manors in Kent. When Anne's star begins to ascend, of course she takes her best friend Meg along for the ride. Life in the court of Henry VIII is thrilling at first, but as Anne's favor rises and falls, so does Meg's. And though she's pledged her loyalty to Anne no matter what the test, Meg just might lose her greatest love—and her own life—because of it.

Prologue

Year of Our Lord 1536

There are many ways to arrive at the Tower of London though there are few ways out. Kings and Queens ride in before a coronation, retinue trailing like a train of ermine. Prisoners, however, arrive on foot, shoved through one cavernous gate or another by the wardens who live, as all do, at the mercy of a merciless king. Some unfortunate few are delivered to the Tower by water.
—
The Thames lapped against our boat as it stopped to allow for the entry to be raised.

Chapter One

Year of Our Lord 1518

Allington Castle, Kent, England

"Come with me," I whispered to Anne. She turned to look at her older sister, Mary, busy flirting with my tutors – forbidden, and therefore enticing, conquests. After assessing the safety of our escape Anne turned back to me and nodded, yes. She was up for an adventure as I knew she would be. Rose Ogilvy sat in the corner, carefully plying her needle in and out of a stretch of muslin. She was seventeen years old, same as Anne and me, but I knew she would shy away from this particular exploit, any particular exploit, in fact. To save her embarrassment I didn't ask her along.

We slipped out the door, gathered the layers of skirts in our hands and then raced down the long stone hallway. Recently painted portraits of my Wyatt ancestors were awkwardly affixed to the walls. When he bought the castle, my father, Henry Wyatt, had placed them there to make our family seem more ancient and noble than it was. We were not exactly pretenders, but not exactly of Norman blood, either. They stared down at me, ill at ease, smiths and butchers and small time landowners now forced into velvets and ruffs within a span of time no broader than the width of my hand. And yet we were gentry now. My father expected me to act like the lady he'd suffered to make me be.

We slid out the main entrance, one or two servants catching my eye and warning me back inside with a stern look. "No, Mistress Meg," one urged me. I disregarded them. They knew what might lie ahead for me – they'd borne the same fate, maybe worse. But I refused to be intimidated.

Anne and I linked arms and strolled toward the rows of unattended garden. Just beyond, on the neatly clipped field, our brothers play-jousted with long branches though all were training for real jousts as well. As we strolled by my brother Thomas stopped, dipped into a bow and flourished his hat in our direction. "What a polite young man," Anne said. "Mayhap you'll notice, my brother George isn't tipping his hat toward me."

I grinned. "My brother isn't tipping his hat toward me, either. He'd as soon ignore me as do me good. It's you he's trying to impress, as well you know." A light flush of pleasure spread up Anne's long neck and a little cat-like mewl escaped her lips. She fully realized the affect she'd begun to have on men. Whilst she didn't court their praise, false modesty was not her besetting sin, either.

"I see another bow and this one is particularly in your direction," she said. I looked up and saw Will Ogilvy.

A year older than I, Will's brown hair was long and tousled, his face slightly reddened from the joust. I couldn't help but notice that his arms and chest had thickened over the summer as he grew from a gangly boy into an assured young man. Even from this distance I could see his eyes had the same merry twinkle for me that they'd always had. I nodded primly in his direction – after all, I was a lady, and we were in mixed company. He winked at me.

A wink! The audacity. Who else saw it?

"Mayhap Lord Ogilvy's son should come out of the field. He seems to have dust in his eye," Anne teased. I turned toward her and grinned, thankful for her faithful friendship. She never trained her charm on Will. She knew I planned to have him for myself.

Rewardingly, he seemed completely uninterested in Anne, too.

We sat in the gardens, enveloped in the haze of the exotic scent of my mother's jasmine plants, gossiping about overheard conversations between Anne's ambassador father and high-born mother; they had sent Anne and her sister Mary to apprentice at the French court when the Princess Mary married some years back and they were to return, shortly, after this visit home with their father. We talked about my sister, Alice who had borne yet another child. I would soon go to stay with her for a few months, if my father allowed it. But as Alice was an obedient girl, marrying young and bearing quickly my father favored nearly every request she made. Alas, the same could not be said for me.

"We've got new horses." I finally got the conversation around to its planned target. "My father's horse master brought them `round last week."

"Ooh," Anne said. "Are they fast?"

"I don't know…" I answered. We'd prided ourselves, unseemly, I suppose, on riding as fast and as well as any boy in our group.

"Should we see?" she asked me, as I knew she would. For me to suggest the idea would be disobedient, but for me to accommodate a friend would be hospitality indeed.

We ran to the stables and after petting old favorites we walked to the stalls where the new horses were housed. Our vanity guided our choices. Anne picked out her favorite, a raven mare, barely three years old with deep black eyes, like her own. I showed her the one I loved best, a tamed stallion with a thick auburn mane like my own. He glanced nervously about his stall till I gentled him with quiet words and touches.

"Should you have them saddled?"

My father shouldn't be home from court till tomorrow morning. Then I called over a stable boy. "Saddle these two for us, please."

"If'n you say so, miss," he said, unable to disobey me but nervous nonetheless. I smiled kindly at him, hoping to gentle him as I'd done the stallion.

"I do," I said. And then Anne and I raced and rode.

Please visit Sandra online at www.sandrabyrd.comwhere you can link to purchase her books at a variety of fine booksellers.

From This Day Forward

2011-09-15T12:25:00.003-06:00

From This Day Forward

By Margaret Daley

"Stirring romance, characters who come alive, and genuine faith, all pulse from this book, carrying you from the first page of From This Day Forward to the very end. I enjoyed my journey through Margaret Daley's newest work and heartily recommend it. You won't be disappointed!" Miralee Ferrell. author of Love Finds You In Sundance, WY

Blurb for From This Day Forward:

Rachel Gordon is stranded in South Carolina, pregnant, a recent widow when her husband fell overboard on the voyage to America. Nathan Stuart, a physician who came home from serving in the American army during the War of 1812, disenchanted with his life and the Lord, rescues Rachel and saves her life. Feeling responsible for her, Nathan tries to discourage her from living at a rundown farm her husband bought to start a new future in America. He wants her to return to England.

Rachel refuses to go back to England where her father disowned her for marrying against his wishes. The farm is all she has, and she is determined to make it on her own. But Nathan has other ideas and becomes her farmhand to discourage her from staying in America. Instead he ends up protecting her and being challenged by her. Can two wounded people heal each other?

Chapter One

March 1816

"We are going to die," Rachel Gordon's young maid cried out.

Rachel looked up at the clouds rolling in. Dark, ominous ones. She shivered and pulled her shawl tighter about her as the breeze picked up. A storm brewed, and she still had several miles to go until she reached her new home in South Carolina. "God willing, we will make it, Maddy."

Fear deepened the lines on Maddy's plain face. "'Tis like the squall on the boat."

Lightning flashed, momentarily brightening the shadows of the forest. A clap of thunder rumbled the ground. Maddy screamed. The old gelding that pulled the cart—all Rachel's meager coins could afford—increased its speed, weaving from side to side. Out of control.

Determined to be there before nightfall and in one piece, Rachel gripped the reins and fought to slow the maddening pace of the horse. Finally it resumed its plodding step. The weather-beaten cart she had bought near the dock in Charleston hit a bump in the road, jostling her into Maddy. Her maid clutched the seat with one hand and held onto Rachel with the other.

Steadying herself, Rachel rested her wrists on her rounded stomach. She had more than herself and Maddy to worry about now. Her life had changed so much since she left her ancestral home in England. She had married, conceived a child, and was now a widow, all in the space of a year. And worse, she was going to a place she had never seen because she had nowhere else to go. Her husband had used most of their money to purchase this plantation she was traveling to. It was her future, whether she wanted it to be or not.

The warmth of a spring day quickly faded as the sky grew blacker. Rachel stared at the menacing clouds through the treetops and realized she would not make it to her new home before the storm broke. She scanned the area for a place to seek shelter.

Sinister shadows lurked just beyond the road. Again she shivered, her imagination conjuring images of wild animals staring at her from the depths of the forest. She'd heard stories about the bears. Huge. Fierce. Sharp teeth and claws. Shifting on the seat, she darted a glance from side to side, feeling as though she were some beast's next meal. She could not stop, even if it poured down rain.

Oh, how she missed England, with its gently rolling hills and refined beauty—not this raw wilderness. Like a fish floundering on land, she did not belong here. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this strange environment.

Drops of water spattered her. The wind picked up.

"That man on the boat told me about a big cat. They are out there." Maddy whimpered, draping her shawl over her head and hunching her shoulders. "Lord, have mercy on us."

Rachel forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Once they were at the plantation Maddy would settle down. The squall two days out of Charleston had nearly sunk the ship they had traveled in. Surely this storm would not be as bad.

Taking deep breaths, Rachel calmed her racing thoughts and heartbeat. Pain spread through her lower back. She gripped the reins, the leather digging into her palms. The pain dulled to an ache. Another deep inhalation and the panic nibbling at her composure abated. Soon she would be at her new home and could sit in front of a warm fire, put her legs up, and rest. Hopefully the letter her husband had sent ahead would alert any staff to her arrival. Her glance strayed to the tall pine trees, swaying in the gust. Everything would be all right when she arrived at Dalton Plantation.

But even with Maddy next to her on the seat, the feeling she was the only person in the world overwhelmed her.

The wind picked up, whipping strands of her long brown hair that had escaped its coiffure about her face and threatening to whisk away her bonnet. Lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed by thunder. Maddy jumped in her seat. The gelding's ears flattened.

A chill embedded itself deep in Rachel. She arched her back to ease the pang still plaguing her. Suddenly lightning struck a tree nearby, its flash a beacon in the growing darkness. A crack as the pine split into two pieces echoed through the forest. Immediately afterward, a boom of thunder cleaved the air. Maddy shrieked. The horse increased its pace while a few more splotches of water splashed Rachel. Then all at once rain fell in gray sheets.

The gelding lurched forward even faster. Rachel grasped the reins, trying to maintain control. She pulled on the leather straps to slow the horse. Nothing. He kept galloping down the road, oblivious to his surroundings, as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his hooves.

If you want to read more about From This Day Forward, check out Margaret Daley's website at http://www.margaretdaley.com/all-books/ . Do not reproduce without permission.

The Wedding Kiss

2011-09-06T11:41:00.006-06:00

Against the backdrop of 1901 Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and the surrounding countryside, one simple kiss draws two people into a discovery that will forever change their lives.

Marriage seems the only option for Keara McBride and Elam Jensen after Keara's father gambles away her home and ends up in jail, and Elam's children need a mother's care. When the Jensens seal their vows at the altar with a kiss, however, their marriage of convenience seems much less convenient. The first kiss they share before a church filled with witnesses ignites a beacon of attraction that leaves them both feeling guilty. Elam's wife, Gloria--who was also Keara's best friend--has been dead less than a year. How can they betray her like this? And yet...oh, that kiss. When a stranger who bears a striking resemblance to Gloria shows up injured on the front porch on Elam and Keara's wedding night, the whole family is thrown into confusion, suspense and danger. But does this stranger also hold a key to the Jensens' future happiness?

Published by Summerside Press
> http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN978-1-60936-308-6

2011-09-02T15:08:00.003-06:00

SKINNY DIPPING at MEGUNTICOOK LAKE

By Eric Wiggin

"Here's a book you can sink your teeth into. Skinny Dipping at Megunticook Lake is Bible-based fiction about sex. Not only can you use it as a guide, but you can find some friends in the characters who share some of the doubts and discomfort that most other Christians do about their private lives. Read and enjoy." Hannah Alexander, author of The Wedding Kiss

"A fun and romantic romp, Skinny Dipping at Megunticook Lake will delight readers who enjoy their fiction playful—and quietly pointed." Sibella Giorello

"I love this book! I love how the scripture was used in this story and how well it was explained how it was adjusted by some of the monks. I am a new nursing, mother, and this story touched my heart. I especially love the way God is at work in all the characters' lives. This has been an inspirational story for me. I will be taking a closer look at my Bible." Abby Gagnon

SUMMARY: What Jenny finds when she dives into life at Megunticook, Maine thrills her more than the Sexual Revolution, Woodstock, Jesus People, or stopping the Vietnam War.

SKINNY DIPPING at MEGUNTICOOK LAKE

Eric Wiggin

(Excerpted from Chapter One)

December 21, 1966

Jenny O'Brien didn't suspect when she made love with Rusty that winter morning that she was turning a corner to death—and life—and beginning a journey to knowledge of life's most treasured secret. Warm inside, still, from playing intimate sheet music with her beloved husband, Jenny smiled and tugged her parka across her pregnant belly against the winter chill of coastal Maine.

From where Jenny stood on the plank walkway outside the old barn's back door she could just make out where the dark green of the distant tall pines melded into the lighter green of old-growth hemlocks. She strained her ear for the snarl of Rusty's chainsaw. Only silence rewarded her heart's fond longing.

Jenny and Rusty had left New York's Establishment to sink their savings into this Maine hardscrabble farm only to discover that the economic realities of the 1960's required more than this century-and-a-half old farmstead could provide. "Que sera, sera, I guess." Only the cow and calves heard Jenny's plaint about the financial Catch-22 that had brought Rusty to buy a gas-engine chainsaw and attack their beloved primeval forest.

Rusty had gone that morning to the woodlot alone after he'd happily helped Jenny enjoy her late-pregnancy amorous mood. It worried her now that she couldn't hear the rev-and-snarl, rev-and-snarl of his new saw. Bachelor neighbor John Rowe always arrived to help Rusty with the logging right after breakfast. This morning, though, his mother had phoned to say John had a young cow in labor with a difficult delivery, and he would be late.

* * * * *

"We're not hippies, John," she'd said. Jenny knew she'd spoken defensively. She and Rusty had met in Washington at the November 1965 March for Peace in Vietnam. Both successful tort lawyers from New York, their month-long romance culminated in a Christmas Day marriage. They now chose a counter-culture lifestyle to escape Big Brother, but they sought something more solid than what the free-loving, LSD-tripping flower children of the Age of Aquarius had to offer.

* * * * *

Jenny did not remember pulling the massive, 400-year-old hemlock from Rusty's chest with the pick-up's power winch. Maine State Trooper David Bolduc was amazed to discover she'd accomplished this despite what must have been breath-taking labor pains. As for Rusty's chain saw, he hadn't even used it. John Rowe had felled the big tree yesterday, and this morning it had rolled onto Rusty as he cut a supporting limb with his axe.

John arrived to find Jenny sitting in the snow with Rusty's head and shoulders cradled on her knees as she desperately tried to restore the crushed man's breathing. John hoisted Rusty onto the GMC's bed, then helped Jenny scramble up with him. He drove to Jenny's house, where he called an ambulance, then piled blankets around the couple as they struggled with life—and with death.

John phoned his mother. Sarah Rowe, with her antique Packard, beat the ambulance to the O'Brien home. Yet Jenny steadfastly refused to leave Rusty until he was taken from her by the ambulance attendants. Moments later, Jenny gave birth in her own bed into Sarah's practiced hands.

Sarah now stepped onto the O'Brien porch and huddled into her sweater. She faced her son. "Yes, John?"

"Rusty . . . he died in the ambulance. They never got him to the hospital." John wiped his eyes with his sleeve and choked back a sob.

Sarah cast a glance through the window in the door. She waited as Vi, who'd been feeding Jenny's stove with firewood, returned to the bedroom. "Jenny's doing as well as can be expected. She's got beautiful baby—a boy." Sarah forced a smile.

"Shall I tell her, Mother?" John's words were fraught with pathos. He knew well enough that Death has no protocol or even an agenda, from a human perspective. John also believed firmly that all things have a certain agenda in the eyes of the Almighty. Right now it seemed only decent that Rusty's best friend be the one to inform the widow.

"Jenny's got to be told—she's in grief anyway." Sarah lifted her chin. "I'd want to know."

John trusted his mother's judgment. Sarah had twice been told that a man she loved had walked the Valley of the Shadow never again to lie in her bosom. Who would know better than she?

"I . . . I'll see if she's decent. I'll tell her you're here." Sarah hurried back inside.

It was Vi Stern. Like his mother, she stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. Vi was one of a pair of semi-hippies living in unwed cohabitation across the road from John Rowe's Fox Hill Farm. Better known as "Mickey's girlfriend," Vi had a broad Brooklyn accent and wore too much makeup for rural Maine tastes. And too few clothes in warm weather. That was the consensus of locals who'd seen her barefoot, topless, in nothing but cut-off jeans, helping Mickey plant trees.

Yet Vi, in another life a kindergarten teacher, was a helper with a heart for the hurting. She could always be called upon to help with the sick, dying and birthing. "You'd best leave," Vi said. Her tone was flat, and John could not read it.

"She knows, John." This time Vi seemed to project some emotion—enough, at least, that John mustered the courage to pry for details. "Mother tell her?"

"No. When your mom came back in, Jenny just said, `Rusty's dead, isn't he?'"

John took a breath. "I . . . I could maybe . . ."

"Uh-uh." Vi shook her head. "She said, `Tell John Rowe I don't wish to see him again, ever.'"

Jenny could not forgive John for involving Rusty in the logging enterprise that had taken his life—not ever. Like Jenny's daddy, Art McGill, Rowe was a man too busy making money to care about human needs.

She was sure of this.

Copyright 2011: Eric Wiggin (Do not reproduce without permission)

Buy now at Kindle/Amazon

The Rancher's Return; A Family of Their Own

2011-08-29T14:17:00.009-06:00

The Rancher's Return

By Carolyn Aarsen

The Rancher's Return is the first book in a series of five entitled Home to Hartley Creek.

Five cousins come home to faith and love.

After a two year absence Carter Beck has come back to Hartley Creek to spend some time with his grandmother after her heart attack. Now he just has to find a way to tell her that he wants to sell the ranch that was in the Beck family for generations. The ranch holds only bitter memories for him. The ranch that was responsible for his five year old son's death. But will the woman his foreman has hired to help him, make him change his mind?

He wished he didn't have to come back.

Carter Beck swung his leg over his motorbike and yanked off his helmet. He dragged a hand over his face, callused hands rasping over the stubble of his cheeks as he looked over the yard.

His eyes followed the contours of the land, the hills flowing up to the rugged mountains of southern British Columbia a sense of homesickness flickering deep in his soul. This ranch had been his home since he was a child.

He hadn't been back to his ranch since the funeral and if hadn't been for his beloved grandmother's recent heart attack, he would still be away.

Then, unable to stop himself, his eyes drifted over to the corral. Then the memories he'd kept at bay since he left crashed into his mind. Right behind that came the wrenching pain and haunting guilt he'd spent the last twenty-three months outrunning.

The whinnying of a horse broke into his dark thoughts and snagged his attention.

A young boy astride a horse, broke through the copse of trees edging the ranch's outbuildings. He held the reins of his horse in both hands, elbows in, wrists cocked.

Just like Carter taught him.

A wave of dizziness washed over Carter as the horse came closer.

Harry.

Even as he took a step toward the horse and rider, reality followed like ice water through his veins. The young boy wore a white cowboy hat instead of a trucker's cap.

And Carter's son was dead.

Then a woman astride a horse followed the boy out of the trees. The woman sat relaxed in the saddle, one hand resting on her thigh, her broad-brimmed hat hiding her face, reins held loosely in her other hand. She looked like she belonged atop a horse, as if she was one with the animal, so easy were her motions as her horse followed the other.

When the woman saw him she pulled up, then dismounted in one fluid motion.

"Can I help you sir?" she asked, pushing her hat back on her head, her brown eyes frowning at him as she motioned her son to stop.

Carter felt a tinge of annoyance at her question spoken with such a cool air. Sir? Like he wasn't the owner of the ranch she rode across instead of some stranger? And who was she?

"Is that your motorbike, sir?" The young boy pulled off his hat, his green eyes intent on Carter's bike. "It's really cool."

His eager voice, his bright eyes resurrected the memories that lay heavy on his soul. And when the woman lifted the little boy from the saddle, and gently stroked his hair back from his face with a loving motion, the weight grew.

"Yeah. It's mine."

"It's so awesome," the boy said, his breathless young voice battering away at his defenses.

Carter's heart stuttered. He even sounded like Harry. Coming back to the place his son died had been hard enough. Meeting a child the same age Harry was when he died made this even more difficult.

He forced his attention back to the woman. A light breeze picked up a strand of her long, brown hair and as she tucked it behind her ear he caught sight of her bare left hand. No rings.

She saw him looking at her hand, and she lifted her chin in the faintest movement of defiance. Then she put her hand on her son's shoulder, drawing him to her side, as if ready to defend him against anything Carter might have to say. She looked like a protective mare standing guard over her precious colt.

Carter held her gaze and for a moment, as their eyes locked, an indefinable emotion arced between them.

"My name is Carter Beck," he said quietly.

The woman's eyes widened and he saw recognition in her expression. Then he caught a trace of sorrow in the softening of her features, in the gentle parting of her lips.

"I imagine you've come to see Nana . . . Mrs. Beck."

He frowned at her lapse. This unknown woman called his grandmother, Nana?

"And you are?" he asked.

"Sorry again," she said, transferring the reins and holding out her hand. "I'm Emma Minton. This is my son Adam. I help Wade on the ranch here. I work with the horses as well as help him with the cows and anything else that needs doing. But I'm sure you know that too," she said with a light laugh that held a note of self-conscious humor.

"Nice to meet you, Emma," he said, as he reluctantly took her hand. "Wade did tell me awhile back he was hiring a new ranch hand. I didn't expect . . . "

"A woman?" Emma lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. "I worked on a ranch all my life. I know my way around horses and cows and fences and haying equipment."

"I'm sure you do otherwise Wade wouldn't have hired you."

Emma angled her head to one side, as if wondering if he was being sarcastic. Then she gave him a quick nod, accepting his answer.

Carter glanced around the yard. "Where is Wade?"

"He and Miranda went to town. She had a doctor's appointment."

"Right. Of course." The last time he talked to Wade, his ranch foreman told him his wife was expecting.

Emma's horse stamped impatiently and she reached up and stroked his neck. "I should put the horses away. Good to meet you and I'm sure we'll be seeing you around." Then without a second glance, she turned the horses around, her son trotting alongside her.

To find out more about Hartley Creek and the five cousins, visit Carolyne Aarsen's website:

www.carolyneaarsen.com

To purchase the book visit:

www.amazon.com or

www.eharlequin.com and check on the store, then the Love Inspired tab.

A Family of Their Own

2nd book in the Dreams Come True Series

Gail Gaymer Martin

Love Inspired

September, 2011 release

4 Stars - Romantic Times

Dreams Come True: With faith, love and caring people, dreams can come true.

Four Makes A Family

With her daughter's health back on track, Kelsey Rhodes counts her blessings. But life is still not easy for the sweet single mom. She craves companionship, yet finds it difficult to trust anyone. Ross Salburg seems like the perfect match for her. The handsome single dad also struggles to keep his daughter healthy. Can Kelsey convince Ross to take a leap of faith and meld their two families into one?

Chapter 1 Excerpt

Kelsey Rhodes scanned her friend's living room, her focus drawn to the lovely Christmas tree, its clear miniature lights radiated the same glow in Lexie's eyes. On the mantel a row of white candles flickered in the dusky light. Romantic, for sure. Kelsey's chest expanded anticipating her friend's wedding ceremony in the cozy setting.

The parents of the bride and groom buzzed with their own excitement, and her chest constricted seeing Lexie's son Cooper dressed in a dark suit, sitting near the window. He'd been released from the hospital in time for Christmas and the January wedding, she'd been relieved for Lexie. Her friend's plight aroused thoughts of her own daughter's illness now in remission. She prayed Cooper's struggle with leukemia would take the same turn as Lucy's.

The succulent aroma of roast pork drifted into the room. Though a delicious scent, her stomach knotted. The idea of meeting Ross Salburg, Ethan's best man, had set her on edge, and it hadn't left her mind. If he recognized her name or who she was, she would be uncomfortable. Maybe she hadn't tried hard enough to get Ross into the Mother's of Special Kids organization. She'd tried to explain the group was for mothers, but he didn't care. Ethan mentioned Ross had been disappointed. Facing him for the first time today put a damper on the celebration for her.

The doorbell rang, and Kelsey's pulse escalated. She worked a pleasant expression onto her face, knowing the bell offered three options—the groom, the pastor, or Ross.

Swallowing her anxiety, she pinned her gaze to the door as Lexie opened it. Nippy air swished into the room along with a man she'd never seen before. His good looks stole her breath. She had no doubt about the stranger's identity, and her stomach churned, facing their introduction.

Lexie steered him around the room introducing him to the two sets of parents first. Ross leaned over to give Cooper a warm greeting, then faced her. She managed a smile.

"Kelsey, this is our best man, Ross." Lexie grinned. "And this is my matron of honor, Kelsey Rhodes."

Lexie's knowing look set Kelsey on edge. He'd already been told who she was.

Ross extended his hand, an unreadable expression on his face, but Kelsey sat unmoving, captured by his brown eyes, like bittersweet chocolate, that seemed to penetrate her soul. Heat rolled up her chest until she lowered her gaze to his hand. "Nice to meet you, Ross."

"Same here." He gestured toward the empty seat beside her on the sofa. "Do you mind?"

She forced her mind around her response. "Not at all." Her voice sounded pleasant. So far so good. But when he sank onto the cushion, the scent of a mountain woods wrapped around her, losing her in the image.

He gazed around the room. "Ethan's late, I assume." He chuckled.

Ross's voice jerked her from the mountain stream to the glow of the Christmas lights. Her out of control feelings confused her as did Ross's avoidance of the topic she dreaded.

Are you all hungry? Mom prepared a great dinner." Lexie's voice penetrated Kelsey's preoccupation. "We'll get started once our two key people arrive."

Ross leaned forward. "Are you sure Ethan hasn't left you standing at the altar?"

Lexie grinned. "He'll be here. He loves pork roast."

Everyone chuckled while Kelsey sank deeper into the cushion. At the moment, she felt uneasy, captured beside the best man. Relief would be welcomed once the ceremony began.

Ross's arm brushed against hers, and her senses sharpened. She gazed around the room, hoping to cast off her giddy feeling. Concentrating, she tuned into the mothers' conversation about life in Florida until she sensed Ross's gaze on her. Her stomach plummeted. She turned to him, like a hound picking up the fox's scent. Here it comes, she deducted from the look on his face.

"Are you aware I'm the Ross you all voted not to include in your support group?"

Kelsey wanted to lie, but she couldn't. "I realized who you were when I heard your name." She sounded pathetic, and his pure innocent look made her feel even worse. "I'm sorry it turned out that way."

He didn't speak though his eyes searched hers.

Feeling defensive, she wanted to explain. "I know I'm the moderator of the support group, but it went to a vote. It's always been a women's organization—you know, Mothers Of Special Kids—and I'd hoped you could find another resource out of the ones that I suggested."

Ross touched her arm. "Please. I wasn't trying to embarrass you. I knew it was a long shot." He lowered his eyes. "Ethan gave me the other support groups' phone numbers , but--"

"We'd never thought of men joining our group." Heat soared to her cheeks. "When we discussed it. . ." She captured his gaze. "And we did, all of the women thought that men didn't really like talking about their feelings."

He flinched.

"We thought men preferred to get things done not talk about them."

"But when a man has a seriously ill child there's little he can do."

The comment twisted in her chest as Lucy's brain tumor operations filled her mind. "I understand. I always felt so lonely before MOSK."

He lowered his head. "It's hard to open up, but I think hearing about others struggling with similar problems would be helpful. I'm sure I would benefit from everyone's experiences."

"Ross, I'm really sorry." She dragged in a breath. "Now that I've heard what you have to say, I could try again in a while."

His gaze drifted to hers. "Thanks." He wove his fingers together and dropped his clenched hands into his lap. "I did call the other agencies, but either the meeting times didn't work for me or some of them had dropped their groups." He lifted his chin. "I'm Peyton's only parent, and. . ."

"I understand." Apologizing again offered little compensation for the rejection the group had dropped on him.

Visit Gail's website at www.gailmartin.com

To purchase this novel, go to http://www.amazon.com/Family-Their-Own-Love-Inspired/dp/0373876947/ref=sr_1_2_title_1_mm?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312059518&sr=1-2 or purchase at bookstores everywhere

© 2011 Gail Gaymer Martin

http://www.amazon.com/Family-Their-Own-Love-Inspired/dp/0373876947/ref=sr_1_2_title_1_mm?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312059518&sr=1-2

2011-08-15T12:01:00.002-06:00

PLAIN FEAR: FORSAKEN

Leanna Ellis

978-1402255403

Sourcebooks

Hannah Schmidt,a young Amish woman mourning the mysterious death of her beloved Jacob, must decidebetween two brothers, between good and evil. When she learns her first love isnow the vampire Akiva, she must forsake him and cling to a new love, a lastinglove, one that will save her soul.

Amish andvampires? Really? Yes, really. I’m asked a lot how this book came into being. Forsakenactually began as a joke. I was at a book signing and another author and I madea joke about we should write an Amish/vampire story because those were the twogenres that were selling so well. Well, it really was a joke. I didn’t rushhome and start writing the book. But I suppose some seed was planted in mywarped little brain and took root. Soon a character was speaking to me abouther story and wanting me to write it. I resisted. But there was a veryintriguing element that I couldn’t seem to ignore. To me, this was a Phantom ofthe Opera type story, with a love triangle, and a clear dividing line betweengood and evil. So I wrote the prologue and first chapter. Then I set it asidebecause I was busy meeting other deadlines. Besides what was I to do with anAmish/vampire story? I mentioned it eventually to a couple of writer friends.They laughed but in a good way and encouraged me to write it. Well, I wasn’t sosure although I was becoming obsessed with the story. I spent a lot of time inprayer over this book, because I don’t want to write something that God doesn’twant me to write. Also, I knew I’d have to leave the Christian market and sellit in the secular market. I wasn’t about to make that move without God’s cleardirection. And he began to show me in more ways than one that this was the bookHe wanted me to write. More than a year passed, and I was at a writer’sconference minding my own business and not pursuing this story at all. Aneditor said the perfect submission would be…you guessed it! An Amish/vampirestory. So I made an appointment to meet that editor and just talk about the idea.It almost felt like when an addict first admits she has a problem. I felt likeI was teetering on the edge when I said, “I’m a writer and I’ve written anAmish/vampire story.” Well, she requested it. What I love about this story isthat it shows the battle of good and evil. Evil doesn’t always appear withpitchfork and horns. Quite often, evil is appealing and attractive and hooks usin before we realize what has happened. Such is the case with my heroineHannah. She simply loved a boy. But she opens her heart and her mind too easilyand the consequences could be devastating. Even though this story is publishedin the secular world, it has a powerful spiritual message, a message the worldneeds to hear.

Bio:

Winnerof the National Readers Choice Award, Leanna Ellis writes women’s fiction.Known for her quirky characters and wacky plots, don’t let the quirkiness foolyou as Ellis probes deep in the heart and plucks at the heartstrings. She livesdeep in the heart of Texas with her husband and children and an assortment ofdogs and cats, including her crazy labradoodle, aka Hilo Monster, and her newkitten, Sawyer.

Amazon link:

http://www.amazon.com/Plain-Fear-Forsaken-Leanna-Ellis/dp/1402255403/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1312808572&sr=8-1

Excerpt link:

http://leannaellis.com/forsaken.html

www.leannaellis.com

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leanna-Ellis/49487472434