Asking For Trouble; So Over My Head

Asking For Trouble

Book One: London Confidential Series

by

Sandra Byrd

Savvy is a unique but relatable character. She has traits that any girl can identify with and insecurities that we all have experienced ... I found it to be a comforting reminder that no matter what happens, God will be right there to love and to guide us along the way."

– Dominique McKay, Lily Girls Magazine

When her family moves to London, 15-year-old Savvy Smith has to make her way in a new school and in a new country. She just knows the school newspaper is the right place for her, but she doesn't have the required experience and the cute editor-in-chief is not looking to train anyone. She has to come up with a way to prove herself and nab the one available position on the newspaper staff at Wexburg Academy.

I hung back at the doorway to the cafeteria of my new supercool British school, Wexburg Academy. Most of the lunch tables were already packed and chattering. The populars, whom I'd secretly nicknamed The Aristocats commanded an entire table right in the center of the room. Their shiny hair and posh accents made up the sun around which all other tables orbited. The normal kids were in the second circle, arranged by friends or clubs or activities. The drama kids table was on the outside of the room, with the geeks, the nerds and the punk wannabees, way out there like Neptune and Pluto, but still planets. Most everyone had a group. I didn't.

Okay, so there was one table with lots of room. The leftovers table, otherwise known as the dark side of the moon. Unseen and unknown.

No way.

I skipped lunch – again - and headed to the library. One of the computers was open and I logged in, desperately hoping for an email from Seattle.

An email from my grandmother reminding me to floss because British dentists only cleaned adult teeth.

Spam from Teen Vogue.

An invitation to join the Prince Harry fan club – I opened and saved that one as a favorite. I'd consider it later.

Jen!

I clicked open the email from my best friend at home – well, it had been my home till a few months ago – hoping for a lunch consisting of a meaty email full of juicy news served alongside tasty comments of how she missed me and was planning stuff for my next visit home. I craved something that would take me the whole lunch period to read and respond to and remind me that I did have a place somewhere in this universe.

Ephemera: Email from Jen to Savvy

Hey, Fortune Cookie, so how's it going? Met the queen yet? LOL. Sorry I haven't written too much. It's been so busy. Samantha took the place you'd been promised on the newspaper staff. L She's brand new, like you would have been. But she'll do okay – maybe even better than okay. And hey, life has changed for everyone, right? Things are crazy busy at school, home, and church. Now that some of our friends are driving our social life is swinging too. Will write again in a few weeks.

Miss you! Jen

A few weeks!? My lungs filled with air and I let it out slowly, deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. I poised my hands over the keyboard to write a response but just…couldn't. What would I say? It'd already been weeks since we'd last emailed. Mostly my friends texted instead of emailing anyway, but texting across the Atlantic Ocean cost way too much. And the truth was…
I'd moved, and they'd moved on.

I logged out of the email and sat there for a minute, blinking back the tears. Jen hadn't meant to forget me. I was simply out of her orbit now.

I pretended to read Sugar magazine online, staring at the clock, passing the time till I could respectably head to my next class.

Five minutes before class I swung my book bag onto my shoulder and headed down the hall. Someone was stapling fliers to the wall. I recognized her. "Hi Hazelle."

"Hullo, Savannah." She breezed by me, stapling another pink flier further down the wall. We had math class together, oh yeah, the Brits said, maths, first period. I'd tried to make friends with her; I'd even asked her if she'd like to sit together in lunch, but she'd crisply informed me that she sat at the table with the other members of the newspaper staff.

She didn't bother with small talk now, either, but went on stapling down the hall. I drew up next to one of the fliers, glancing at my watch. I wouldn't have time to read it all now, but one sentence caught my eye right away: Looking for one experienced journalist to join the newspaper staff.

I yanked the flier off the wall and jammed it into my bag. I was experienced. Wasn't I?
A nub of doubt rose inside me, the one that popped up, unwelcome, any time I was going to try to rationalize a lie or sin.

This time, I swallowed it back. I thought back to Jen's loving-but-slightly-kiss-off email. I lived in London now.

It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Please visit Sandra at www.sandrabyrd.com to view this series and her other books for tweens, teens, and adults

Do Not Reproduce without permission

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So Over My Head, book three in the YA series A Charmed Life

By Jenny B. Jones

Thomas Nelson

When the Fritz Family Carnival makes its annual appearance in Truman, Bella's keen reporter instincts tell her the bright lights hide more than they reveal. Her suspicions are confirmed when one of the stars is murdered. Though the police make an immediate arrest, Bella doubts this case is quite that simple.

She needs her crime-solving boyfriend Luke more than ever, but his ex has moved back to town, giving Bella some murderous thoughts of her own. Then again, there's no time for a relationship crisis when Bella's doing her best to derail her father's wedding while keeping the peace at home and staying one step ahead of a killer.

Chapter Two

"Just take deep breaths, Bella. Deep breaths."

I don't know how sticking your head between your knees and staring at your own crotch is supposed to help anything, but here I am. Trying not to pass out. Trying not to bawl uncontrollably.

Mark Rogers, friend and member of the Truman PD, pats my back as we sit on the arena bleachers. The rest of the police force combs through Betty the Bearded Lady's trailer. I've already answered a hundred questions, and I have a feeling that's the tip of the iceberg. Why me, God? How will I ever get that image out of my mind? All that blood.

My breath hitches and Mark does more patting. "Think nice thoughts." Tonight his voice is as high pitched as a flute. "Go to your happy place."

"I thought I was at one. Then I saw a dead woman." I want this to be one of those too-

realistic dreams you wake up from. The kind that makes you happy to be awake, realizing it was all just a vivid dream, and you are safely tucked in bed.

I hear the crunching of a wrapper and raise up. Mark sticks half a Snickers in his mouth.

"What?" His eyes go wide. "I'm a stress eater. Want some?"

My stomach does some acrobatics at the thought of food. "You have no idea what you're doing here, do you?"

"Not every day I see a bearded lady kill herself." He eats the last bite. "Seriously, that is some freaky stuff in there. The only dead body I've ever seen was my Great Uncle Morty. And he was ninety-six, so it wasn't a real shocker that he went, you know? He keeled over at the nursing home square dance. He just did one too many Do-si-dos. But still—" he shivers—"he was awfully pale and wrinkly. Kinda cakey looking."

"Thanks for sharing." I cover my face with my hands and rock back and forth. Mark's hand plops on my head. "Stop patting me!"

"Excuse me." He sniffs. "It works on my schnauzer."

"Bella?"

At that familiar voice, I stand up. "Luke." He walks past two cops, and I run straight into his arms.

"Shhh." He holds me close, and I breathe in the scent of him. His shampoo, his cologne, the smell of his clothes. Him.

"Please don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere." He caresses the back of my head, and I hang on like he's my lifeboat off the Titanic. "Your mom and Jake are on their way. They left as soon as Mark called them. It's just going to take them a little bit from Oklahoma City."

My stepdad Jake's on the road a lot with the wrestling circuit, and Mom goes whenever he's close. Why couldn't he have been in Philly or Phoenix tonight? Seeing a dead woman definitely qualifies as one of those moments a girl needs her mother.

"She died. . . in her pie." My breath hitches. "Why would someone kill her and let her die in her meringue?"

"I don't know." Luke's voice is calm, reassuring.

"It was good pie, too."

"I'm sure it was, Bel."

I sniff on his shoulder. "If I die over pie, I want it to be coconut cream."

"She's a little shocky," Officer Mark says. Like I'm not right here. Like I'm talking crazy. But who, I ask, would want their last breath to be taken nose deep in raisin pie? Or a meat pie. It would be my luck I'd go in a big `ol bowl of peas.

Luke steps back, keeping his hands locked with mine. "Do you think you can tell me about tonight?"

"I'd like to know, too." A girl in a sparkly leotard appears. Her hair is blonde, slicked back into a ponytail. Though she still wears stage makeup, her face is pale. Her eyes haunted.

"This is Cherry Fritz," Mark says. "She's the owner's niece."

"This was my parents' circus." Watery eyes meet mine. "Betty was my Godmother. After my parents' accident, she let me live in her trailer." As she steps closer I can see she doesn't look quite so harsh beneath the makeup. "Do you think she—she. . .suffered?" Cherry's tears inspire some of my own.

"I don't know. It didn't really look that way." Except for the sword the length of my leg sticking out of her back. "She did have dessert, if that's any consolation." Wow. My ability to comfort is just. . . awful.

"Betty didn't have any enemies. I just don't understand. There has to be some mistake." Cherry turns to Officer Mark. "Who would m-murder her?" Tears make tracks down her painted face.

"We'll get to the bottom of it." Mark clears his throat. Probably has a peanut stuck in there.

"Cherry!" The ringmaster roars explodes through the big top entrance. "Where have you been? We have a killer on the loose, and I couldn't even find you!"

I move closer to Luke as Red Fritz's piercing brown eyes land on me.

"You the one who found her?"

"Um. . ." I swallow past a lump and nod. "Yes."

The seconds stretch as he watches me. I look away, my skin tingling.

"Well, I'm sorry you had to see that." Red stands beside Mark. "We are a family here at the Fritz and Family Carnival. And I can't imagine who would do such a vile thing. Surely it can't be one of our own, that much I know."

Officer Mark jots down some notes. "Mr. Fritz, Miss Betty's trailer will obviously be unusable for a while. Will the children be staying with you?"

"My son Stewart lives with me in my own trailer, so space has always been too tight for the kids. I've contacted a distant family member in Truman to take Cherry until she can move back into Betty's."

Ew. Like she'll ever want to live in the place where their godmother killed herself.
Copyright 2010.

So Over My Head by Jenny B. Jones can be found at http://www.bn.com/ , http://www.amazon.com/ , http://www.christianbook.com/ , and fine bookstores everywhere. As well as the trunk of her grandmother's Buick.

You can visit Jenny at http://www.jennybjones.com/

Find her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jenny.b.jones

Find her on Twitter: JenBJones

Somewhere to Belong by Judith Miller, By Darkness Hid (Blood of Kings, book 1) by Jill Williamson

Somewhere to Belong

Judith Miller

Miller creates two heroines who are on the surface opposite numbers, but have more in common than is apparent. Family secrets and misunderstandings drive the plot. Miller creates likable heroines, has done her historical homework, and develops credible tension because her characters are so flawed. The Amana lifestyle is also sufficiently different that bonnet fiction fans will be pleased by this variation on the theme of simple living. Publishers Weekly January 25, 2010
March 1877

Amana Colonies, Iowa

Johanna Ilg

Rigid as a barn pole, I stood planted in the parlor doorway with my gaze fixed upon the pink feather-and-plume bedecked hat. Sparkling pins held it atop wavy dark tresses that crimped and coiled. The girl's hair reminded me of the curly leaf lettuce we forced to early growth in our hotbeds each spring. An artificial rose peeked from beneath the curvy brim like a vigilant watchman. Although the visitors to our villages sometimes adorned themselves in outlandish costumes, the hat perched upon this young lady's head surpassed anything I'd ever seen.

She appeared rather young to be wearing such an ornate headpiece.

Not that I could imagine anyone attaining any age where they thought that hat becoming.
Touching her fingers to the garish chapeau, the girl's lips curved in a patronizing smile. She'd obviously noted my attention. "The latest fashion from England. My parents purchased it for me on their last visit."

My mother waved me forward. "Come in and meet our guests, Johanna." I tried to force myself to look away from the hat, but my eyes betrayed me as I stepped into the room. I couldn't stop staring at the unsightly mixture of fabric and fluff. My mother cleared her throat. "Come,

Johanna. Meet Dr. and Mrs. Schumacher and their daughter, Berta. They arrived only a short time ago. You remember we've been expecting them." I turned toward the well-dressed couple who sat side by side on our horsehair-stuffed divan. Berta, who looked to be sixteen or seventeen years old, had obviously inherited her dark curls and fine features from her mother.

As if prepared to take flight at the earliest possible moment, the girl sat balanced at the edge of her chair. And given the size of her hat, it would take only a slight wind to carry her aloft.

"I am very pleased to welcome you to Amana. I hope you will be happy living among us."
Berta's dark eyes widened to huge proportions. She shook her head with such fervor I expected the decorations to tumble from her hat. "Living?" She glanced around our parlor with a look of disdain. "We are merely vacationing for a short time. My father's family is from Germany, and we have a distant relative living in Middle Amana. My father thought this would be a pleasant place for our family to visit. I think he wanted to provide us a glimpse of his homeland without the expense of a voyage to Europe. Isn't that correct, Father?" When Dr. Schumacher didn't immediately reply, Berta leaned forward in her chair, her eyes flashing with impatience. "Well, isn't it, Father?" Her voice had raised several decibels and panic edged her words.

One look at my mother confirmed that I'd misspoken. I longed to stuff the welcome back into my mouth, but that wasn't possible. The damage had been done. Yet no one had forewarned me.

How was I to know Berta hadn't been advised of her father's plans to move his family to the Amana Colonies?

The multistriped woven carpet that covered the parlor floor muffled the stomp of Berta's foot. I arched my brows and glanced toward my mother. The girl was behaving like an undisciplined two-year-old.

"Father?"

"Now, Berta, please. You must remain calm." Mrs. Schumacher unclipped a hand-painted fan from her waist and handed it to her daughter. "Use this. I don't want you fainting and embarrassing yourself."

Berta grabbed the fan from her mother's hand and slapped it atop her skirt. "I don't need a fan.

What I need is an answer to my question." She waited only a moment. "Well, Father? How long will we be visiting in Amana?"

Dr. Schumacher shifted toward his daughter and inhaled a deep lungful of air. "We will be making our new home here in Iowa, Berta. I trust you will remain quiet until we can speak in private. I should have told you before we embarked on the journey, but I wanted to avoid a scene."

"Did you?" Berta jumped to her feet, a horror-stricken look in her eyes. "You don't really believe I'll agree to live in this place, do you?"

Before either of her parents could respond, our parlor door opened and my father entered the room with his flat felt cap pressed between his callused fingers. A few pieces of straw clung to his dark work pants. He smiled, and crinkles formed along the outer edges of his sparkling eyes.

Today his eyes appeared green.

When I was five or six years old, I'd asked him about the color of his eyes. He'd told me they were hazel, but my mother said they were brown. I argued they couldn't be both.

"Hazel is light brown," he'd explained before scooping me onto his lap. "But hazel eyes change and look different colors depending on what you wear. Sometimes they look green, and at other times you can see golden flecks." He'd nuzzled my neck. "Some people call them cat eyes. Do you think I look like a cat?" he'd asked. Remembrance of that long-ago conversation warmed me. I was glad Father was home. Perhaps his easy manner would calm Berta.

He extended his hand and stepped toward the doctor. "Willkommen!" His deep voice filled the room. "We are pleased to have you join our community and to have another doctor in the villages."

Berta glared at my father as though he'd committed a crime. "We won't be staying in Amana, Mr. Ilg."

My father's brow creased. I was certain he was expecting Berta's father to reprimand her for such rude behavior. Instead, Dr. Schumacher held a finger to his lips. "We will discuss this once we are settled in our rooms, Berta."

"First, you must tell me we aren't going to stay here more than one night," Berta said before tightening her lips into a pout.

The doctor stood. "If you could show us to our rooms where we can have a private family discussion, I would be most grateful."

My mother signaled me. "Johanna will be pleased to show you to the rooms. We must depart for evening prayer service soon. You are welcome to join us."

"Not this evening," Mrs. Schumacher said. "Another time."

As I led the Schumachers upstairs, I couldn't help but compare Mrs. Schumacher's gown to the blue, black, or gray calicos that were woven in the Amana mills and worn by the women of our colonies. No one longed to wear the bright calicos woven for those living outside the colonies—at least no one ever spoke of such a desire. We didn't object to the sameness of our plain waists or the wide-banded full skirts. Even our shawls, aprons, and caps were worn without thought to their sameness. Would Mrs. Schumacher, in her pale green silk dress, adapt to our ways with more enthusiasm than her daughter?

To purchase Somewhere to Belong, go to http://www.christianbook.com/ or http://www.amazon.com/ or visit your local Christian bookstore
To discover more about Judith Miller, please visit her website at http://www.judithmccoymiller.com/

Copyright 2010. Do not reproduce without permission.
Bethany House Publishers
ISBN 978-0-7642-0649-9
Available Now:Somewhere to Belong
http://www.judithmccoymiller.com/

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By Darkness Hid (Blood of Kings, book 1)

By Jill Williamson

By Darkness Hid tells the story of two young people with a unique, ancestral ability to speak to, and hear, the minds of others: a slave forced to serve a prince who wants him dead and a young woman masquerading as a boy to avoid a forced marriage. The novel alternates between their points of view until their stories collide on the battlefield.

"I love a good fantasy, and By Darkness Hid more than fills the bill. With an unpredictable plot, twists of supernatural ability, and finely crafted tension between the forces of good and evil, Jill Williamson's book had me captivated. I jumped into the skin of the heroine and enjoyed her journey as if it were my own." —Donita K. Paul, author of the Dragon Keeper Chronicles

Chapter 1

Achan stumbled through the darkness toward the barn. The morning cold sent shivers through his threadbare orange tunic. He clutched a wooden milking pail at his side and held a flickering torch in front to light his way.

He wove between dark cottages in the outer bailey of the castle, mindful to keep his torch clear of the thatched roofs. Most of the residents of Sitna still slept. Only a few of the twenty-some peasants, slaves, and strays serving Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon stirred at this hour.

Sitna Manor sat on the north side of the Sideros River. A brownstone curtain wall, four levels high, enclosed the stronghold. A second wall sectioned off the outer bailey from the inner bailey, temple, and keep. Achan wasn't allowed to enter the inner bailey but occasionally snuck inside when he felt compelled to leave an offering at Cetheria's temple.

The barn loomed ahead of him in the darkness. It was one of the largest structures in Sitna Manor. It was long and narrow, with a high, thatched gable roof. Achan shifted the pail to his torch hand and tugged the heavy door open. It scraped over the frosty dirt. He darted inside and pulled it closed.

The scent of hay and manure drifted on the chilled air. He walked to the center and slid the torch into an iron ring on a load-bearing post. The timber walls stymied the bitter wind, and Achan's shivering lessened.

The torch cast a golden glow over the hay pile, posts, and rafters and made Achan's orange tunic look brown. A long path stretched the length of the barn with stalls on each side penning chickens, geese, pigs, and goats. Two empty stalls in the center housed hay and feed. He approached the goat stall.

"Morning, Dilly, Peg. How are my girls? Got lots of milk for me?"

The goats bleated their greetings. Achan rubbed his hands together until they were warm enough to avoid getting him kicked. He perched on the icy stool to milk Dilly and begin his tedious routine. He could have worse jobs, though, and he liked the goats.

By the time Achan had finished with Dilly, the stool under his backside had thawed, though his breath still clouded in the torch's dull glow. He lifted the pail to get a better look. Dilly had filled it a third. Achan set it between his feet, slapped Dilly on the rear, and called Peg. When he had finished milking her he moved his stool outside and set the pail on top of it. He grabbed a pitchfork off the wall.

"Anyone hungry?"

Dilly and Peg danced around as Achan dumped fresh hay into the trough. The goats' excitement faded to munching. The other animals stirred, but they were not his responsibility. Mox, the scrawny barn boy, had arrived a few minutes ago and now shuffled from stall to stall at the other end of the barn.

As Achan leaned the pitchfork against the wall, he had to pause. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. He felt the familiar pressure in his head. It wasn't painful, but it brought a sense of a looming, sinister shadow. Someone was coming.

"Lo, Mox!" a familiar voice called from near the barn's entrance.

"Moxy poxy hoggy face, we know you're in here."

Achan sucked in an icy breath and slid back into the goat stall. The voices belonged to Riga Hoff and Harnu Poe, Sitna Manor's resident browbeaters.

Mox's young voice cried out. "Stop it! Don't do that! Ow!"

Achan set his jaw and thunked his head against the wall of the stall, earning a reprimanding look from Dilly. Poril would flay him if he returned late. And there was no guarantee he could beat both boys. He should mind his own business. Regular beatings had made him tough—they could do likewise for Mox.

Or they could cripple him for life. An image flooded his mind: a young slave being dragged through the linen field by Riga and Harnu. They'd crushed his hands so badly that all the boy could do now was pull a cart like a mule. Achan sighed.

He edged to the other end of the barn, stepping softly over the scattered hay. Two piglets scurried past his feet. He clenched his jaw. If the animals got out, Mox would be punished by his master too. Riga and Harnu knew that, of course.

Achan spotted them in a pig stall at the end of the barn. Harnu was holding Mox's face in a trough of slop. The mere thought of the smell turned Achan's empty stomach. Riga leaned over Harnu's shoulder, laughing, his ample rear blocking the stall's entrance. Fine linen stretched over Riga's girth and rode up his back in wrinkles, baring more skin than Achan cared to see.

He sent a quick prayer up to the gods and cleared his throat. "Can I help you boys with something?"

Riga spun around, his mess of short, golden curls sticking out in all directions. His face was so pudgy Achan could never tell if his eyes were open or closed. "Stay out of this, dog!"

Harnu released Mox and pushed past Riga out of the stall. The torch's beam illuminated his pockmarked face, a hazard from working too close to the forge. "Moxy poxy piglet got out of his pen. He needs to learn his place." Harnu stood a foot taller than Riga and was the real threat in the barn. He stepped toward Achan. "Looks like you need to learn yours too."

Achan held his ground. "Let him go."


Visit Jill's website to read the entire first chapter of By Darkness Hid and to learn more about the Blood of Kings trilogy.

To purchase By Darkness Hid, click on:
Amazon.com or BarnesAndNoble.com

The Captain's Lady by Louise M. Gouge, A Star Curiously Singing by Kerry Nietz

The Captain's Lady

Louise M. Gouge

Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical

Torn between love and duty, American Patriot James Templeton must deny his heart to help win his country's freedom.

Captain James Templeton's orders from General Washington are clear. His target: Lord Bennington, a member of George III's Privy Council. The assignment: find Bennington's war plans. The risks: the future of the East Florida Colony, Jamie's life...and his heart. In spite of the dangers of their hopeless situation, he's fallen in love with Lady Marianne Moberly, Lord Bennington's daughter. Desperate to protect his country, Jamie carries out his orders with a heavy heart. But Marianne's persistence is a challenge he never expected. With love and faith, they must navigate troubled waters to win their future together.

Love Thine Enemy, Love Inspire Historical, March 2010, ISBN: 13-978-0-373-82832-6
RT 4-Star Review

Chapter One

I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine. Song of Solomon 6:3

March 1776

London, England

Lady Marianne peered down through the peephole into the drawing room while her heart raced. Against her back, the heavy woolen tapestry extolling one of her ancestors' mighty deeds pushed her into the wall of her father's bedchamber, nearly choking her with its ancient dust. Yet she would endure anything to observe the entrance of Papa's guest.

Often in childhood she and her closest brother had evaded the notice of Greyson, Papa's valet, and crept in here to spy on their parents' guests, even catching a glimpse of the Prime Minister once when he deigned to call upon Papa, his trusted friend, the earl of Bennington. But no exalted politician captured Marianne's interest this day.

Her breath caught. Captain James Templeton–Jamie–entered the room with Papa, and warmth filled her heart and flowed up to her cheeks.

The two men spoke with the enthusiasm of friends reunited after many months of separation and eager to share their news. Unable to hear their words, Marianne forced herself to breathe. Jamie, the Loyalist American captain of a merchant ship. How handsome he was, taller than Papa by several inches. His bronzed complexion and light brown hair—now sun-kissed with golden streaks and pulled back in a queue—gave evidence of long exposure to the sun on his voyages across the Atlantic Ocean. In contrast to Papa's blue silk jacket and white satin breeches, Jamie wore a plain brown jacket and black breeches. Yet to Marianne, Jamie, with his stately bearing, appeared as elegant and noble as Papa.

Hidden high above the drawing room, Marianne could not clearly see the blue eyes whose intense gaze had pierced her soul and claimed her heart less than a year ago. Jamie, always honest, always forthright. No wonder Papa took an interest in him, even to the extent of calling him his protégé, despite his utter lack of social position and being an American.
Marianne suspected part of Papa's interest stemmed from wanting to secure the captain's loyalty now that thirteen of England's American colonies had rebelled against the Crown. But last year she had seen that the old dear truly liked Jamie, perhaps even more than his own four sons, a fact that stung both her heart and Mama's. Yet, despite that affection, the earl's patronage might not extend to accepting a merchant for a son-in-law.

How she and Jamie would overcome this prejudice, Marianne did not know. At this moment, all she knew was that her own affection for Jamie was unchanged. Last summer, against the better judgment of both of them, their friendship had intensified through shared interests, from reading Shakespeare and Aristotle to spending hours sailing on the Thames. On a short excursion with Papa aboard Jamie's large sloop, the Fair Winds, Marianne and Jamie had whispered their confessions of undying love. Then Jamie had placed the sweetest, purest kiss on her lips, sealing her heart to his forever. Now her pulse pounded at the sight of him, and her heart felt a settled assurance that no other man could ever win her love.

Wriggling out of her hiding place between tapestry and wall, Marianne brushed dust from her pink day dress and hastened to the door. No doubt Greyson was below stairs, for at this time of day, Papa seldom required his services. Marianne escaped the bedchamber undetected and hurried down the hallway to her own quarters.

"Lady Marianne." Emma emerged from her closet, her hands clasped at her waist. "Why, my lady, your dress." She took hold of Marianne's skirt and shook dust from it, then glanced up.

"Oh, my. Your hair." Her youthful, cherubic face creased with concern.

"Yes, Emma, I am a fright." With a giddy laugh, Marianne brushed past her lady's maid to sit at her dressing table. "Make haste and mend the damage. Oh, dear, look at this." She removed a silvery cobweb from her hair, pulling several long black strands from the upswept coiffeur Emma had created earlier. "Please redo this. And I shall need another of my pink gowns." More than one dandy had told her pink brought a pretty blush to her cheeks, so she wore the color often.

Her appearance repaired and Emma's approving smile received, Marianne clutched her prayer book and hurried from her room. With a deep breath to compose herself, she held her head high and glided down the steps to the front entry hall. A quick glance revealed Jamie and Papa seated before the blazing hearth deep in genial conversation.

Marianne opened the book and mouthed the words of the morning prayer as she entered the room, not looking their way. Last year, Jamie's parting words had encouraged her to greater piety, and she must let him know she had followed his advice.

The rustle of movement caught her attention. She cast a sidelong glance toward the men, who now stood to greet her.

"Why, Papa, I didn't realize—" She stopped before completing the lie, while heat rushed to her cheeks. "Forgive me. I see you have a guest. Will you excuse me?" She could not look at Jamie for fear that her face would reveal her heart.

"Come, daughter, permit me to present my guest." Papa beckoned her with a gentle wave of his bony, wrinkled hand. "You may recall him from last summer. Lady Marianne, Captain James Templeton of the East Florida Colony." His presentation was accompanied by a shallow cough, and he held a lacy linen handkerchief to his lips.

Gripping her emotions, Marianne permitted herself to look at Jamie. His furrowed brow and the firm clenching of his square jaw sent a pang of worry through her. Was he not pleased to see her? Worse still, his gaze did not meet hers. Rather, he seemed to stare just over her head. Surely this was a ploy to divert any suspicion from the mutual affection they had spoken of only in whispers during his last visit.

©Louise M. Gouge 2010 Available at Walmart, http://www.bn.com/, www.amazon.com, and http://www.christianbooks.com/, and fine bookstores everywhere.
For more information, contact author at http://www.louisemgouge.com/.

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A Star Curiously Singing

By

Kerry Nietz

Book 1 in The DarkTrench Saga.

"Nietz has taken many standard sci-fi tropes...and put his own twist on them. In addition, he's pulled off something I haven't seen in a long time—a truly original way of revealing the truth about God in a world that doesn't know Him. It's highly creative and somewhat inspiring. Highly Recommended."—Christian Fiction Review

2000 AH, Day 36, 1:34:07 a.m.

Chute Sleep, Virtual

I am dreaming, and yet I'm not.

The night is cool, calm—the opposite of the big stew that has just happened. Like the Abduls' god was throwing everything he had down on the city. All flash and action. On the horizon I can still see the bursts of lightning, the power in the moving tempest.

The driftbarges took it the worst, of course. Seventeen of 'em rendered inoperable, according to messages on the stream. Unable to shift their precious cargo from sea to store.

Barges are really land boats—angular hoverlifts on two sides and a large bay in the middle for product storage. The bay is fitted with arms able to lift the product, stack it. They're built tough because they have to be. Anything that travels the streets has to be tough.

I am many stories above the streets. Seated in my personal transport on the strings—the cables that crisscross the upper levels—I scan the cityscape ahead. The streets are the reason for these too. Downriders travel the strings. Shiny, sleek, and compact, they carry people like me, and our glorious masters, to places we need to be. Without complication.

Complication is always waiting for me to arrive. Like the barges.

"Your presence is needed there immediately!" my master's voice says just now in my head.
That will take some explanation, I know. Don't worry, freehead, we'll get to that.

As my downer nears the stockyard, I see the mess the storm has made. To the east—my right—is the great river. A waterway snaking endlessly from north to south. To the west is another sort of river, but this one isn't moving. A long line of dead barges, loaded with valuable supplies. A clogged roadway. Ahead of them, maybe a kilometer away, I can just see the receding taillights of the last barge that is functioning. A lumbering automated giant, able to unload itself while Abduls sleep. Useful equipment, when it works.

The yard is still dark. No one has gotten the lights back on yet? Odd, since I'm not the first to arrive. Masters hate stoppage, so everyone who owns a stalled driftbarge has awakened his personal DR and sent them out here. Soon my downrider will touch down and I'll join them. There are nearly a dozen debuggers here already. I can sense every one of them in the stream.
I'm implanted, you see. Got a metal teardrop in my head. Keeps me connected to the information stream, helps me do my job. It does other things too. Things not as helpful. For me, anyway.

The work lights flicker on then, illuminating the yard below and the red downrider pylon ahead. Ten downers are nestled at the landing, though only one on the same string as mine. That's good, because deboarding gets a little shaky the further you are from the pylon, and I'm not a fan of shaky. I'd live at street level if I could. My downer stops, the transparent canopy slides back, and I step out. Reach back for my supply bag...

"Are you there yet, Sandfly?" my master asks, speaking straight to the implant again. He's not as anxious as he may seem, though. Not really. He just plays the part for appearances' sake. If he were actually upset he would've tweaked my head.

I respond in the affirmative, tell him I'll update him when I can. He goes away then, promising to leave me to my work. He probably will, probably sleep the whole night away.

I take another look at the yard. I see at least three bald heads already scaling barges. For some reason these three have picked barges near the end of the line, instead of near the front—those that will need to leave first. Low-level debuggers, I think. Have to be.

Or fixing only what they're responsible for and leaving. Just as likely.

I stream to my nano-enhanced jumpsuit—standard fashion for a DR—and tell it to take the chill out. The nanos make their presence known, singing back an "OK" and then making with the heat. I smile at their responsiveness, the warmth my chest and limbs now feel. At least something here is working.

The pylon's central ladder is already extended, so I grab hold and slide it to the ground. I make a quick check of the stream. Try to see if I'm familiar with any of the DRs hanging out out there. In my mind the words form, becoming part of my personal—implant-created—waking dream. DanceRate, FrontLot, BerryMast... Most are vague names to me, newer implants with only a single specialty.

Only the moniker HardCandy stands out at me. I know her by stream rep. She's unique, unusual. Better than most, they say. And on top of that—female. Almost unheard of in our world. Abbys, I mean "Abduls," like to keep females mostly for themselves. One with a shaved head must be truly remarkable.

Or real ugly.

To be social, I send out a quick "Hello" to anyone who cares to listen. I approach the mess, reaching the shadow of the nearest barge. This model is immense—maybe three times my height and thirty large steps long. Like all barges, its predominant color is grey, with only a burst of color—a logo or stylized script somewhere—to indicate its owner.

I get a handful of clipped acknowledgements in the stream. No real friends here. I can see bodies in motion on the ground too, though. Bald heads in jumpsuits climbing, running, pawing through their bags.

"Sandfly?" someone says then, aloud. A lanky youngster emerges, formerly hidden behind a barge to my right. He's barely half my age, and, since I'm only twenty-five, that's saying a lot.

"Yes?" I say.

"TreArc property, right?" The kid looks nervous, like this is his first big outage. The first time his master pricked his brain awake.

Kerry Nietz is a refugee of the software industry. He spent more than a decade of his life flipping bits—first as one of the principal developers of the database product FoxPro for the now mythical Fox Software, and then as one of Bill Gates's minions at Microsoft. He is a husband, a father, a technophile and a movie buff. He has one previously published book, a memoir entitled "FoxTales: Behind the Scenes at Fox Software." "A Star Curiously Singing" is his first novel. You're invited to visit his website at www.kerrynietz.com or join his fan group on Facebook. Marcher Lord Press is the premier publisher of Christian speculative fiction. Find "A Star Curiously Singing" and all the rest of the MLP novels at www.marcherlordpress.com. All Marcher Lord Press novels can also be purchased through Amazon and are available in print and several e-book formats such as Kindle, Nook, and the Sony e-book reader.

A Star Curiously Singing ©2009 by Kerry Nietz. Do not reproduce without permission

False Pretences by Veronica Heley and Rachel's Garden by Marta Perry

False Pretences
By Veronica Heley

Bea Abbot ran a domestic agency which didn't `do' murder – except that every now and then she found herself dealing with just that. At sixty years of age, she thought she ought to take it easy and let others handle routine cases, but what might be routine to some could be murder to others.

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, Feb 1st, 1020

Heley's cast of intriguing characters from every walk of life will

please British cozy fans.

Thursday evening

He confessed the moment he got back. Perhaps, if she hadn't that minute returned from decimating the rabbit population, she wouldn't have thought of scaring him with the shotgun.

She aimed at his head.

`No, no! Honoria, no!' A scream. `No, please! No one knows that it was you who . . . where's my medication?'

He dived into one pocket after another but in his panic only succeeded in scattering keys, cash and the all-important pills on the ground around him.

She booted tmhe packet beyond his reach.

He collapsed, clutching at his heart. She lowered the shotgun to watch him die.

A week later, Friday afternoon

Bea couldn't concentrate.

Sometimes she could go for a whole day and not think about her dead husband. And then, wham! Down she went.

She needed a break.

She walked out of her office into her back garden. Wrestling a reclining chair into the shade, she collapsed onto it. Prompt on cue, there was an interruption.

A handsome man with a warm brown skin stood in the doorway, holding a large cardboard box.

Zander, short for Alexander. A man who'd refused to help a criminal some months ago, and in consequence ended up in hospital.

`Mrs Abbot. Could you spare ten minutes? I've been responsible for a man's death, and I need help.' He set the box down on the flagstones and from it withdrew a bronze figurine of a dancer.

`Signed. Art deco. Worth a bit.'

Smooth and classy, like him. One by one he produced a silver photograph frame, a gold pen, and a leather diary; pieces which must have cost someone a small fortune. `I need a witness, someone impartial but with a sharp mind, to go with me when I return these things to the dead man's widow. Let me explain. I'm the office manager for the Tudor Trust, a l9th century housing trust. It's old-fashioned, upright and well-meaning, but . . .'
She prompted him. `It's your personal Garden of Eden – with a snake in the undergrowth?'

`I admit I was naïve, but so were most of the board. They don't take a salary; just an honorarium and expenses. When one director retires or dies, someone of similar background is suggested to take their place. Noblesse oblige, they said. One of them was kind enough to explain it to me.' A tight smile.

Bea grunted, all disbelief. `Not sensible. Let me guess. Somebody from the real world exploded their bubble. Auditors?'

`A new man discovered the Trust was operating at a loss and, it being a trust, all the directors were liable to make it up. What a tempest that raised! They had never, ever. . .couldn't understand, etcetera. I started to look at the figures myself.

The biggest outgoing – and it's huge – is on maintenance. For years the work has gone to a contractor called Corcoran & Sons, who's been charging astronomical sums for changing a couple of light bulbs. The repair of a door hinge would pay a family's gas bill for a quarter.'

He braced himself. `The only person who could have swung such a scam was the director in charge of maintenance, who was on excellent terms with Corcorans. He – er – referred to me by names that, well, if I'd wanted to make trouble, I could have taken him to a race tribunal. I told myself it was a cultural thing, that he'd been brought up to think that way.'

Bea nodded. `A public school type who wasn't trained for the job but thought the world owed him a good living? Someone with a triple-barrelled name such as Montgomery-Peniston-Farquahar?'

A dimple appeared on Zander's cheek. He really was a most attractive man. `You've missed something. He's an Honourable, and his wife is a Lady.'

`So you took your research to the board of directors. And . . .?'

`He put up a brilliant defence. I wondered – I still wonder – if he was more stupid than sly. I can hear him now, saying that good workmanship always costs more but is economic in the long run. He pointed out that he'd given the best years of his life to the Trust, had done his best, had been tearing his hair out trying to make ends meet. It nearly worked.'

`They preferred to think him incompetent rather than criminal? Hmm. Ignorance is no defence in law, and usually gets thumped for it.'

`I could see they were going to close ranks against me, so I asked if he'd show his bank statements to the chairman, proving that he'd not received any kickbacks from the builders. He collapsed, and I was sent home. That evening he had a heart attack and died. The verdict of heart failure was accepted with some relief by all and sundry. But, his widow is a formidable person. She said that we'd driven her husband to his grave and vowed to sue the Trust for libel, slander and the cost of dry-cleaning the clothes he died in. The Trust couldn't afford to pay her off. Delegates of directors traipsed out to see her, trying to resolve the situation. Eventually they succeeded . . . but . . .'

He flicked a finger at the cardboard box. `Lady Honoria wants me to take her husband's things out to her, when she'll decide whether or not I'm to keep my job. I understand she shares her husband's view of people of mixed race, and I'm not sure how much more racial abuse I can take. But if you come with me . . .?'

Bea remembered that this man believed in a loving God, and tried to do the right thing in a world which didn't much care about right and wrong any more. If it ever had done, which she thought unlikely.

`When do you have to visit her?'

`Tomorrow at eleven.' He stood, smiling. `The only thing is, can you drive me? I haven't a car.'

These books may be obtained from good bookshops everywhere. The publisher is Severn

House, and the ISBN is 9780727 868336

Please do not reproduce without permission.

Veronica Heley

http://www.veronicaheley.com/

It has been almost a year since the Amish community of Pleasant Valley lost Ezra Brand to a tragic accident—a year in which Rachel Brand has struggled to raise their three children and run their dairy farm. The community has come forward to help, including Gideon Zook, Ezra's best friend, who survived the accident that took Ezra, but all their well-intentioned advice just puts more pressure on Rachel. As spring turns to summer, can Rachel discover the courage to make her own choices...and embrace new beginnings?

Second in the Pleasant Valley Amish series by Marta Perry, published by Berkley Books, March,

2010. http://www.martaperry.com/

Do not reproduce without permission.

RACHEL'S GARDEN

By Marta Perry

Chapter One

A flicker of movement from the lane beyond the kitchen window of the old farmhouse caught Rachel Brand's eye as she leaned against the sink, washing up the bowl she'd used to make a batch of snickerdoodles. A buggy—ja, it must be Leah Glick, bringing Rachel's two older kinder home from the birthday party for their teacher already.

Quickly she set the bowl down and splashed cold water on her eyes. It wouldn't do to let her young ones suspect that their mamm had been crying while she baked. Smoothing her hair back under her kapp and arranging a smile on her lips, she went to the back door.

But the visitor was not Leah. It was a man, alone, driving the buggy.

Shock shattered her curiosity when she recognized the strong face under the brim of the black Amish hat. Gideon Zook. Her fingers clenched, wrinkling the fabric of her dark apron. What did he want from her?

She stood motionless for a moment, her left hand tight on the door frame. Then she grabbed the black wool shawl that hung by the door, threw it around her shoulders, and stepped outside.

The cold air sent a shiver through her. It was mid-March already, but winter had not released its grip on Pleasant Valley, Pennsylvania. The snowdrops she had planted last fall quivered against the back step, their white cups a mute testimony that spring would come eventually.

Everything else was as brown and barren as her heart felt these days.

A fierce longing for spring swept through her as she crossed the still-hard ground. If she could be in the midst of growing things, planting and nurturing her beloved garden—ach, there she might find the peace she longed for.

Everything was too quiet on the farm now. Even the barn was empty, the dairy cows moved to the far field already, taken care of by her young brother-in-law William in the early morning hours.

The Belgian draft horses Ezra had been so pleased to be able to buy were spending the winter at the farm of his oldest brother, Isaac. Only Dolly, six-year-old Joseph's pet goat, bleated forlornly from her pen, protesting his absence.

Gideon had tethered his horse to the hitching post. Removing something from his buggy, he began pacing across the lawn, as if he measured something.

Then he saw her. He stopped, waiting. His hat was pushed back, and he lifted his face slightly, as if in appreciation of the watery sunshine. But Gideon's broad shoulders were stiff under his black jacket, his eyes wary and his mouth set above his beard.

Reluctance slowed her steps. Perhaps Gideon felt that same reluctance. Aside from the formal words of condolence he'd spoken to her once he was well enough to be out again after the accident, she and Gideon had managed to avoid talking to each other for months. That was no easy thing in a tight-knit Amish community.

She forced a smile. "Gideon, wilkom. I didn't expect to be seeing you today."

What are you doing here? That was what she really wanted to say.

"Rachel." He inclined his head slightly, studying her as if trying to read her feelings in her face.

His own face gave little away—all strong planes and straight lines, like the wood he worked with in his carpentry business. Lines of tension radiated from his brown eyes, making him look older than the thirty-two she knew him to be. His work-hardened hands tightened on the objects he grasped—small wooden stakes.

He cleared his throat, as if not sure what to say to her now that they were face to face. "How are you? And the young ones?"

"I'm well." Except that her heart twisted with pain at the sight of him, at the reminder he brought of all she had lost. "The kinder also. Mary is napping, and Leah Glick took Joseph and Becky to a birthday luncheon the scholars are having for Mary Yoder."

"Gut, gut."

He moved a step closer to her, and she realized that his left leg was still stiff—a daily reminder for him, probably, of the accident.

For an instant the scene she'd imagined so many times flashed yet again through her mind, stealing her breath away. She seemed to see Ezra, high in the rafters of a barn; Gideon below him; the old timbers creaking, then breaking, Ezra falling as the barn collapsed like a house of cards...

She gasped a strangled breath, like a fish struggling on the bank of the pond. Revulsion wrung her stomach, and she slammed the door shut on her imagination.

She could not let herself think about that, not now. It was not Gideon's fault that she couldn't see him without imagining the accident that had taken Ezra away from them. She had to talk to him sensibly, had to find out what had brought him here. And how she could get him to go away again.

She clutched the shawl tighter around her. "Is there something I can do for you, Gideon?"

"I am here to measure for the greenhouse."

She could only stare at him, her mind fumbling to process his words. The greenhouse—the greenhouse Ezra had promised her as a birthday present. That had to be what Gideon meant.

"How do you know about the greenhouse?"

The words came out unexpectedly harsh. Ezra was gone, and plans for the greenhouse had slipped away, too, swamped in the struggle just to get through the days.

He blinked, apparently surprised. "You didn't know? Ezra and I went together to buy the materials for your greenhouse. He asked me to build it for you."

And Baby Makes Five; The Dark Man

California's Central Coast and Romance. What could be better?

Walk the streets and countryside of Monterey, California, with three couples who are surprised by love in the midst of their busy lives. Chad helps Felisa when she goes into labor in his lettuce field. Juli meets Alan while volunteering at a soup kitchen. Ross takes an overdue vacation at Alissa's bed-and-breakfast. Can busy people slow down enough to realize the love God has brought into their lives?

Book Description

Chad helps Felisa when she goes into labor in his lettuce field. Juli meets Alan while volunteering at a soup kitchen. Ross takes an overdue vacation at Alissa's bed-and-breakfast. Can these busy Californians slow down enough to realize the love God has brought into their lives?

Reader Comments

In each of the three novels, set in the central coast of California, Gail writes of God's love with such ease and weaves His love throughout each story. I'm adding this book to my gift list for friends and family. Carolyn Devaney, Reader

Excerpt from Chapter 1, Book 1 -

AND BABY MAKES FIVE
by Gail Gaymer Martin

Felisa Carrillo's pain surged down her lower back into her belly. She doubled over in agony while the hot California sun beat across her back. She took deep breaths, controlling the spasms that weakened her knees, and she struggled against falling to the lettuce field as the wave of pain raked through her.

" Estás bien?"

Her coworker's voice wrapped around her, but she couldn't answer. No, she wasn't okay, although Maria's tone already alerted Felisa that she knew the answer to her question.

Maria boosted herself from her haunches, dropped the head of lettuce into the basket, and darted to her side. " El bebé está naciendo?"

When the pain subsided, Felisa lifted her head. "Yes, the baby is coming," she said in Spanish. She looked down the green, even rows to find a place to escape, but instead, her breath left her when she saw a man striding her way. The boss. The owner. She recognized him from other visits to his fields.

"Déjeme ayudarte," Maria said, offering to help her. She slid her arm around Felisa's shoulder, trying to support her.

"El jefe. El dueño." Panic filled her as Felisa motioned toward the owner, alerting Maria of his presence as she tried to pull away. "Maria, you must get back to work," she whispered in Spanish.

"No." Maria's voice snapped with determination.

Felisa slipped from her arms and knelt beside the lettuce, gesturing for her to leave.

Maria finally moved away and crouched farther down the row while Felisa struggled to focus on a plant to avoid drawing the owner's attention. The earthy scent of sun-heated soil and foliage swept over her, causing her stomach to churn. She couldn't get sick now.

As she reached for a lettuce head, another contraction stabbed her. Panic filled her as the man moved closer. She couldn't afford to lose her job, and she sent up a prayer that God help her bear the pain until he passed. She puffed to control the twisting anguish that seared inside her as the man's shadow fell across her and stopped.

"Are you ill?" His raspy voice hovered above her. " Está usted enferma?" he repeated.

She didn't look up but only shook her head.

He didn't move.

Tears ballooned in her eyes and escaped to her cheeks. She knew the droplets would leave a telltale trail on her dusty skin. She tried to brush them away, but she felt the sticky grime against her fist.

The man lowered his hand and tilted her face upward into the glaring sun. She flinched with his touch and closed her eyes to the brightness, but when she opened them, she saw only concern in his eyes. His gaze left her face and lowered to her bulging belly she'd tried to camouflaged by an oversized shirt. "Pregnant," he muttered, then lifted his gaze to her. " Está usted embarazada?"

She tugged at her top to cover her belly and ignored his question, but she felt her face go pale.

"You're in labor." His voice sounded disbelieving, and he bent over her as frustration rattled in his throat. He straightened and scanned the field. "Husband?," he muttered before he turned to her again. Dónde está su esposo?"

Felisa's throat knotted. "Dead." And good riddance, she added, then immediately became ashamed of her thought, but she knew God understood.

"You speak English." Relief filled his face.

"Yes"

"You're husband is dead?"

Felisa gave a fleeting nod. "Killed."

She watched his head swivel as he studied the field as if looking for a body. Finally he turned back to her as if satisfied. "When? What happened?"

She winced, remembering the day she saw Miguel's mangled body. Though she knew s English, under stress, she struggled to remember the words. "Ocho— eight months ago. Accidente—an accident," she corrected. Miguel had been drunk as always, but that day he was dead drunk. Coming out of a barroom, he staggered into the street and was hit by a car. The police called it an accident. She called it freedom.

The man shook his head and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his face. "Do you have family in Salinas?"

"No," she said, feeling another contraction grip her. She coiled into a ball.

"No family."

She heard the irritation in his voice.

"You're not having a baby in this field," he said, his voice deepening with emotion. "I'll take you to the hospital."

"No, please," she said, fearing a hospital bill. She barely had enough for food.

"The Natividad Medical Center. It's a hospital. You're not staying here," he said, sounding determined and hitting numbers on his cell phone. "Can you walk?"

He turned his attention to the phone call while she let the last of the pain fade. Could she walk? Determination charged through her. She would. She had to.

The man disconnected, then reached toward her.

"I can walk," she said, pushing her hand against the pungent earth to hoist herself. As she rose, her legs buckled, and he grasped her arm, lifting her to her feet and supporting her along the lettuce rows.

"My truck is this way." He motioned toward the distance.

Felisa felt her knees buckle, and she stumbled forward. The man scooped her into his arms and carried her, his urgency obvious. His strength gave her a sense of security, and she drew in the smell of the heat radiating from his skin, a clean aroma so different from the workers in the field. His fresh scent mingled with the tangy fragrance of his aftershave.

"Do you think you can make it?," he asked. "By the time I get an ambulance here, we can probably be there ourselves. " He boosted her more securely against his body.




The Dark Man
By Marc Schooley

The World Has Turned Over

The Dark Man is a near-future thriller about a master of disguise working to eradicate Christianity in America. Charles Graves is haunted by his dead brother, his lost mother, and a phantom arising cryptically from a child's puzzle. Charles goes undercover to infiltrate one of the last Christian cells in the South, only to find that someone else is working to infiltrate him. In a world turned over by an oppressive government and a godless society, Charles strives to bring down the last Christian leaders. But sometimes he who persecutes the church is destined to serve her.

The dark man was back.


***

Charles peeked through the woodworking adorning the balcony's railing. A forgetful, mechanically over-produced tune from the ASL meandered through the house, droning its way to the balcony. The singer alluded to something about the brotherhood of man. Charles did not understand the phrase.

Something crashed downstairs and the music stopped. They were arguing again.

Through the woodworking he watched the remains of his family's Approved Song List unit skid across the great white marble floor. It came to rest under the chandelier. Its ruins looked like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle.

The dark man was assembled at Charles's feet. Charles stole a quick glance. The dark man snickered at him like a ventriloquist's dummy.

Before he'd died, his grandfather had fashioned this wood-block puzzle for Charles. The puzzle consisted of a sunken oaken frame with raised sides two inches high. The frame enclosed an area of one square foot. His grandfather had sanded the oak meticulously, finishing the frame inside and out with a shiny lacquer.

The puzzle pieces were easily assembled blocks carved on all six sides. The sides represented facial features, hair, ears, foreheads, cheeks, and chins. Some pieces featured accessories such as glasses. Many emotions were represented, as well, enhanced by the intricate carving of facial lines, muscular nuances, and distinguishing marks. Some eyes cried, some mouths laughed. The dark man's mouth usually sneered. The wood-block puzzle was a homemade, wooden version of Mr. Potato Head, with greater realism.

The dark man stared through hollow eyes—despite the fact that none of the eye pieces had been cut to appear hollow. Charles supposed the combination of pieces that formed the dark man was special. His face was blemished from Charles having ripped him out of the frame or slammed him on the floor once too often. His hair was manicured, black, and parted in the middle. His lips were thin, yet full and red. The pieces tracing the dark man's outline were worn, creating an effect that appeared to suspend him within a fog of unknown origin.

"Get out!" Charles said to it.

With the nail of his left-hand ring finger Charles traced a jagged scar stretching across the left side of his face from cheekbone to lip. He overturned the dark man, spilling him onto the floor of the balcony. One of the dark man's plucked-out eyes stared up at Charles.

Charles righted the frame and began to refill it with different pieces. The tension escalated below.

"I don't care about that stupid ASL machine." His mother's voice rose from below. "And you used to not care!"

"Things are different now. Can't you see?" Charles's father said.

From the balcony, Charles peered down at his parents through an archway leading into an adjacent hall. They stood along the far side of a formal dining table embellished by an arrangement of white roses in an ornamental vase. His mother faced him, wearing an ankle-high red dress. She was partially obscured by his father, who leaned against the table with his back to Charles. Charles noticed the heart-shaped bald spot on the back of his father's head.

His mother grasped a remote control with red buttons in her right hand. "Different?" she said. "Here's something different." She pushed a red button.

The house erupted in sound. Charles thought this music was different from the ASL. It was raw and uncouth: Can you expect a man that's rotten to the core. To ever raise himself, to be anything more.

His father's refined speech was easy to distinguish from the voice in the song. "Turn it off, Teresa." He seemed to be inching his way toward her.

Charles's mother pressed another red button. The music paused. "What happened to you, Cotton?" She hit Play again: 'Cause when I try it on my own You know I'm bound to lose. Another pause.

"Nothing, baby. We have to fit in. Adapt. That's all."

"I don't want to fit in." Charles's mother mashed the red buttons again: There's only one path a sinful man is ever gonna choose.

"You have to quit. Give me that remote." Charles's father shuffled one foot nearer to Teresa.

"Don't come any closer," she said. Tears streamed. Her mascara bled. She ran her free hand through her hair, causing her bangs to tangle. She wiped the tears from her face, smearing her makeup. Her head fell to her chest. A stilted moan oozed from her mouth. It sounded like a whining cello.

Charles's father put both palms forward. "Okay, okay. Calm down." He was almost within reach.

The remote clicked twice. Between clicks the scraggly voice sang: but when the Spirit touched my heart.

Charles's left hand arranged pieces in the oak frame, operating on its own recognizance. It removed two of the pieces from the frame. His hand searched for others to take their place. His eyes were fixed on the situation below. He saw his father nearing his mother. In the corner of his vision he noticed the outline of a face appear in the puzzle. It had his mother's hair.

Charles's mother backed two steps from his father. The archway leading into the dining room had not quite concealed her from his sightline. Her moaning escalated to bawling. She tried to say, "I don't want to calm down."

All Charles could make out was "I doe whaa cahhh dowww." She clicked twice: And I called Jesus's name.

"I've had enough," his Father said. The heart-shaped bald spot blushed. "Teresa, I'm begging you. Please. I can still help you. Quick, they are coming."

No response, only clicks: He saved the soul of a man in the sinners' hall of fame.

***
Jeff Gerke is publisher at Marcher Lord Press, the premier publisher of Christian speculative fiction. Find The Dark Man and all the rest of the MLP novels at www.marcherlordpress.com. All Marcher Lord Press novels can also be purchased through Amazon and are available in print, of course, and in several e-book formats such as Kindle, Nook, and the Sony e-book reader.
The Dark Man ©2009 by Marc Schooley. Do not reproduce without permission.

Caw! Caw!

Elvis Takes a Backseat
Leanna Ellis

Strap on your seatbelt for a most unusual ride!
"Leanna Ellis takes a back seat to no one. So put on your blue suede shoes and come along for a most entertaining ride to Memphis˜and to the healing place closest to the heart."
Debbie Macomber, New York Times #1 bestselling author

"Brilliant! Charming! I laughed, I cried, I sighed in contentment. Leanna Ellis is a gifted writer and a must-read."
Lorraine Heath, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author

"Elvis Takes a Back Seat is no different from its muse˜full of surprises, drama, and humor, just like the King of Rock 'n' Roll. Welcome to a talented storyteller and a fun, deep, unexpected book."
 Kristin Billerbeck, author of What a Girl Wants and The Trophy Wives Club

A young widow, determined to fulfill her husband's last request, hauls a three foot bust of Elvis strapped in the back seat of a vintage Cadillac from Texas to Memphis to return it to its rightful owner. The road trip with her eccentric aunt, who knew the King of Rock n' Roll, and a temperamental teen, hits roadblocks and detours as the three women uncover pieces of their own past along with the bust's mysterious history. The discoveries change the course of their lives forever.

Winner of the National Readers' Choice Award, Leanna Ellis wrote romance novels before moving into women's inspirational fiction. Elvis Takes a Back Seat was the launch title for B&H Publishing Group's new fiction line. Visit her website at http://leannaellis.com.

Elvis Takes a Back is available at a bookstore near you or online. Please Do Not Reproduce without permission.
www.leannaellis.com

Until We Reach Home
By Lynn Austin
Life in Sweden seems like an endless winter for Elin, Kirsten, and Sofia Carlson after their parents' deaths. When circumstances become unbearable, Elin writes to her relatives in America, pleading for help. As the sisters begin the long, difficult journey, they have nothing to rely on except courage, faith and each other. And in a journey fraught with hardships, each woman will come to understand the meaning of home.

Publisher's Weekly says:
"this rich tale will not disappoint historical romance fans. Austin, a four-time Christy Award winner, scores again with an engrossing tale of loss, determination and hope."

Bethany House Publishers c.2008
Lynn Austin's website: www.lynnaustin.org
This book is available now at www.bethanyhouse.com; www.amazon.com; www.christianbook.com; or fine bookstores everywhere