Lonestar Homecoming, The Word Reclaimed

LONESTAR HOMECOMING

By

Colleen Coble

Gracie has spent her life running from her problems. This time, it's a matter of life and death.
With nothing but five dollars, a train ticket, and the wedding dress she's wearing, Gracie Lister escapes with her daughter to the West Texas country where her family fell apart years ago.

There, Lieutenant Michael Wayne-devoted single father, dedicated soldier-gives Gracie the hiding place she needs, and a job caring for his two children. Michael and Gracie aren't looking for love, but it finds them right away.

The couple doesn't exactly see eye-to-eye, though. A vengeful druglord has put a price on Michael's head, and he's determined to face the enemy head-on. When Gracie's ex-fiance catches up to her, her impulse is to flee the danger … and the father she lacks the courage to confront.

Find LONESTAR HOMECOMING at CBD or any bookstore.

One

In a few minutes, she'd be a married woman. Gracie Lister tugged at the silk encasing her hips and drew a deep breath that did little to calm the flutters tapping against her ribs. San Diego traffic rumbled past her small rental house, but she blocked out the noise. Things would be better now. Cid had changed. She was sure of it.

Hope tugged at her hand. "I have to potty."

"Hurry, we need to meet Cid in fifteen minutes." Gracie smiled when she saw her daughter hiking the hem of her ruffled pink dress before she reached the bathroom. "Shut the door," she called. "Someone might come in."

Gracie rubbed her perspiring palms together and wished the ceremony were over. Soon this dump would be just a memory. Hope would have a princess room with ruffled curtains in the window that overlooked a park. Their furniture would be better than this mismatched collection of things from the Salvation Army.

When the knock came at the door, she glanced through the window and saw two men in suits standing outside. She lifted the hem of her dress off the floor. The dress rustled in a delicious manner as she went to the door. When had she last worn something so beautiful?

She opened the door. "Hello," she said, smiling. "Can I help you?"

The tall blond man flashed a badge that identified him as Roger Hastings. "Federal officers, ma'am." His gaze swept her dress. "We'd like to talk to you a moment."

She stepped aside to allow them entry. "What's this all about?"

The younger one glanced her way with something that looked like pity in his eyes, but Hastings kept his expression impersonal. "We'd like to talk to you about Cid Ortega."

Goosebumps raised on her arms. "Can't this wait? Our wedding is in just over an hour. I have several things to attend to before the guests start arriving." The few guests would be Cid's family and a few of her coworkers. "What's this all about?"

"Have you observed him transferring anything to others? A box, a briefcase, a bag?"

"No," she said. "What is it you suspect him of doing?"

The two men exchanged a glance. "Think," Hastings urged in a harsh voice. "Maybe in the park?"

"What is this about?"

"We have reason to suspect he is turning a blind eye to gun-and-drug traffic through his district."

Gracie took a step back and put her hand to her throat. The fact that she didn't spring to Cid's defense told her more than she wanted to know about their relationship. Her main priority had been to make Hope happy, no matter the cost.

"We'll know more when we talk to your fiancé. I suggest you let us take you into protective custody. When he's arrested here, the cartel will assume you helped us and may retaliate."
Protective custody. "But wouldn't that make me look even more guilty in their eyes? The minute you let me go, they'd come looking for me."

Hastings shrugged. "Then you'd better get out of town until this blows over."

Tires squealed outside, and Gracie turned to peer out the window. "It's Cid."

Hastings pulled a paper from his jacket and headed toward the door. "Stay back, ma'am, in case it gets dangerous."

Gracie backed away from the door as the men exited and approached Cid's car. With the door partially shut, she peered out into the street. Cid exited the car and turned toward the house. A battered brown van veered to the curb with a shriek of brakes, but she barely noticed with her attention focused on the exchange between Cid and the federal agents.

When the first pop, pop, pop came, she thought a car had backfired. Then she saw three men, their guns smoking, spill from the van. She slammed the door and locked it, then peeked through the open window in the entry. She didn't see the agents at first, then she noticed a shiny pair of black shoes by Cid's back tire. And a second pair of shoes. There was no sign of Cid. Was he dead too?

Gracie ran to the bathroom and grabbed her daughter's hand as Hope exited. "Be very quiet," she whispered. Keys, she needed keys. She snatched her bag from the top of the dresser.
Hope's dark eyes were huge. "Mommy, what's happening?"

Gracie put her finger to her lips. She led her daughter into the hall. Where could they hide? The voices grew closer. They'd be in the house any moment.

Staying as close to the old brick building as possible, she led Hope down the alley to where it exited onto the street. A glance up and down the crumbling sidewalk dissuaded her from stepping out. Teenagers with tattoos stood smoking in groups. They could be part of the neighborhood gang.

She ducked back into the alley. The train whistle blew again. The train. She still had the tickets to Alpine that she'd bought a few weeks ago, before Cid talked her out of leaving. If she and

Hope could get to the train, they could escape.

The teenagers ignored them as she and Hope ran across the street to the intersection. A few men whistled at her through their open windows, and she knew her wedding dress was an attention getter she didn't need. The train platform was just ahead. The strong smell of diesel fuel burned her nose but the odor signaled her escape. Passengers stared down at her from inside the train as she hurried to the steps.

She dug through her purse past the wallet, lipstick, and gum to find the train tickets. With the tickets in her hand, she and Hope boarded the train. Her wedding dress raised a few eyebrows as she walked by the other passengers. Two seats together were a welcome haven, and she sank onto the upholstery before her legs could give way.

Safe, at least for now.

Colleen Coble, LONESTAR HOMECOMING

THOMAS NELSON PUBLISHERS, DO NOT REPRODUCE WITHOUT PERMISSION

Best-selling author Colleen Coble's novels have won or finaled in awards ranging from the Best Books of Indiana, ACFW Book of the Year, RWA's RITA, the Holt Medallion, the Daphne du Maurier, National Readers' Choice, and the Booksellers Best. She has over 1 million books in print and writes romantic mysteries because she loves to see justice prevail. Colleen is CEO of American Christian Fiction Writers and is a member of Romance Writers of America. She lives with her husband Dave in Indiana and is a proud new grandma. When she's not spoiling her granddaughter, she is teaching at a writer's conference or researching a new book. Visit her website at http://www.colleencoble.com/.

* * *

The Word Reclaimed -- Book 1 of The Face of the Deep

Steve Rzasa

In the far future, the civilized worlds have finally been freed of the curse of religion. Thanks to the secret police, no one has been bothered by so much as a hymn in two generations. Son of a starship captain, young Baden finds a book preserved carefully against the ravages of deep space. Thinking he'll become rich if only for the value of the paper, he takes it. He counts himself lucky beyond all imagining. Until it begins talking to him. Amidst an interstellar war that threatens to overthrow the monarchy and drive great families to oblivion, Baden must evade the secret police and their attempts to get that book. He never had much use for religion. But, it seems, one has use of him.

Prologue

September 2602 -- Eventyr star system

"Their faith is illegal."

Detective Chief Inspector Nikolaas Ryke smiled as he said it. His cold, brown eyes squinted out

of the bright comm screen. His head had been shaved bald. His skin was a ghostly white. He looked like a ghoul, save for the deep maroon uniform jacket he wore.

Captain Charlotte Ruby Bell shifted uncomfortably in her small seat. She was perched on one wall of the nearly pitch-black comm booth. She absently scratched her ragged mop of short black hair as she returned Ryke's stare, willing herself not to flinch before the young investigator. Bell curled a lip. What galaxy was this that this whelp, at least twenty years her junior, was telling her what to do? But, she thought with a shrug, she was willing to overlook such insults where money was concerned.

"You sure you want this done?" People had told Bell that her voice gave the impression she'd been gargling with metal shavings. If it resulted in better pay, so be it. "This ain't my usual line of work."

Ryke brushed lint, either real or imagined, off his immaculate coat.

Bell wished for half a second that she'd worn one of her nicer, albeit stolen, jackets in place of the patched brown and grey work jacket. But she liked the feel of this old one. It clung to her tightly muscled arms and shoulders. She liked letting everyone see that, while she was a thin woman, she was a strong one.

Even with that strength, Bell despised the tiny comm booth. The walls, ceiling, and deck were unadorned metal. She'd extinguished the only light. Her lone seat faced five small screens, two of which were blank. Ryke inhabited the middle one. The single console of flickering buttons and switches would let her speak to five people at once. The calls could be completely open or heavily encrypted. It was a complex piece of hardware. Bell always thought it was the best investment she'd made in her ship.

"Come now, Captain," Ryke said smoothly. "It is not so far afield from your sacking of the six-brace off Port Kapteyn."

Bell gripped the armrests tightly. How did Ryke know about that? If he'd learned what she'd done to the survivors…

Ryke spoke again, as if reading her mind: "Needless to say, that incident will be…overlooked…if you satisfactorily complete this assignment."

"Yeah?" Bell scowled. "Look, I don't usually go after these religious nuts. Ain't that your job? Usually no profit in it for me and my crew. Who cares if they're off their course?"

"I care, Captain." Ryke's voice was a low hiss. "We cannot allow such a threat to the Realm of Five. As I'm sure you fully believe, Captain, the belief in a single, jealous God is tyranny for the human spirit. Kesek will not allow it."

"For the stability of all. I know." Bell's eyes flicked to the Ryke's chest and the brass badge affixed there. It bore no decoration or insignia, only the words Koninklijke stabiliteitskracht. Bell knew it was abbreviated KSK, and usually pronounced Kesek. "You know, I always thought `Royal Stability Force' was a dumb name." She twisted her lip into a sneer.

"Your candor," Ryke said dryly, "is…appreciated.".

"Okay, so you want `em dead." Bell shrugged. "There's a lot of people on that ship."

"The people are a secondary concern," Ryke said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "This is a case of texts-in-violation. We have never had a printed copy of the Talmud and the Torah in one place at one time. You must seize this opportunity."

"Why me? You guys got your own ship in the area! Tell me again why we can't seem to track it…"

Ryke smirked. "Captain, I pay you the compliment of believing you are an intelligent woman."

Bell nodded glumly. That confirmed her worries. "No point in getting your hands dirty if you got someone else willing to make the mess."

"Precisely."

"It's a lot of killing," Bell said, laying more sorrow into her gravelly tone. "Makes for a heavy burden."

Ryke didn't bat an eye. "I will double the price. Does that adequately lighten your load?"

"Oh, definitely," Bell said, suddenly eager. With that much money, she'd be able to outfit her ship in style. No more insults from more powerful pirates. "You got a deal, Mr. Ryke."

"Detective Chief Inspector Ryke," he reminded her sternly.

"Of course. You got it."

* * *

Captain Bell left the comm room and sauntered out onto the bridge of Golden Orchid.
Her spirits were brightened now, not only because of the new contract under her belt but because of the more open feel of the command section. The bridge was hemispherical, almost perfectly round. She all but bounced into her tattered captain's chair, spinning it in a half circle. From there, seated up a couple meters above her bridge crew, she could keep watch over everything going on under the sickly pale lighting.

Bell felt like she was looking down into a bowl about six meters wide as her eyes roved across her bridge crew. The main monitor dominated the bridge. It was a glowing, round-cornered rectangle of stars filling sixteen square meters, directly ahead of her chair.

"Any news on the target?" Bell asked.

"No change," the navigator replied. "Same heading, same speed. Don't think they've seen us."
One of the three monitors attached to the arm of Bell's chair flickered. She smacked it on the side with an open hand. It blinked once more and settled down. "Most likely they have, but they don't care," she said. "We look like every other navastel out there."

Now that the monitor was working, she could watch her own, smaller version of the nav chart. "Distance holding?"

"Aye, Skipper. Five light-seconds out."

Bell grinned. "Continue to match speed and course. No sudden moves. We got a big payday ahead, boys."

To purchase, go to http://www.marcherlordpress.com/ or http://www.amazon.com/.
To learn more about author Steve Rzasa, visit http://www.steverzasa.com/ or Friend him on his Facebook page.

Copyright 2009. Do not reproduce without permission.

Marcher Lord Press

ISBN 978-0-9821049-9-5

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

* * *

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

No Distance Too Far, A Stranger's Wish

Lauraine Snelling continues Astrid Bjorklund's journey to follow God's plan in No Distance Too Far, book two in the Home to Blessing series. Astrid wants to use her medical training to serve God and feels he is leading her in the direction of missionary service. Smarting from a misunderstanding with Joshua Landsverk, the young man she thought she loved, she heads to Georgia to attend a missionary school, hoping to eventually use her skills in Africa. If she follows God's call, will love pass her by?

No Distance Too Far

Lauraine Snelling

March 1904

Athens, Georgia

The dream was a lie. She was in Georgia, not Blessing, North Dakota.

Staring out the window did nothing to calm the butterflies rampaging in her middle. Astrid tried swallowing—once, twice—no matter, they continued to spiral and cavort. She laid a hand on her diaphragm and closed her eyes. Please, Lord, fill me with your calm and peace.

A throat being cleared behind her caught her attention. She turned, swallowed again, and smiled. At least she hoped she smiled.

"Dean Highsmith will see you now." The young man needed to loosen his collar. He appeared to be near to strangling.

Dean Highsmith, gold glasses perched on the end of a rather aquiline nose, sat down in the chair opposite her, nodding and smiling. "I received your application with enthusiasm. Rev. Schuman is an old friend of mine, and he has been raving about you." He paused for a moment. "I must say, you look amazingly young for a person of your accomplishments."

"I understand that, and yes, my youth has caused some to doubt my ability."

"I wonder why that is, that we do not expect a lovely young woman to be involved in the medical field. Stereotypes are sometimes difficult to overcome." He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. "Be that as it may, tell me about yourself. What brings you here and where do you dream of going?"

I dream of going back to Blessing, she thought but knew that was not what he wanted to hear.

"Your friend, Rev. Schuman, was invited to speak in our church one Sunday. When he said the fields were ripe unto harvest in Africa and they desperately needed missionaries, especially medical missionaries, he looked right at me, as if I were the only person in the room. I feared…er… felt like God was speaking right at me. I have written back and forth with Rev. Schuman, who has been so encouraging—"

"I see." He tapped his index fingers against his chin, studying her all the while. "All I can do is submit your name and application to our mission board to see if they will approve a two-year enlistment for you. In the meantime I have here a list of classes you will be required to take. If all goes well, you would be leaving for Africa in early July. We allow our students to return home for a short period of time before embarking if they have any affairs that need to be put in order. As a medical missionary, the more supplies you can accumulate, the better. Our missionaries are always in need of the most basic of medical aids and equipment."

"One question. Will I be sent to the same area as Rev. Schuman? He said they are in need of a doctor there."

"Dr. Bjorklund, you have to understand something. There is a need for medical people all over Africa. The term Dark Continent is actually an apt description. There is little education, there's a terrible lack of transportation, and the sanitary conditions are beyond belief. But"—he held up one finger—"when the light of Jesus shines there, it glows so brightly that it cannot be extinguished."

Within an hour she'd emptied her trunk, hung her clothes, and found homes for all that could be folded. Her books lined the shelves above the desk, and her writing kit now lived in the central desk drawer. She pulled her trunk out into the hall, where someone was supposed to pick it up for storage. It was not hard to believe that this had been someone's home at one time, before it was donated to the school.

She sat down at the desk and dashed off a letter to her mother.

Dear Mor and Far,

I have arrived safely and already had my incoming interview with Dean Highsmith, dean of the missionary school here at Cardin College. He is a pleasant gentleman and easy to talk with. He was not pleased when I said again that I am signing up for two years and no more. While they do accept some people for two years, they prefer a much longer commitment. He said that the missionary board may not accept my application for that reason and also because I am young and single. If they turn me down, then I shall know that I have done my best and, as always, the outcome is in God's hands.

I cannot tell you how close I came to changing trains and heading west. I wish that I were more certain that what I am doing is God's will. One step at a time. Right now the staff thinks I have a tight schedule, but they have no idea what my life was like in Chicago. This will seem like a vacation. I do hope I can find something medical to do to keep my hands in tune.

I've enclosed my address. Please give it to everyone who wants it, as I would so love news from home. Here I will have time to answer them. I will write to Elizabeth immediately. I'm afraid she might be furious with me, but I hope not.

Love from your daughter,

Astrid

As she read it over, she thought through the day's conversations. Even though she had been homesick and overwhelmed in Chicago, she'd still had the sense that she belonged there, if only for a time. But here she felt nothing fit. Where was that peace Mor and Pastor Solberg said came when in God's will? How long did one need to wait for it?

To purchase No Distance Too Far go to http://www.christianbook.com/ or http://www.amazon.com/ or visit your favorite bookstore.

To learn more about Lauraine Snelling visit http://www.laurainesnelling.com/ and http://www.blessingnd.com/.
Copyright 2010. Do not reproduce without permission.

Bethany House Publishers
ISBN 978-0-7642-0610-8

* * *

A stranger's request, a secret key, a handsome man, a series of escalating threats—art teacher Kristie Matthews faces them all as she boards at an Amish farm.

"Gayle Roper is the author you've been waiting for."
-Robin Jones Gunn

A STRANGER'S WISH

Gayle Roper

By the time Jon Clarke What's-his-name drove me to the hospital, my terrible inner trembling had stopped. My hands were still cold, and the towel pressed to my cheek was still sopping up blood, but I was almost in control again. If I could only stop shaking, I'd be fine.

All I'd done was bend down to pet Hawk, the sable and tan German shepherd sleeping contentedly in the mid-August sun. How was I to know he had a nasty cut hiding under that sleek hot fur?

I was horrified when he lashed out, startled by the pain I inadvertently caused him. He got me in the cheek with a fang. I don't know about the dog, but what exquisite relief I felt when I realized he hadn't actually bitten me, just bumped me. The thought of what would have happened if he'd closed his mouth made me break out in a fine sweat.

How dumb to touch a sleeping dog. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I knew better. Everyone knew better.
As we entered the Emergency Room, I rearranged my towel to find an area not stained with blood. I went to the desk and signed in.with a woman whose jet black hair stuck out in spikes to rival a hedgehog. When she had my life's history, she patted my paper work with a proprietary air that made me wonder if she was willing to share the information with the people I'd come to see.

"Have a seat." She gave me a warm smile. "They'll be with you shortly."

Hoping shortly really meant shortly, I took my seat.

"You don't have to wait," I told Jon Clarke as he took the bright orange plastic chair beside me in the otherwise empty Emergency Room. He smiled slightly and stretched his long legs out before him, the picture of long-suffering and quiet accommodation. His posture said it didn't matter how long things took. He was prepared to be gallant and wait it out.

"Really," I said. "I'll be all right. You can go."

I was embarrassed to have inflicted myself upon this man I didn't know, this man whose last name I couldn't even remember. He'd pulled into the drive at the Zooks' Amish farm just as I bent over Hawk. While Mary Zook plied me with towels and bemoaned my possible disfigurement when she wasn't yelling at the innocent Hawk, John Clarke Whoever climbed out of his car, took me by the elbow, put me in his passenger seat, and drove me here.

"Have you lived in the Lancaster area long?" he asked, and I could have sworn he actually cared.

"Three years. I love it here."

"Were you at the Zooks' to visit Jake too?"

Too. So he had come to see Jake. I shook my head. "I live there."

That stopped him. "Really? On the farm?" He raised an eyebrow at me, an improbably dark eyebrow considering the light brown of his hair. "Have you been living there long?"

I glanced at the clock on the wall. "About four hours."

The eyebrow rose once again. "You're kidding."

"Kristina Matthews?" called the woman at the desk. Her nameplate said she was Harriet. She scanned the empty room as thought there might be several Kristinas lurking about, and I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to see who might have sneaked in while I wasn't looking.

When I stood, Harriet smiled brightly. "There you are. Right through here, please."

When the doctor was finished, I took the paper he handed me, and hurried to the waiting room. At least Jon Clarke hadn't had to wait long once I got seen.

But the waiting room was empty. My angel of mercy had flown the coop.
Harriet got up from her desk. "He said he'd be back, honey. He looked pretty reliable, don't you think?"

I looked at her blankly.

" Listen," she said, not put off by my lack of answer. "I've got to go to the ladies' room. I'm talking emergency here, believe me. Stay by the desk and watch things for me, will you?"
Yikes. "What if someone comes in?"

"Tell them I'll be back in a minute. But don't worry," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through a door. "Nothing big ever happens on Saturday afternoon."

Taking no comfort from those words, I looked at the quiet waiting room.

No one, Lord, okay? Not til she gets back, okay?

The prayer was barely formed when the waiting room door slid open and an older man in khaki work clothes entered. His face, damp with perspiration, matched the color of the white envelopes sticking out of his shirt pocket, and he was rubbing his left arm. He stopped beside me at the desk.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he said as he might say he was going to sneeze.

I felt my own heart stop beating and my mouth go dry.

I ran to the door of the treatment area. "Help, somebody! Help!"

"In a minute," called a voice.

"Hurry! Please hurry!" Pushing down panic and not knowing what else to do, I went back to the man.

Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me with an intensity that made me blink. "Will you do me a favor?"

I leaned close to hear his weak voice. "Of course."

"Keep this for me." He fumbled in his shirt pocket. "But tell no one—no one—that you have it." He slipped a key into my cold hand and folded my fingers over it.

I stared at it and he stared at me as if searching my soul. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because his hand relaxed on mine and his eyes closed. "Don't forget. I'm counting on you." He gave a deep sigh, and I froze. Was that his last breath? "I'm counting on you."

The room came alive with people. Medical personnel converged on the sick man, and I stepped back with relief.

An arthritic finger tapped my closed fist as they rushed to put him on a gurney. "Remember, tell no one," the old man managed to whisper. "Promise?"

"I promise." What else could I say?

But what did I do if he died?

This material cannot be reproduced without permission of the author.

A Stranger's Wish is available at bookstores and on line at amazon.com, christianbooks.com and other sites.

Visit Gayle at her web site http://www.gayleroper.com/

Polar Opposites
By Susan Page Davis

Cheryl Holland enjoys working in her son-in-law's veterinary clinic in Wasilla, Alaska. When she goes to the Anchorage airport to pick up the new partner for the practice, she expects a young man about Rick's age. To her surprise, his former roommate is Cheryl's age-mid-50s-and very attractive. But Oz Thormond has been a globe-trotting scientist who's worked for city zoos and been honored for his wildlife research. Cheryl is a frontier woman who's learned to fix engines and drive a dog team. She's sure they're too different to form a personal relationship. But when Oz invites her to go to the North Slope with him to help study polar bears in the wild, she learns they're not so far apart in their thinking.

Author Bio:
Susan Page Davis is a Maine native and still lives there with her husband Jim and two younger children. Susan is the author of 30 novels in the mystery, suspense, historical romance, and fantasy genres. Jim recently retired from his job as a news editor and now does freelance book editing. They are the parents of six children (all home schooled) and six grandchildren (all adorable). Be sure to visit Susan's Web site at: http://www.susanpagedavis.com/. She holds a monthly drawing where the winners get to choose their free books.

You'll be able to find this book at http://www.heartsongpresents.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Susan-Page-Davis/e/B001IR1CGA/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0



Eternity Falls
Kirk Outerbridge

In the future, death is only a problem if you can’t afford the price. Such is the promise of Gentec Corporation’s “Miracle Treatment”, a genetic anti-aging elixir that grants eternal life—or does it?
When a Gentec client suddenly dies of natural causes, the powers that be will stop at nothing to ensure their version of eternity remains unchallenged; even if it means concocting a religious sabotage conspiracy to cover a lie.

With the media about to blow the story wide open, the credibility of Gentec and the lives of millions of clients rest on one man’s ability to uncover the truth.

Enter detective Rick Macey, religious counterterrorist expert and Gentec executive Sheila Dunn’s last hope for salvation.

Now with the clock ticking and the corporate brass seeking their own solution at any cost, Macey must track down a religious zealot out to destroy the Miracle Treatment for good.
But when Macey finds himself not only falling for his client, but confronted with the possibility that the culprit could hold a connection to his shaded past, the truth suddenly becomes a dangerous thing.

Only through a test of faith can he stop the crisis before it’s all too late and eternity falls.


Kirk resides in beautiful Bermuda with his wife Ria and son Miles. He is a faithful member of the Church of Christ and a professional engineer by trade.

Marcher Lord Press is the premier publisher of Christian speculative fiction. Find "Eternity Falls" and all the rest of the MLP novels at http://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.

Sons of Thunder

by Susan May Warren

About the book:
Sophie Frangos is torn between the love of two men and the promise that binds them all together. Markos Stavros loves Sophie from afar while battling his thirst for vengeance and his hunger for honor. Dino, his quiet and intelligent brother, simply wants to forget the horror that drove them from their Greek island home to start a new life in America. One of these "sons of thunder" offers a future she longs for, the other-the past she lost.

From the sultry Chicago jazz clubs of the roaring twenties to the World War II battlefields of Europe to a final showdown in a Greek island village, they'll discover betrayal, sacrifice, and finally redemption. Most of all, when Sophie is forced to make her choice, she'll learn that God honors the promises made by the Sons of Thunder.


Read and excerpt here:
http://susanmaywarren.typepad.com/files/excerpt-for-sons-of-thunder.pdf


About Susan:

Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of twenty-four novels with Tyndale, Barbour and Steeple Hill. A four-time Christy award finalist, a two-time RITA Finalist, she's also a multi-winner of the Inspirational Readers Choice award, and the ACFW Book of the Year.

Susan's larger than life characters and layered plots have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. A seasoned women's events and retreats speaker, she's a popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation and the author of the beginning writer's workbook: From the Inside-Out: discover, create and publish the novel in you!. She is also the founder of http://www.mybooktherapy.com/, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice.

Susan makes her home in northern Minnesota, where she is busy cheering on her two sons in football, and her daughter in local theater productions (and desperately missing her college-age son!) A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at: http://www.susanmaywarren.com/. Connect with Susan on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/SusanMayWarrenFiction



Buy the book here:
http://www.christianbook.com/sons-thunder-susan-warren/9781935416678/pd/416678?event=AFFp=&

Enter Susan's Memory Prize Pack contest:
Each one of us has a wealth of stories from the past - while they might not all be as sweeping and dramatic as that of Sofia and the Stravos brothers (swoon), your family history is a treasure nonetheless.

Well - let's hear them! Were your great-grandparents 'fresh off the boat'? Was your great uncle a war hero? Did your grandmother make unbelievable sacrifices to help or protect the family? Did your father harbor a family secret until his death? Are you related to someone famous (my assistant is related to presidents Harrison and Jackson - wow! Who knew?) Do you have a family treasure? Maybe you just have some lovely memories. Whatever it is that is unique in your family history - share it with us.

Have a photo to go with your story? Even better!!!! Email those to amy@susanmaywarren.com!
One grand prize winner will win a Memory Prize package containing a gift certificate to create your own hard cover photo book, a 6 month membership to Netflix (to satisfy that flick fix!) and a signed copy of Sons of Thunder! 5 runners up will also win signed copies of Sons of Thunder! Contest ends March 31st. Winners will be announced April 2nd.

TO ENTER THE CONTEST VISIT THE SONS OF THUNDER WEBSITE: http://brothersinarms.susanmaywarren.com/ AND CLICK ON THE SHARE PAGE!

Sworn to Protect by Diann Mills, Starfire by Stuart Vaughn Stockton

Sworn to Protect

by

DiAnn Mills

Tyndale Publishers



Danika Morales has sworn to protect our borders. But that oath has come with a price.

Two years ago, her husband was shot and killed trying to help undocumented immigrants--the very people Danika, a Border Patrol agent, is responsible for deporting. His murder was never solved.



Now, a recent string of attacks and arrests leads Danika to believe her husband's death may have been part of a larger conspiracy, and it appears that she's the next target, When the Border Patrol discovers that one of their own is leaking top-secret information, Danika turns to the only person she can trust--a doctor at the local medical clinic. Together they search for answers before more innocent lives are destroyed.



"We are truly a nation of immigrants. But we are also a nation of laws." Brent

Ashabranner

Chapter 1

McAllen, Texas


The Rio Grande River separating Mexico and the US was not just murky. It was

toxic. Danika Morales respected the river's temperament—lazy and rushing, crystal and

muddy, breath-taking and devastating. To many illegal immigrants, its flowing water

signified hope and an opportunity for a better tomorrow, while others viewed the river

crossing as a means of smuggling drugs or spreading terrorism. But for Danika, the

depths meant death, and it didn't discriminate among its victims. That was why she chose

a Border Patrol badge and carried a gun.



Shortly after the 8:00 a.m. muster, Danika snatched up the keys to the Tahoe

assigned to her for the next ten hours and checked out an M4. A hum of voices, most with

Hispanic accents and clipped with occasional laughter, swirled around the station. A

labyrinth of sights and sounds had succeeded in disorienting her. A daze. She took a sip

of the steaming coffee in hopes no one saw how the day's date affected her. Her hands

shook. The twelfth of July. The second anniversary of Toby's murder. She thought she

could handle it better than this, but the raw ache still seared her heart.



"Tough day for me too," Jacob whispered beside her. "We can get through this

together." The familiar tone of voice, as in many times before, nearly paralyzed her.

Jacob sounded so much like his brother.



She stood shoulder to shoulder with her brother-in-law and glanced at his

muscular frame and the silver streaks in his closely cropped hair, everything about him

oddly different from Toby. Gone were the gentleness, patience, and the out-stretched

arms of love.



"Thanks. But I'm all right."



He frowned, a typical expression. "Well, I'm not, and you shouldn't be either."

She was in no mood to rile him today. "I miss Toby every minute of the day, but

we have to move on. He would have wanted it that way."



"Not till his murderer is found." Jacob's jaw tightened. "I'm disappointed in you."



Danika took another sip of the hot coffee, burning her tongue. Caustic words threatened

to surface and add one more brick to the wall dividing them. "I want the killer found too.

I'm committed to it. I think about him everyday and mourn for our daughter who will

never know her daddy. But I choose not to spend my time harboring hate and

vengeance."



"You must not have really loved my brother."



The words cut deep, and Jacob knew they would. No woman could have loved

Toby like she did. "I refuse to be brow-beaten by you any more. Your hate is going to

explode in your own backyard one day." She stopped herself before she lit a match to his

temper. Actually, she'd rather have been dropped in the bush for the next ten hours with a

shotgun and a can of OFF than argue with him. But the time had come to distance herself

from Jacob.



"Hey, Danika," an agent called. "Do these belong to you?"



She turned to see wiry Felipe Chavez carrying a glass-filled vase with a huge

bouquet of roses. They remembered. She swallowed a chunk of life. "Oh, guys, you

didn't have to do this."



Felipe made his way toward her. The other agents hushed, then one of them

started to clap. She smiled through the tears as he handed her the clear glass vase. The

sweet fragrance no longer reminded her of death, but of life and her resolve to live each

day in a way that commemorated Toby's devotion to her and their little daughter. Perhaps

this was what the two-year marker meant. She took the roses and studied the small crowd

of agents. Good men, all of them—even Jacob.



"We cared about what happened to Toby too," Felipe said, with a grim smile.

Danika brushed her finger around one of the delicate petals and formed her words.

Memories had stalked her like a demon since last night. "Don't know what to say except

thank you. Toby was a soldier for his own cause, and he spent his life doing what he

believed in. Just like all of us."



One agent shook his head, frowned, and left the room. Far too many reasons for

his disapproval raced through her mind. But Danika needed to put the ugliness behind

her. She set the flowers on the long table in front of her. "Today is the second anniversary

of Toby's death."



These books may be obtained from good bookshops everywhere.

Tyndale Publishers

ISBN: 9781414320519

Please do not reproduce without permission.

©DiAnn Mills 2010

Expect an Adventure

www.diannmills.com







Starfire

By

Stuart Vaughn Stockton


On an alien world far removed from Earth, Rache of Yanguch seeks to rise from lowly origins and achieve greatness in the Karn Empire. His chance comes on a military mission when he is imprinted as the protector for a childlike artificial intelligence from an all-but-forgotten civilization. Soon Rathe finds himself in the center of a war that threatens to tear his empire apart, and in search of a weapon that could save his nation or doom his world. Rathe must navigate treachery and prophecy to make a decision that will change Sauria forever.

"I have to admit I picked up this book, thinking it was a guy's book. It is a tribute to Stuart Vaughn Stockton's writing that within a few pages I was thoroughly enmeshed in his 'out of this world' world." ~Donita K. Paul, author of The Dragon Keeper Chronicles, WaterBrook Press


Excerpt


Rough stone tore Rathe's palms as he stumbled through the gaping maw of the cave. He tore away the makeshift leaf filter covering his mouth and sucked in the cool underground air, soothing his burning lungs. Pain lanced through his side as each breath tortured cracked ribs.

He turned to the entrance and gazed into the ash-clogged air outside. Grey blanketed the world like a shroud, quickly swallowing his large three-toed tracks, and obliterating any scent that would lead the trackers to him. Satisfied that he would be safe for the duration of the ash fall, Rathe staggered farther into the cave. His claws echoed hollowly on the stone floor, their quiet clack, clack, clack bouncing into the darkness.

The musical trickle of water sounded nearby, and Rathe angled toward it. Sudden wetness at his feet alerted him to the presence of a shallow pool. He lowered gingerly to the ground and stuck his snout into the chill liquid. The bitter taste of ash flowed over his tongue, but sweet relief filled his parched throat. Yet each swallow intensified the pain in his ribs. The cool, moist rock felt good against his hot skin, and he rolled onto his left side, away from the fire in his battered ribs, and stretched out to his full twelve-foot length. His tail-tip lazily slapped against the ground as drowsiness flowed over him. the water's flow sung him to sleep.

A shrill cry jolted Rathe from soothing darkness, pain seared through his right side and down his tail. Through the agony the fading echo of the cry played at the edges of his mind. He groaned as he rolled onto his belly and forced a few swallows of water despite the agony in his side.

After a moment's rest he pushed to his feet, swaying slightly as his stiff muscles adjusted to his weight. He cocked his head and listened, but whatever had made the sound had gone silent, or the cry had been only the vestige of a nightmare.

A glint of light drew his attention to the cave entrance. The remaining half of his sokae lay just inside the entrance. The curved blade winked in the renewed light filtering through the lessened ash-fall. He staggered to the entrance and slowly retrieved the weapon. Hefting its five-foot shaft gave him a renewed sense of confidence.

His gaze wandered the gray-toned landscape outside the cave. Ash blanketed the valley, yet even now bright flecks of color began stirring, as klants uprooted themselves and began skittering about, feasting on the bounty, their light-red fronds swaying as if in a gentle breeze. More plants joined in, some slowly moved about, scooping their harvest into their innards. Others made due with what fell nearby, slowly leeching away at the nutrients expelled from the volcano.

Just down the slope the Hekaret River rushed along its course, choked with the ash. Rathe grinned at the fortune that had washed him ashore so near to this shelter. By all rights he never should have emerged from the torrent after his failed fording. But the same rock that had cracked his ribs had enabled him to reach the shore. And though he had lost half his weapon, and all of his gear, he was still alive.

Rathe craned his neck and surveyed the damage done to his right side. A wide black-green bruise spread from just behind his shoulder, over his hip to just past the base of his tail. The skin over his ribs was torn, but he was close enough to shedding that only a few scrapes showed blood, already scabbing over.

A klant wandered close to the cave entrance, little spurts of dust spouted from under its hard shell as it moved. With a quick thrust, Rathe speared the plant on the end of his sokae. He grimaced as the impaled plant's legs continued moving as if nothing had happened. A savage jerk tore one wrigling leg free, releasing a pungent odor and dripping sap. Rathe's lips formed an involuntary snarl as he lifted the limb, crushed the hard exterior between his teeth, and sucked the pulp out.

Three legs later he tossed the boxy plant back into the ash-covered valley. Warmth and strength flowed through Rathe's body, renewed by the meager meal, despite a slight queasiness. He turned his gaze back to the landscape, scanning for any movement that wasn't a plant.

A bloodcurdling scream tore out of the depths of the cavern, chased by a savage roar. Rathe spun around, brining his weapon to bear as he scoured the darkness. The cries echoed into a skin-crawling silence. He backed toward the entrance a step at a time, but then froze as a new sound reached his ears.

The guttural cry of thorniks on the hunt sounded from the valley. A group of trackers, barely holding the beasts under control, appeared from behind a grouping of rocks on the far side of the river. There was no way they would have missed the scream or the roar. Rathe shrunk back into the shadow of the cave entrance as the group stared in his direction. After three weeks of dodging and hiding, he was finally trapped. It would take time for the trackers to cross the river, but even so, with his cracked ribs he'd never be able to outrun them.

He turned back to the black cave depths. Death waited within the abyss, he felt it. But better to chance death than face the humiliation of capture. With his sokae held in front of him, and his right hand pressed to the stone wall Rathe took soft steps into the dark.



Signature



Stuart Vaughn Stockton

http://www.ritersbloc.com

http://www.marcherlordpress.com/New_Store/Product--Starfire.htm

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/

* * *

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/.

* * *

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