Vicious Cycle, Protecting her Own

VICIOUS CYCLE

by Terri Blackstock

Book 2 in the New York Times Best-Selling Intervention Series



When fifteen-year-old Lance Covington finds an abandoned baby in the backseat of a car, he knows she's the newborn daughter of a meth addict he's been trying to help. But when police arrest him for kidnapping, Lance is thrust into a criminal world of baby trafficking and drug abuse.



His mother, Barbara, looks for help from Kent Harlan—the man whom she secretly, reluctantly loves and who once helped rescue her daughter from a mess of her own. Kent flies to her aid and begins the impossible work of getting Lance out of trouble, protecting a baby who has no home, and finding help for a teenage mother hiding behind her lies.



Chapter One



I should have died.

Jordan lay on her bloody sheets, her newborn daughter in her arms, and longed for one more hit. She had never hated herself more. Her baby had come two weeks early—probably because of her drug use—and she hadn't been sober enough to get to the hospital. Giving birth at home had never been part of the plan, but there was no one in her house whose mind was clear enough to do the right thing.

What kind of mother traded prenatal vitamins for Crystal Meth? Her age was no excuse. At fifteen, Jordan knew better than to get high while she was pregnant. Now she had this beautiful little girl with big eyes and curly brown hair, innocence radiating like comfort from her warm skin. That innocence, so rare and short-lived in her family, made the birth all the more tragic to Jordan. Worse, the baby seemed weak and hadn't cried much, and sometimes her little body went stiff and trembled.

Was she dying? Had Jordan tied off the umbilical cord wrong? Her mother, who had once worked as a nurse's aid, had told her to use a shoe string. What if that was a mistake? What if she'd waited too long to cut the cord? It wasn't like she could trust her mother.

All Jordan's plans were ruined now. She had made up her mind to give the baby up for adoption, even though she'd felt so close to it in the last few weeks as it had kicked and squirmed inside her. While she was sober, she'd come to love the baby and dream of a future for it … one that bore no resemblance to her own. But once Jordan had gone back into the arms of her lover—that drug that gave her a stronger high than the love of a boy—the baby had stopped kicking. For the last week of her pregnancy Jordan had believed it was dead. So she'd smothered her fear, guilt, and grief in more drugs.

Then today her water broke, and cramps seized her. She had responded to her fear as she did every emotion—by getting high. By the time she'd felt the need to push, it was too late to get to the hospital, and there was no one who would drive her.

She craved another hit, but her mother and brother were out of Ice. They'd already burned through Zeke's casino win, so one of them would have to find a way to score. Maybe it was better if they didn't, though. Her baby needed her.

She wrapped the baby in a dirty towel, swaddling it like she'd seen on one of those baby shows. She hadn't expected to love it so fiercely. The baby had big eyes, much larger than the average baby, and now and then she would open them and look up at Jordan, as if to say, "So you're the one who's supposed to protect me?"

The door to her bedroom burst open, and her mother, eyes dancing with drug-induced wildness, swooped in with sheets in her hand. She must have been holding out on Jordan. She had a secret stash of dope somewhere that she didn't want to share.

"Up, up, up," she said with trembling energy. "Come on, girl, you've made a mess. Now let's clean it up."

Since when did her mother care about neatness when rotten dishes festered in every room, and garbage spilled over on the floors? "Mom, I have to get the baby to the hospital. She's not acting right, and I don't know about the cord."

Her mother leaned over the baby, stared down at her with hard, steel-gray eyes. "Looks fine to me. I've called the Nelsons. They'll be here soon. They're deliriously excited."

The Nelsons? No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Her mother released the fitted sheet from the corners of one side of the mattress and pulled it up, clearly trying to roll them both out. Jordan tried to brace herself. "Stop! Mom, I can't."

"Get up," her mother said, clapping. "Come on. We've got to get the little thing cleaned up before it's mommy and daddy come. And if they come back here I don't want them to see these sheets."

"Mom—you don't get to pick her parents!" Jordan got up, clutching the baby. Blood rushed from her head, blotches blurring her vision. "I've worked it all out with the adoption agency. I'll call them and tell them—"

Her mother's face hardened even more, all her wrinkles from hard living starkly visible now. "It's a done deal, darlin'. Baby, we have to do this. It's great for our whole family! This is the whole reason we let you leave rehab early."

"It's not the reason you gave me, Mom. You said you missed me, that I needed my mama while I was pregnant. It was all a lie."

Her mother snapped the sheets. "Forty thousand dollars, baby. Do you know how much Ice that'll buy?"

"Just take her to the hospital to make sure she's all right. Then we can talk about who—"

"No!" her mother shrieked, and the baby jerked and started to cry.

Jordan pulled the baby's little head up to her shoulder and rubbed her back. She was so tiny, just a little ball. Her arms and legs thrashed, as if to say that someone had made a mistake, that she wasn't supposed to enter a world of chaos and madness.

"His new parents can take him to the hospital," her mother said.

"Not him—her!" How could her mother not know whether her grandchild was a girl or a boy? "And they're not her parents. I don't know them. I don't care about the money. They're not on the list the agency gave me."

Her mother flung the sheets into a corner. The blood had seeped through the sheets and now stained the mattress. "Look what you did, you piece of trash! Bleeding all over that mattress."

"If you'd taken me to the hospital—"

"To do what? Let them arrest you because you were high as a kite while you were giving birth to that kid? Let them arrest me? I'm on probation. You know they can't see me like this. And you're fifteen. They might have taken you away from me, put you into foster care, and then where would you be? Worse, they could take the baby away and put it into foster care. Then we got nothing to show for it. I ain't gonna let that happen."

Jordan squeezed her eyes shut. If she'd only stayed in rehab, under the protective wings of New Day.

She felt dizzy, weak, but as she held the baby, her mother threw the clean sheets at her. "Put these on that bed. But first get that stain out of the mattress."

"Mom … I need some things." She kept her voice low. "Something to dress her in. Some diapers. Bottles."

"You can nurse her until they take her. I'm not putting one penny into this. They're paying me!" She yanked the baby out of Jordan's arms. "I'll hold it while you change the bed."

Jordan hesitated, uneasy about the fragile baby in the hands of a wild woman who didn't know her own drug-induced strength.

"Do it!" her mother screamed.

Again, the baby let out a howl. Jordan took her back.

"I will, Mom," she said softly. "Just let me put the baby down."

Breathing hard, her mother watched as Jordan laid the baby on the floor. Then Jordan got a towel and blotted at the blood stain on the mattress, watching the baby from the corner of her eye.



Buy Vicious Cycle Now at http://www.terriblackstock.com/books/adult-fiction-books/the-intervention-series/



Buy Book 1, Intervention at http://www.terriblackstock.com/books/adult-fiction-books/the-intervention-series/



Watch Vicious Cycle Video Trailer at www.youtube.com/TerriBlackstock



Read more about her books at www.terriblackstock.com





Protecting Her Own

By Margaret Daley



Bodyguard Cara Madison must protect her own father when an assailant targets him. With the help of an ex-boyfriend, Connor Fitzgerald, she searches for a would-be killer while fighting her feelings toward Connor.



Blurb for Protecting Her Own, second book in Guardians, Inc. Series:



Nothing short of her dad's stroke could bring professional bodyguard Cara Madison back to Virginia. But her homecoming turns explosive with a pipe bomb package addressed to her father. Cara knows two things for sure. First, someone's after either her father or her…or both. And second, this job is too big to handle on her own. Unexpected help comes from Virginia state police detective Connor Fitzgerald. Years ago she'd walked away from him…and love. Now, despite their unresolved feelings, they must join forces—and settle their scarred differences.



Margaret Daley

Heartwarming to Heart Pounding

An Electrifying Read



Excerpt from Protecting Her Own by Margaret Daley, Love Inspired 2011:



"I thought that was taken care of." Cara Madison gripped her cell to her ear so tightly her hand ached as she hurried toward the foyer of her childhood home to answer the door. Exhaustion clung to her as though woven into every fiber of her being.



The bell chimed again.



"No, the State Department still has some questions," Kyra Morgan, her employer at Guardians, Inc., said.



"Hold it a sec. Someone's at the door."



She peered through the peephole, noting a deliveryman with a package and clipboard, dressed in a blue ball cap, blue shorts and white T-shirt. Probably another birthday present from one of Dad's friends. She thrust open the door and cradled the cell against her shoulder to keep it in place.



"So I have to make a trip into Washington, D.C., to see Mr. Richards at the State Department?" Cara asked her boss while she scribbled her name on the sheet of paper then took the box.



Stepping back into the house, Cara shut the door with a nudge of her hip and carried the package to the round table in the center of the dining room to put it with the multitude of others—all presents from people around the world whom her father knew.



"Cara, I'm sorry you need to go at this time. I know that last assignment was rough and now with bringing your dad home from the rehabilitation center, you don't need this complication. Mr. Richards assured me it's just a debriefing about the riots occurring in Nzadi."

She wished she could say that wasn't her fault, but what she did had set the protests off. Guilt swamped her. In protecting her client, a revered humanitarian in Nzadi was killed instead. "Don't worry. I'm tough. I'll survive. I'll call the man and set up an appointment after I get Dad home and settled."



For a few seconds she studied the plain brown box from Global Magazine with C. Madison on the label before peeling back the top flap on the carton. The sound of the tape ripping the cardboard reverberated in the stillness, exposing the top of a gift wrapped in black paper. Black? True, her father was turning sixty tomorrow, but wasn't black wrapping a little too macabre after he suffered a stroke eight weeks ago?



"I'm sure it's only a formality." Her boss's assurance drew Cara's thoughts away from the gift. "My impression from the State Department was you won't have to go back to answer any more questions from the Nzadi government."



The word Nzadi shivered down her length, leaving a track of chills even though it was summer. "I'll call you after I talk to Mr. Richards. Bye." Cara clicked off and stared down at the open box that nestled the new present, wrapped in black paper. Black like people wore to funerals. Black as the dress of the beloved lady who had been killed in the café. Cara shivered again. She wanted to forget Nzadi, but she didn't think she ever would.



The image of the beautiful woman, bleeding out on the floor of the café, nudged those last days in the African country to the foreground. She'd managed to push the trophy wife she was protecting out of the way of the assassin's bullet, only to have it lodge in the woman across from them. Again she heard the angry shouts from the crowd as she'd been driven to the Nzadian airport. The people's grief over the death of Obioma Dia had evolved into fury at Cara and the woman she'd been assigned to protect.



A shrill whistle pierced the air.



Shaking the image and the shouts from her mind, she glanced toward the kitchen. The water she was heating for her tea. The noise insisted on her immediate attention and grated her frazzled nerves. But the sound was a welcome reprieve from the thoughts never far away.

She quickly headed toward the kitchen and a soothing cup of tea along with a moment to rest and think about her father's situation—the reason she was in Clear Branch. She craved peace after the past couple of hectic days—after her last disastrous bodyguard assignment in a country that fell apart around her. Nzadi was still suffering the worst unrest in decades.

Just inside the kitchen she pocketed her phone, wishing she could silence it like she could the teakettle's racket. But her cell was her lifeline, especially when she was on a job. And now also because her dad's homecoming celebration was cancelled because of a reaction to a new medication that made the doctor decide at the last minute to keep him a few more days. She'd planned a small birthday party for tomorrow and would need to finish calling his friends to tell them she'd have to postpone the festivity.



As steam shot out of the spout on the white pot, she snatched it off the burner and set it on a cool spot on the stove. Finally the loud, annoying sound quieted. She turned toward the cabinet behind her to get a mug.



Blissful silence—no angry people in Nzadi yelling words that still curdled her blood, no rehabilitation center—



A boom rocked the foundation beneath her feet. She flew back and slammed against the edge of the counter so hard the air rushed from her lungs. Her momentum then spun her to the side, her hip clipping the corner. Her head swung back against the freezer handle then forward. Darkness swirled before her eyes as bits of wood and plaster rained down upon her, stinging her skin. Her ears rang, drowning out any sound except the thundering of her heartbeat vying for dominance.

Pompeii: City on Fire; Second Chance Dad

Pompeii: City on Fire

By T.L. Higley

"Riveting action and compelling characters . . . I simply could not read fast enough!"

—Ronie Kendig , Author of Digitalis

Pleasure-seeking Romans find the seaside town of Pompeii the perfect getaway. But when the rich patrician Cato escapes Rome, intent on a life of leisure, he is unprepared for the hostility he encounters.

In the same place, but at the opposite end of society, Ariella has disguised herself as a young boy to be sold into a gladiator troupe. Survival is her only ambition. But evil creeps through the streets of Pompeii, and neither Ariella's secret nor Cato's evasion is immune to it. Political corruption, religious persecution, and family peril threaten to destroy them, even before an ominous mountain in the distance spews its fire. As Vesuvius churns with deadly intent, Cato and Ariella must bridge their differences

to save the lives of those they love—before fiery ash buries Pompeii, turning the city into a lost world.

From the Prologue

Jerusalem, August 9, 70 AD

Ariella shoved through the clogged street, defying the mob of frantic citizens. Men, women, and children crowded the alleys, senseless in their panic to flee the city. They carried all they could, packed into pouches slung across their chests and clutched in sweaty hands. Soldiers ran with them, as though they had all joined a macabre stadium footrace, with participants who clubbed and slashed at each other to get ahead. Beside her, one of the district's tax collectors tripped and fumbled a latched wooden box. It cracked against the cobbled street and spilled its meager hoard of gold. The tax collector was dead before he hit the ground, and the Roman soldier pulled his sword from the man's gut only to scrabble for the coins.

Ariella turned her head from the gore, but felt little pity for the tax man, cheated of life by the Romans for whom he had betrayed his people. Still, concern flickered in her chest at the sudden violence in the street.

Something has happened.

The city had been under siege for months. Three days ago her mother announced that the sacrifices in the Temple had ceased. But today, today was something new.

Perhaps three days of sins not atoned for had brought the wrath of the Holy One down on them all.

Unlike those who ran the streets with her, Ariella's destination was neither Temple nor countryside. She returned to her home—if the dim tenement could be called such—from another useless excur

sion to secure food.

At sixteen and as eldest child, it fell on her to search the famished city for a scrap of dried beef to feed her brother, perhaps a thimbleful of milk for the baby, crumbs for her father whose eyes had gone glassy and whose skin was now the color of the clay pots he once turned on the wheel.

But there was no food to be found. Titus, the emperor's son, had arrived in the spring with his army of eighty thousand and his siege wall served well its double function—the people were trapped and they were starving.

Not even such a wall could prevent news from seeping through its cracks, however. From Caesarea, word escaped of twenty thousand Jews slaughtered in a day. Fifty thousand killed in Alexandria. Ten thousand met the sword in Gamla. Such numbers were incomprehensible.

Here in Jerusalem, the bodies thrown outside the city were too numerous to count, piled high in rotting mounds, as though the city itself were defiled and would forever be unclean.

Yet we are not all dead. Ariella's hands curled into tense fists as she rounded the last corner. She would cling to life as long as she had strength, and like her untiring mother, she would hold tight to that elusive thread for each member of her family.

She pushed against the rough wood of the door and slipped out of the rush of the street. The home's tomb-like interior had the peculiar smell of starvation. In the corner, her baby sister whimpered as if in response to Ariella's entrance. Micah met her at the door, his sunken eyes fixed on her and his lips slightly open, as though anticipating the food she might have brought. Or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to close his jaw. She shook her head and Micah turned away, hiding his disappointment as all boys of eleven do when they are threatened by tears.

Her father did not speak from his mat on the floor. Ariella scooped the listless baby Hannah into her arms and gave her a finger to suck. Small consolation.

"Where is Mother?" She scanned the room, then looked to Micah. A low groan from her father set her heart pounding. "Where is she, Micah? Where has Mother gone?"

Micah sniffed and glanced at the door. "To the Temple. She has gone to the Temple."

Ariella growled and pushed Hannah into her brother's arms. "She is going to get herself killed, and then where will we be?"

She bent to her father's side. The man had been strong once. Ariella could barely remember. She touched the cool skin of his arm. "I will bring her back, Father. I promise." Her father's eyes sought her own, searching for reassurance. The hunger seemed to have stolen his voice. How long until it took his mind?

She turned on Micah, grabbed his shoulder. "Do not let anyone inside. The streets--" She looked to the door. "The streets are full of madness."

He nodded, still cradling Hannah.

She kissed the baby. "Take care of them, Micah." And then she left to retrieve her mother, whose political fervor often outpaced her common sense.

The mid-summer sun had dropped in the sky, an orange disc hazy and indistinct behind rising smoke. The city burns. She smelled it, sensed it, felt it somehow on her skin as she joined the flow toward the temple – a heat of destruction that threatened to consume them all.

Her family enjoyed the privilege of living in the shadow of the Temple Mount. A privilege that today only put them closer to folly. She twisted through the crazed mob, darted around wagons and pushcarts laden with family treasures, swatted at those who shoved against her. Already, only halfway there, her heart struck against her chest and her breathing shallowed, the weakness of slow starvation.

She reached the steps to the south of the Temple platform and was swept upward with the masses. Why were so many running to the Temple? Why had her mother?

And then she heard it. A sound that was part shrieking anger, part mournful lament, a screaming funeral dirge for the city and its people. She reached the top of the steps, pushed through the

Huldah Gate, dashed under the colonnade into the Court of the Gentiles, and drew up short. The crowd pressed against her back, flowed around her and surged onward, but Ariella could not move.

The Temple is on fire.

Read the first three chapters, watch video trailers, and dive into Tracy's adventures at http://www.NoPassportRequired.TLHigley.com.

Pompeii: City on Fire can be purchased at Amazon,Christianbook.com, and wherever books are sold.

© 2011 T.L. Higley

* * *

SECOND CHANCE DAD

ISBN: 978-0-373-87673-0

Love Inspired

June, 2011

Roxanne Rustand

He Was A Challenge She Couldn't Ignore...

The minute she steps foot in his dark, miserable house, Sophie Alexander knows Josh McClaren

is not her usual patient. But the single mom and physical therapist is desperate to make a life for

her and her young son. And she's definitely no quitter! It's obvious to Sophie that handsome,

cantankerous Josh hides his pain behind a wall of grief. Little by little, Sophie and her son,

Eli, do more than help Josh find his faith again. They make Josh wonder if there's a family in

his future after all....

Aspen Creek Crossroads: Where faith, love and healing meet.

Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laser-like intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.

It was not a welcoming pose.

Set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself--with all the windows dark--seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth. So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?

"Don't worry about the dog," Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie's orientation at the county home health department offices. "He's quite the bluffer. It's the owner who is more likely to bite."

Sophie looked at the folder in her hand again. Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Post-surgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured L-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.

Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he'd been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries. The only other documentation in the folder were scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors. The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.

The man is surly and impossible.

Ten minutes spend arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.

And the final note...

I give up. Doctor or not, McLaren is a highly unpleasant client and I will not be coming back here.

Sophie scanned the documents again, vainly searching for a birth date or mention of the man's age. Maybe he was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to his independence.

The job was just temporary--three months covering for the regular therapist

who'd gone to Chicago for some advanced training. But if Sophie did exceptionally well, Grace would try to push the county board to approve hiring her on a permanent basis.

The thought had lifted Sophie's heart with joy, though now some of her giddy excitement faded. She set her jaw. If her ability to stay in Aspen Creek hinged on those stipulations, then no one--not even this difficult old man--was going to stand in her way. Far too much depended on it.

"Buddy, I'm going to overwhelm you with kindness, and your mean ole dog, too," she muttered under her breath as she pawed through a grocery sack on the front seat of her car. "See how you like that."

Withdrawing a small can, she peeled off the outer plastic storage lid, pulled the tab to open the can and held it high. "Salmon," she crooned. "Come and get it."

It took a minute for the scent to drift over to the cabin. The dog's head jerked up. He sniffed the breeze, then he cautiously started across the stretch of grass between the cabin and driveway.

She stayed in the lee of her open car door, ready to leap back inside at the least sign of aggression. But by the time the dog reached her front bumper his tongue was lolling and his tail wagging.

She grabbed a plastic spoon on her dashboard--a remnant of her last trip to a Dairy Queen--and scooped up a chunk of the pungent, pink fish. She dropped it on the grass and the dog wolfed it down, his tail wagging even faster. "Friends?"

She held out a cautious hand and he licked it, his eyes riveted on the can in her other hand. "Just one bite. When I come out, I'll give you one more. Deal?"

His entire body wagged as he followed her to the cabin door and watched her knock..

No one had peered outside. No lights shone through the windows. What if...what if the old guy had passed on? Her heart in her throat, she framed her face with her hands and pressed her nose to a pane of glass, trying to peer into the gloom. Knocked again. And then she tentatively, quietly tried the door knob.

It turned easily in her hand. She pulled the door open, just an inch. "Hello? Anyone here?" She raised her voice. "I'm from the home health agency."

No answer.

Thundered rumbled outside, heavy and ominous. A nearby crack of lightning shook the porch beneath her feet. She opened the door wider, then bracketed her hands against the inner screen door and tried to look inside. "Hello?"

The dog at her side shoved past her, sending the door swinging back to crash against the interior wall. So much for subtlety.

"Hello," she yelled. "Are you here? Are you okay?"

If the old fellow had died, she had no business disturbing the scene. The sheriff should be called, and the coroner. If he was in there with a shotgun, she sure didn't want to surprise him. But on the other hand, if he needed help, she could hardly walk away. Steeling herself, she reached around the corner and found a light switch.

Only a single, weak bulb came to life in the center of the room, leaving most of it dark. A figure suddenly loomed over her, making her heart lurch into overdrive with fear. Tall. Broad shoulders. Silhouetted by the faint light behind him, she couldn't make out his expression, but his stance telegraphed irritation.

This definitely wasn't some old guy.

Raising her hands defensively, she backed up a step, but then she saw the dog amble over and sit at the man's side. He rested a gentle hand on the animal's head.

"I-I'm sorry," she faltered, searching his face. He didn't look disabled...but then she saw the telltale signs of tension in his stance, as if he were guarding himself against injuries that probably still kept him up at night.

He said nothing.

"You must be Dr. McLaren. I thought...I thought you were old," she stammered as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. "When you didn't answer, I...um...I was afraid that you might be dead."

"Unfortunately, no," he growled. He glanced at her upraised hands, then met her eyes with a piercing stare. "So who are you, and why are you threatening me with that can of salmon?"

Do Not Reproduce without permission.

This book is available at :

www.steeplehill.com

www.christianbook.com

www.bn.com

www.amazon.com

and fine bookstores everywhere.

Author Roxanne Rustand can be found at www.roxannerustand.com and her blog, http://roxannerustand.blogspot.com.

To subscribe to her quarterly e-newsletter, which offers prize drawings, family recipes and news about her books, go to: http://roxannerustand.com/newsletter-signup

Forever After; Cascade

FOREVER AFTER

a hanover falls novel



Deborah Raney

Lucas Vermontez was a proud firefighter like his father. Now, not only has he lost his father and his best friend, Zach, in the fire at the Grove Street Homeless Shelter, but the devoted rookie can no longer do the work he loves after being crippled in the tragic event. When friendship with his buddy's beautiful widow turns into more, he wonders what he could possibly offer Jenna. Jenna is trying to grieve her husband's death like a proper widow, but the truth is, she never really loved Zach. His death feels more like a relief to her. But that relief is short-lived when she loses her home and the financial support of her in-laws. Now the secrets of her past threaten to destroy her future.



Lucas Vermontez clutched the mask to his face and forced out a measured breath, scrabbling to remember everything he'd learned in training. His air-pack fed a steady line of filtered, compressed air, but the thick bank of smoke in front of him carried him to the brink of claustrophobia.


The concrete beneath his feet shuddered. Next to him, he felt his partner, Zach Morgan, drop down on all fours. Lucas followed suit. Catching a glimpse of Zach, he wondered if his own eyes held the same wild fear.


He sucked in air and exhaled again, fighting panic. This was no training exercise. This was the real thing. Statue-still in the smoky darkness, he strained to discern the voices he was sure he'd heard seconds earlier. But his helmet and hood created their own white noise and no sound pierced them save the roar of the fire overhead.


A split second later, an explosion rocked the building, throwing him flat on his belly and knocking the breath from him. Debris rained down on them, and when he could breathe again, he scrambled for protection.


Zach motioned frantically behind them toward the entrance they'd come in. In the aftershocks of the explosion, the copper pipes overhead trembled and the thick wooden beams bowed beneath the weight of the building.


Lucas forced out a breath and counted, trying to slow his respiration. If the structure collapsed, they didn't stand a chance. They were in the belly of the beast––the basement of the former hospital that now housed a homeless shelter––with three stories stacked on top of them.


"Go!" He motioned Zach out, his own voice ringing in his ears.


Zach scrambled ahead of him, hunkered low trying to stay in the two-foot clearing beneath the bank of smoke.


Lucas sent up a prayer that they'd gotten everybody out. His father, the station captain, had radioed moments ago that all but one of the shelter's residents were accounted for. He'd ordered the crews to evacuate and had sent Lucas and Zach in to search for the missing man.


It always filled him with pride to hear Pop's commanding voice. Manny Vermontez was the best fire captain Hanover Falls—or the state of Missouri, for that matter—had ever had. And that wasn't just the opinion of a proud son. Pop had worked hard to get where he was, and the whole family rightfully had him on a pedestal, even if it sometimes caused conflict at home. Ma swore her prematurely graying hair came from having a husband, and now a son, who put their lives on the line almost daily.


"Lucas!"


He spun at the sound of Pop's voice. Not on the two-way like he expected, but insidethe building––down here.


"Pop?" He turned back, straining to see through the thick smoke. He saw no one. "Zach?"


His partner must have gone ahead to the entrance. Good. Zach would make it out okay. But what was Pop doing down here?


"Pop? Where are you?"


Nothing. The crew from Station 1 must have arrived. Either that or somebody was still trapped inside the building. Pop would never leave the control engine otherwise.


The smoke banked downward and he had no choice but to crawl on his belly, commando-style. He still had air, but everything in him told him to get out. Now.


But he couldn't leave. His dad was down here!


The building groaned and shuddered again.


"Lucas!"


There it was again. He rolled over on his back and propped himself on his elbows, trying desperately to figure out which direction the shout had come from. He listened for a full ten seconds but heard only the deep roar of the fire above him.


He started belly-crawling again, but in the orange-black he was confused about which way he'd been headed. He needed to follow the sound of Pop's voice. His dad would lead him out. But where had they come in? Everything around him looked the same. Panic clawed at his throat again.


Once more, he heard the voice. Weaker this time, but he didn't think he was imagining it. The old-timers told stories about hearing voices, seeing things––hallucinations––in the frantic moments where a man hung between life and death. But he wasn't in full panic mode––not yet. And he knew his father's voice.


He crawled deeper into the blackness, forearm over forearm in the direction of the voice, grateful for the heavy sleeves of his bunker coat. But he heard nothing now. Nothing except the raging fire and the ominous creak of beams somewhere above his head.


He stopped again and listened. He smelled smoke and the unique odor of the air-pack, but there was something else, too. Something had changed.


A new sound filtered through his helmet. The clanging of engines? A crew from Station 1 had been requested. That must be them arriving. But the sound was coming from behind him. He'd been heading deeper into the building.


He reversed his direction. Thank God for those engines. Their clamor would guide him out. The taut thread of fear loosened a bit. Help was on the way.


"Pop?" he shouted. "You there?" He waited for a reply before moving forward. His air supply seemed thinner than before. Smoke choked him. He couldn't stay down here much longer. He would have sold his soul for a two-way radio right now. He prayed Zach had gotten out...that his buddy would let them know he was still down here.


At that moment, a faint glimmer caught his eye. The voices of his fellow firefighters drifted to him. He crawled faster, heading toward the light.


"Hey! It's Vermontez!" Molly Edmonds shouted. "Lucas is out! Tell the chief!"


Lucas collapsed on the damp concrete outside and felt strong arms pull him out, then help him to his feet.


He stripped off his mask and hood, gulping in the sooty air. "Where's Pop? Where's my dad?"


"He went in after you!" Molly yelled over the roar of the blaze. "Didn't you see him down there? What about Zach?" She jogged back toward the building.


"Anybody seen the captain?" someone yelled. "Where's Manny?"


"Morgan's still in there, too!"


Yanking his headgear back on, Lucas stumbled to his feet and jogged after Molly.


He heard the men shout for them to retreat, but he didn't care. His father was in that inferno looking for him.


Molly disappeared into the mouth of the building. He followed. A split second later another explosion rocked the earth, knocking him to his knees. Oh, dear God! No! God, help me!



From Howard/Simon & Schuster

© 2011 Deborah Raney

Do not reproduce without permission.

Available in bookstores everywhere, or order online at CBD.com, amazon.com or other bookstores online.

Visit Deborah's website at www.deborahraney.com


* * *

Cascade

by Lisa Bergren



What if you not only fell through time, but fell in love too?


Gabi knows she's left her heart in the fourteenth century and she persuades Lia to help her to return, even though they know doing so will risk their very lives. When they arrive, weeks have passed and all of Siena longs to celebrate the heroines who turned the tide in the battle against Florence—while the Fiorentini will go to great lengths to see them dead. But Marcello patiently awaits, and Gabi must decide if she's willing to leave her family behind for good in order to give her heart to him forever.


"A romantic tale that twists and turns with every page, Cascade is the ideal sequel to Waterfall. A riveting tale to the very end, this adventure follows Gabi back into the arms of the dashing Marcello as history unfolds. Bergren leaves us with only one question: Can their love transcend time? Read this book—you won't regret it. I could hardly put it down!"

—Shannon Primicerio, author of God Called a Girl and the TrueLife Bible Studies series


An excerpt from CASCADE….


"Mom, there are two castles within two miles of this site. The one we pass, every day, on our way in here, and the one over the hill, past the tombs." I reached out and took her hands. "We've been in both. But they were whole—full-on homes for people. Lots of people. Lia could sketch them both for you. One was inhabited by a man who fought for Firenze; the other, by a family who was loyal to Siena."


I glanced to the tent doorway, its flap still and hanging, and rose. I lifted the edge of my gown and showed her my wound, now nothing but a white scar on my skin. "Look, Mom. Check out the length of it. How it looks old? Like I got it five years ago, right?"


She blinked rapidly, as if she was seeing things. Trying to make sense of it all.


I dropped my gown and gestured to the bloodstain, directly over my scar. "It's bloody because I was bleeding like crazy, just a half hour ago. I got the wound in that castle," I said, gesturing in the direction of the Paratore ruins, "when Lia and I were fighting for our lives. There's something about the tomb, coming through time, that heals. It healed me."


She bit her lip, still looking at the blood.


I shook my head, irritated at how long it was taking to convince her. "How else could I get that scar? Without you knowing about it?"


Her eyes met mine. "It makes no sense."


"No," I said. "It doesn't. But look at the facts, Mom. Haven't you and Dad always taught students to catalog the facts and then move to theory?" I had her there. I'd heard her say the exact same thing a hundred times.


Her eyes flitted between us and then down at her hands, back and forth, still trying to puzzle it through.


If only Dad was here… He'd always been the more impulsive of the two. He followed his heart. Mom liked to consult her brain first, and there was no way that our story was going to be figured out logically. No way. Hadn't scientists been trying to figure out the whole time/space continuum thing for centuries?


Mom looked up at us then, unblinking. "Show me," she said slowly. "Let's go to the tomb now."


"In front of Manero?" I frowned.


"No," Lia said, shaking her head. "We just got back."


But I was nodding. "I need to go back."


"For what…forever?" Lia spit at me. "There's so much we don't know, Gabi. What if you get sick again, going back?"


"I won't get sick again. I was healed. Time has passed, both here and there."


"You don't know that."


"I do. We `left' about twenty-five minutes ago. But what'd we experience back in 1342? About twenty days, right? If we go—"


Mom held her hands up, silencing us both. "No one's going anywhere," she said. "I simply want you to show me exactly what happened. On site."


"She thinks she's in love with a dude named Marcello," Lia said accusingly, her distrusting blue eyes on me. "She'll do whatever she has to to get back."


Mom looked at me. "Is that true? You think you're in love with this Marcus person?"


"Marcello Forelli," I corrected, each lilting syllable twisting my gut. "And, uh, yeah. I fell pretty hard for him."


Mom's eyes moved from my face to my clothes again, as if she was trying to remember that there was scientific evidence to support our story. Otherwise, she probably would have dismissed it as some wild dream…like we both hit our heads or something.


"That's how she got hurt," Lia said, pressing now, sensing she had the upper hand. "I mean, she got hurt in a battle and I had to stitch her up, but she's in love with a guy who already has a girl. And then that chick poisoned Gabi!" She walked over to me, hands on her hips. "You really want to go back? Back to where I almost lost you?" She shook her head. "I can't do it, Gabs. Not after Dad. I can't deal with it. I'll lose it, seriously lose it, if something happens to you."


"Nothing is going to happen to anyone," Mom said, stepping up beside us.


I eyed the computer screen. Another ten minutes. Another ten days, for Marcello, thirty now that I'd been gone. Was he giving up? Giving in to Lady Rossi and the pressure to follow through on their marriage agreement? Had he guessed that she might have been poisoning me?

***

Copyright 2011 Lisa T. Bergren; do not reproduce without permission



Cascade, by Lisa T. Bergren, is the available now at fine bookstores everywhere, as well as online. Book One, Waterfall is out too, and Book Three, Torrent, releases September 1, 2011.



Link for Lisa T. Bergren: http://lisatawnbergren.com/

Link for "online" above: http://www.amazon.com/Cascade-Novel-Lisa-T-Bergren/dp/1434764311/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1305210612&sr=8-1

Throw the Devil off the Train

BOOK BLURB:

It's 1880.

Catherine's got to escape from her hometown in Virginia. She heads west to marry a childhood friend she hasn't seen in 17 years. She needs a fresh start and he's got a booming business in Paradise Springs. She'll do almost anything to get there. . .except reveal her true last name.

Race heads west set to avenge his brother's death, with a body aching for sleep, and determined to avoid the conniving lady with a throw-away heart. But it's a long, cramped, chaotic train ride from Omaha to Sacramento.

The only thing these two agree upon: they despise each other.
And something evil's on board. As they gnaw on each other's nerves, a holdup, hijack, kidnapping and gold mine swindle shove them together, then push them apart. Fiery, opinionated and quick to react, can they team up long enough to throw the devil off the train?

AUTHOR BIO:

Stephen Bly is a Christy Award winner for westerns and author of 105 books of fiction and nonfiction, some of them co-authored with wife, Janet. They live in north-central Idaho at 4,000 ft. elev. on the Nez Perce Indian Reservation. They have 3 married sons, 4 grandchildren, and 1 great-grandchild.


Throw The Devil Off The Train can be ordered through your favorite local or online bookstore, such as www.Amazon.com. It's also available through http://BlyBooks.com



Blessings and thanks so very much,
Janet & Steve

Check out free stuff on our website: http://www.BlyBooks.com
Be featured on our blog with 'Country Life Captions': http://BlyBooks.blogspot.com
Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/BlyBooks
Friend us on Facebook: Stephen Bly or Janet Chester Bly
NOW AVAILABLE:
Throw The Devil Off The Train, a new Stephen Bly novel

Dining with Joy

Dining with Joy
by
Rachel Hauck

Thanks for having me today!

I’m no genius in the kitchen, but my heroine, Joy Ballard, finds herself doing a job she can’t do for all the right reasons. She’s a cooking show host who can’t cook!
When I started this book, that premise got a good laugh from those who heard it. Then, I’d ask, “But what’s that story about?”
The person would shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, me neither.”

I had to ask a lot of questions about what a woman hosts a cooking show when she can’t so much as fry eggs. I didn’t want an insincere, lying heroine. She’s not a manipulator or conniver.

Joy simply found herself filling a job she was asked to do – by her father. She was great in front of the camera. Just not behind the stove.

Not long ago, I stood on stage at church with my worship team praying before the service started. Head back, eyes close, I said in my heart, “Lord, help us. You have to help me. I’m so weak in leading worship. I cannot do it without You.”

While I’m a decent singer, and I can lead the people to worship Jesus, I’m not a musician. I’m not one who can skillfully bring the band and the worship sound together. And until I found myself with a “starting over” band, I never realized how gaping this weakness was for me.

A few days later, I was thinking of all the great worship leaders, singers and musicians. Of great writers. And I just felt weak and inadequate in the two main callings of my life.

Again, I went to the Lord. “Why can’t You find a good worship leader for church? Why can’t you help me be a more successful writer? I see people who are good at what they do, succeeding.”

This is what He said to me. “… most people won’t give me their weaknesses.”

I was stopped cold. I understood that a lot of times God invites us on a journey to participate with Him in some aspect of our lives or others, but because we are not good at that thing, or because we are weak with fear or shame or whatever, we say no.

It’s in our weaknesses His strength is manifest. God is not looking for mighty men and women, He’s looking for weak men and women in which HE can show His might.

Don’t misunderstand, God loves excellence, skill and devotion. While leading worship practices, I have to be excellent as I can be to bring the team and songs together.

I’ll never have a recording or national ministry as a worship leader, but for our little church in Florida, I’m God’s girl. For now.

That, in some ways, is Joy’s journey. She said yes to her father’s desire.
Can we say “Yes?” to our Father’s desire for us? Offer Him all of our strengths AND weaknesses? He’s more than willing to overcome.

In my story, Joy’s secret is revealed and takes a pretty good tumble, but love is waiting to catch her. In the form of cowboy chef and hero, Luke Redmond.

Sigh… Love wins.

One of the things Joy discovers along the way his her father’s banana bread recipe. It’s delish!

Here it is:

Charles Ballard’s Banana Bread
From Connie Spangler

1 3/4 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1t. baking soda
1/2t. salt
1/2t. cinnamon
2 eggs
3 mashed ripe bananas
1/2 cup oil (I use canola)
1/4 cup plus 1 T. buttermilk
1t. vanilla
1/2 cup choc. chips
1/2 cup p.butter chips

In a large bowl stir together flour, sugars, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon. In another bowl, combine eggs, bananas, oil, buttermilk and vanilla. Add to flour mixture, stirring just until moistened. Fold in chips. Pour into a greased 9-in. x 3-in. loaf pan. Bake at 325 for 1 hour and 20 minutes or until it tests done. Cool on a rack 10 minutes before removing from pan.

Tips for baking banana bread:
DON'T over mix the batter, just until moistened. Banana bread is always best if after its cooled to wrap up and serve the next day.

ENJOY!

RACHEL’S BIO
Rachel lives in central Florida with her husband and writes books from the second floor of what she calls her “turret tower.” A gift from the Lord. Besides “Dining with Joy,” Rachel has written fourteen other novels. Also out is “Softly and Tenderly” which Rachel wrote with country artist, Sara Evans.

Visit her web site at www.rachelhauck.com


Blessings!

Digitalis; The Annotated Firebird

Digitalis
By Ronnie Kendig

Love Leads a Former Marine into the Blackest of Nights


"This is one pulse-pounding adventure you don't want to miss!" ~Robert Liparulo, author of Germ, Comes a Horseman, and the Dreamhouse Kings.

Step into the boots of a former Marine in this heart-pounding adventure in life and love. Colton "Cowboy" Neeley is a Marine trying to find his footing as he battles flashbacks now that he's back home. Piper Blum is a woman in hiding—from life and the assassins bent on destroying her family. When their hearts collide, more than their lives is at stake. Will Colton find a way to forgive Piper's lies? Can Piper find a way to rescue her father, trapped in Israel? Is there any way their love, founded on her lies, can survive?

Intro to the scene. The opening scene is set on the hero's ranch during a small 4th of July barbecue with his daughter, parents, and a close friend. His daughter has just asked him for sparklers from his truck so they can celebrate.

Digitalis

"I'll be right back." Colton stepped into the dark night and headed to his truck, where he'd left the small bag of sparklers. Reaching behind the front seat, he groped for the fireworks. As his fingers grazed the bag, which scooted farther out of reach, he spotted his Remington 700.

Regret choked him. He paused and leaned against the seat. God. . .please. I just want a clear mind. With a final grunt, he snatched the bag and slammed the door shut on the truck and on his shaky thoughts. "All right, Mickey, here we go."

Bouncing from the back porch toward him, she squealed. "Dante, look, look! Daddy got sparklers and poppers—my favorite."

A noise screeched through the night. His heart jack-hammered at the familiar sound.

Crack! Boom!

He dove to the side. Hearing hollowed out, he blinked. A dusty road spread before him. Shouts pervaded the Iraqi street. Men darted for cover. Colton scrambled, feeling the weight of his gear on his back.

"Take cover," he shouted to his team as he rushed up against a building. Spine pressed to the wood, he reached for his radio. Gone. Under attack and no backup, no airstrike. He searched the street, his mind pinging.

Movement to the side flared into his awareness. Instincts blazed.

He grabbed his weapon—it wasn't there. Oh God, no! He patted the ground, his hearing still muffled by the IED detonation.

Where's my rifle? Where'd it go?

"Cowboy?"

"What?" he shouted, searching for his weapon.

"What're—"

Kaboom! Pop-pop-pop. Multi-colored flashes lit the bloody day. Colton scrambled for cover beside the Humvee. He scoured the dust and smoke for his team. Where were they? He glanced over his shoulder—then remembered the Remington.

As he rushed to the back door of the Humvee, another blast shoved him against the steel.
Oof!

"Cowboy!"

Yanking open the door, he noted civilians on the other side of the Humvee and hoped they stayed clear of the violence erupting around them. He didn't need to find another foot—or any other body part—during cleanup. He lifted his weapon and only then realized it was empty.

Sound from behind yanked him around.

A white-haired man rushed toward him.

"Get back!" Without his weapon ready, it'd be hand-to-hand. But he wasn't letting his weapon go. No way would someone find him with his pants down. Not here. He wasn't going to die in Iraq because he didn't have his gun. They did that to the civilian contractors. But not to him, not to a MARSOC sniper.

"What are you doing? Don't do this."

When the haggard man rushed him again, Colton drove a hard right into his face. The old man flew back and slid across the hardpacked earth. Colton quickly eased a slug in and chambered the round.

Crack! Boom! Pop-pop!

He ducked, and when he came up, a girl with wide brown eyes appeared out of the dust. His heart rapid-fired. No. Couldn't be. He'd killed her already. The villagers had used her as a suicide bomber—then captured him and nearly killed him. No way, no how was he going back there so they could drive a thousand volts through his body.

He dropped to a knee and lined up the sights.

The girl drew back and yelped. "I'm scared."

Why was she speaking English? He shrugged. They'd trained the children to gain confidence and intelligence. He'd fallen prey once.

Won't happen again.

"Maa-i-khussni, not my problem," he said, all too familiar with the way the radicals worked the American soldiers. Soldiers who were here trying to help.

"Cowboy, it's"—Boom! Crack-crack-pop!—"girl."

"Don't care, man. I'm not letting them take me again." Sweat slid down his temple into his eye. He blinked—

Wait! Her eyes. How had they changed from brown to blue? He shook his head to dislodge the disparity. The heat. Had to be the heat. Using his upper arm, he swiped away the sweat. Realigned the sights. His heart rate ratcheted when more civilians emerged around the girl.

"Ambush!" He lowered his head and peered through the scope.

Focused on nailing the shot, holding his position. Considered the elements.

"Colton! No!" a familiar voice shouted.

But they didn't know. Hadn't been there.

"Marine, stand down! Stand down! "

His finger slid into the trigger well.

It's a girl. A little girl.

And they'd used her to get to him, to extract information and kill him. Never again.

Target acquired.

Why are her eyes blue? No, not blue. He was seeing things. They were brown, and he wasn't letting this happen again. No remorse.

Gently, he let his finger ease back on the trigger. Forgive me, Father, he prayed, as he did with every kill.

A tremendous weight slammed into him and knocked him sideways. Crack! As the weapon's recoil registered, so did the fact that he'd lost his gun. He went flying. Hit the ground—hard. Thud!

Stars sprinkled through his eyes. The edges of his vision ghosted. His ears popped. He howled at the pain. Blinked.

Night? Why was it night?

"Colton!"

A man almost as dark as the sky behind him loomed over him. "Legend?" Aches radiated through Colton's body, leaving him disoriented. "What. . . ?"

Screams and cries suffused the night.

Something ominous clouded Legend's face. He straddled Colton, pinning his arms to the sides. "You with me, Cowboy? You here?"

"What are—get off!"

"Where are we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where are we? Answer me, Marine!"

Qualms squelched by Legend's drill sergeant voice, Colton paused. "My ranch." A horrible, horrible feeling slithered into his gut. The events crashed in on him. The screaming. The little girl in Fallujah. Blue eyes. "No!" Everything in him went cold. For a split second, he locked gazes with Griffin, then jerked his head to the side. Strained to see.

A half-dozen feet away lay his Remington 700. Beyond, his mother and father huddled over—

"McKenna!"

I almost killed my daughter.

Signature:

Ronie Kendig

www.roniekendig.com

Digitalis, Discarded Heroes #2

ISBN: 978 1 60260 783 5

Available at www.bn.com , www.amazon.com , www.christianbook.com , libraries, and anywhere fine books are sold!

©Ronie Kendig, 2011 – Do not reproduce without permission

* * *

THE ANNOTATED FIREBIRD

by Kathy Tyers

Marcher Lord Press, April 2011

"Firebird … is the most original Christian SF series to appear in years." —Library Journal

Because of her birth order in Netaia's royal family, Lady Firebird's life is expendable. When she is chosen to lead an attack on a neighboring planet, her demise is expected. Instead, she is captured and forced into a strange new existence that will sweep her toward a perilous but exhilarating destiny.

First published by Bantam Books and reissued by Bethany House Publishers, the Firebird trilogy now appears in a single volume in both paper and e-book formats, with new maps, charts, and annotations that chronicle the writing process and add depth to Lady Firebird's worlds. Here is an excerpt from the beginning.

Prelude


Lady Firebird Angelo was trespassing.

Shadowed by her friend Lord Corey Bowman, she squeezed and twisted through a narrow, upright opening between two dusty stone walls. She'd paced off twenty meters in silence. Her eyes had almost adjusted to faint gray light from ahead and behind. Growing up in this palace, she'd explored it thoroughly and cautiously during her childhood. She hadn't tiptoed between these particular walls since she found the gap, four years ago, when she was fifteen. If she remembered right, then in ten meters more—

Something rattled behind her. She froze. If anyone caught her and Corey this deep in the governmental wing, they could be done for. Powers help us! she prayed silently.

Slowly, she turned around. Corey crouched three meters away. He pointed at a loose stone and cringed a silent apology.

Time hung suspended, like a laser satellite passing overhead. They waited motionless, hardly even breathing.

Evidently, the Powers weren't feeling vengeful—if those supernatural guides even existed, which Firebird had started to doubt. The soft voices behind the curved inner wall kept droning on, incomprehensible from this point in the hidden passage.

Firebird crept on.

The rough partition on her left enclosed an elliptical chamber. Inside, the highest council in the Netaian planetary systems held its conferences.

Firebird had heard whispered rumors among other cadets at the NPN Academy: that the Netaian Planetary Navy planned to hold military exercises in Federate space, or that an attack was imminent—Federate or Netaian, depending on who had heard whom—or that secret weapons were under development. None of her instructing officers had acknowledged those rumors. They kept their cadets working in blind, busy ignorance.

But this morning, staring out a classroom window-wall, Firebird had seen a silvery shuttle with Federate markings emblazoned on its underside decelerate into Citangelo spaceport. According to a hasty check at her desk terminal, the queen's Electorate had immediately closed this afternoon's session to observers.

Maybe the Federates were protesting those rumored maneuvers, as she guessed—or trying to head off an open confrontation, Corey's assumption. Someone had to find out, on behalf of the second-year cadets. If a war broke out, they'd be in it. During an afternoon hour reserved for studying, Firebird had sneaked home with Corey.

Ahead, light gleamed into their passage through an inner-wall chink. The palace's builders, three hundred years before, had been more concerned with elegance than security. During her privileged childhood, Firebird had found many odd niches in this historic building where walls didn't exactly meet, or where they came together at peculiar angles to create blind passageways. Palace security should have sealed every breach that gave illegitimate access to the electoral chamber. They'd missed this one.

On her next birthday, Firebird would be confirmed as a short-term elector. That was her right, an honor she would receive as an Angelo. Then, she would tell the House Guard and the electoral police about this passage.

But no sooner.

She reached the chink and peered through. Inside the grand chamber's red walls, lined with portraits and gilt bas-relief false pillars, the Netaian systems' twenty-seven electors sat at a U-shaped table that surrounded a small foreign delegation.

Firebird glimpsed the rest of her family. Her oldest sister and confidante, Carradee, sat beside the gilt chair of their mother, Siwann, a strong monarch who was already much more than the traditional electoral figurehead. Beyond Carradee lounged the middle Angelo sister, Phoena, the "beauty of the family" and Siwann's obvious favorite. Though taller and lighter haired than Firebird, Phoena had the same delicate facial features and large, long-lashed dark eyes. They'd often been mistaken for each other, to the disgust of both.

Five strangers stood below the U-shaped table's open foot. The two who'd stepped forward wore dress-white tunics and carried recall pads. One addressed the electors in clipped Old Colonial, the language of most colonized worlds in the Whorl's great half circle of stars. "...as a surtax only on nonessential goods," he declared, "such as ..."

What was this, a trade delegation?

Phoena exchanged disdainful glances with the trade minister, Muirnen Rogonin. Maintaining an indolent slouch, Rogonin—the jowly Duke of Claighbro—flicked two fingers toward the man who'd spoken. "I would see no reason to levy a military assessment against a well-defended system such as Netaia, Admiral. Your logic is flawed."

Admiral. Maybe their business wasn't entirely trade, then—

Thank you for reading! For more information on The Annotated Firebird, please visit www.MarcherLordPress.com or www.KathyTyers.com. Do not reproduce this material without permission.

Finally a Bride ; On Hummingbird Wings

Finally a Bride

By

Vickie McDonough

What a delightful story! Vickie McDonough treats her readers to a remarkable conclusion to the Boardinghouse Brides trilogy. Finally a Bride is a heartwarming story of two couples struggling to overcome their pasts as they build a future filled with faith and love.

--Amanda Cabot, author of Tomorrow's Garden

A feisty female reporter seeks to prove the new minister is harboring secrets.

Jacqueline Davis, a reporter for the Lookout Ledger, is bent on nabbing her story at any cost. When Noah Jeffers comes to Lookout as temporary pastor, Jack suspects there may be something hidden behind his shepherding ways. Soon though, Jack becomes attracted to the new pastor despite her initial hesitation. But as she uncovers the truth, will the story cost her too much? Will she reveal what she's found, or keep it hidden to protect newfound love?

One

Lookout, Texas

1896

Jacqueline Davis had done a lot of daring things in her life, but this deed had to be the most foolhardy. She held up her skirt with one hand, holding her free arm out for balance, and slid her foot across the roof's wooden shakes. The mayor's chimney was only a dozen more steps away. She peered down at the ground far below then yanked her gaze upward when a wave of dizziness made her sway. She sucked in a steadying breath. If she fell the two stories to the packed dirt below, she'd become tomorrow's news instead of her story about the mayor's latest scheme.

She just had to find out what he had up his sleeve. Weeks had passed since she'd landed an exciting story for Lookout's newspaper. She had to get the scoop—whatever the cost. Maybe then she'd have enough clippings in her portfolio to land a job in Dallas as a reporter and finally leave Lookout.

The sweat trickling down her back had nothing to do with the bright April sun warming her shoulders. A moderate breeze whooshed past, lifting her skirts and almost throwing her off balance. Her petticoat flapped like a white flag, but she was far from surrendering. She swatted down her skirts and glanced around the streets, thankful no one was out and about yet. "Oh, why didn't I don my trousers before attempting this stunt?"

"Because you reacted without thinking again, that's why," she scolded herself just like her mother had done on too many occasions to count. Would she never learn? Sighing, she carefully bent down, reached between her legs, pulled the hem of her skirt through and tucked it in her waistband. Holding her arms out for balance, she righted herself again.

The hour was still early, but with the mayor's house resting right on the busy corner of Bluebonnet Lane and Apple Street, she couldn't exactly listen outside his parlor window to the meeting he was holding inside. If the two well-dressed strangers hadn't ridden right past the boardinghouse while she'd been sweeping the porch, she'd have never known of their arrival.

Her knock on the mayor's door for permission to listen in and to take notes had resulted in a scowl and the door being slammed in her face. Scuttlebutt was running rampant around town that Mayor Burke had some great plan to bring new businesses to Lookout. He was up to something, and she meant to be the first to find out what it was.

She slid her left foot forward. Listening through the chimney opening was her only alternative. She just hoped the men's voices would carry up that far. Sliding her right foot forward, she held her breath. Her task must be completed quickly before anyone saw her.

"Jacqueline Hamilton Davis, you come down from that roof right this minute—or I'm calling off our wedding." Jack jumped at Billy Morgan's roar. She twisted sideways, swung her arms in the air, wobbled, and regained her balance on the peak of the house. Heart galloping, she glared down at the blond man standing in the street beside the mayor's house and swiped her hand in the air.

"Go away!" she hollered in a loud whisper. If she'd told him once, she'd told him a dozen times, she had no intention of marrying him.

Her foot slid toward the chimney. She had to get there right now or Billy's ruckus would surely draw a crowd, and she'd have to climb down without her story. A high-pitched scream rent the air.

"Don't fall, Sissy!"

Jack lurched the final step to the chimney and hugged the bricks. She peered down at her five-year-old sister and swatted her hand, indicating for Abby to leave, but the stubborn girl just hiked her chin in the air. Abby was so dramatic. She'd even practiced her screams until she could blast the shrillest and loudest screeches of all her friends. Parents no longer came running when the young girls practiced their hollering. Jack shook her head. It would be a shame if one of them ever truly needed help one day and she screamed, because not a soul in Lookout would come to her aid.

She peeked down to see if Billy was still there, and sure enough, the rascal stood in the middle of the dirt road with his hat pushed back off his forehead and his hands on his hips.

Uh oh. Across the street, her ma carefully made her way down the front porch steps of the boardinghouse—the bulge of her pregnant belly obvious even from this distance. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked around, probably checking on Abby.

Jack ducked down behind the chimney. With her ma so close to her time of birthing another baby, she didn't want to cause her distress—and finding her twenty-year-old daughter on a rooftop would certainly set her pulse pounding.

Movement on Main Street drew Jack's attention. She peered over the bank's roof to the boardwalk on the far side of the street. Oh, horse feathers! Now her pa was heading out of the marshal's office and hurrying toward her mother. He probably thought she'd drop that baby right there in the street. Their last child, two-and-a-half-year-old Emma, had been born in a wagon on the way back from Denison, almost a month early.

She glanced down at Billy, who stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Her ma was looking down Main Street now. With precious few moments before the jig was up, Jack stood on her tiptoes, concentrating on her task. She listened hard, trying to decipher the muted words drifting up the chimney. The strong scent of soot stung her nose, but all she could hear was the faint rumble of men's voices.

She glanced back at the far edge of the roof, trying to decide whether to return to the tree and shinny back down now or wait until her mother and step-father went back inside. Would Billy give her away?

Jack heaved a frustrated sigh. Even if he didn't, Abby would surely tattle. She peeked at her sister. Abby ran toward their mother, her finger pointing up at the mayor's roof. Oh fiddlesticks.

Why did they have to come outside before she concluded her sleuthing? And now, thanks to Billy's caterwauling, a crowd was gathering on Bluebonnet Lane.

She quickly studied the town from her vantage point. This was the perfect spot to view any events taking place in Lookout and garner the news, but it was also dangerous. How could she manage to take notes and still keep her balance? Perhaps she could talk Jenny into building a platform with a fence around it atop her newspaper office so they could view the city whenever community events were happening.

"Jacqueline! Oh, my heavens. What are you doing up there?" Her ma splayed her hand across her chest. Abby stood beside her, looking proud that she'd gotten her big sister in trouble.

Jack held tight to edge of the chimney and laid her forehead against the bricks. She was as caught as a robber in a bank vault on Monday morning.

Thanks for reading this excerpt from Finally A Bride.

Please visit my website www.vickiemcdonough.com for more information about my books.

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www.christianbooks.com,

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or your local bookstore.

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* * *

On Hummingbird Wings

By Lauraine Snelling

Published by FaithWords

(April 2011)

"Snelling can certainly charm." – Publishers Weekly

Doctors have no medical explanation why Gillian Ormsby's mother can't eat or get out of bed, but something has caused the once-spirited woman to give up her will to live. Despite their difficult relationship and an equally strained relationship with her sister, who lives in California near their mother, Gillian flies home and attempts to get their mother back on her feet. While home, Gillian restores her mother's neglected garden. There two hummingbirds take up residence and preside over the new relationship forming between Gillian and Adam, a neighbor and the local garden center owner. Although her goal is to return to her job in New York, Gillian begins to wonder if she can find a compromise between career, family and love

"But Mother is always dying." Why had she ever let the call come through? "I'm putting you on speaker." Gillian Ormsby clicked the SPEAKER button without waiting for her sister's reply. At least this way she could continue to flip the screens on the computer. Glancing at the clock, she mentally allowed Allison two more minutes before returning to the report in front of her.

"No, this time it is really serious. I can't make her get out of bed."

Gillian rolled her eyes. Leave it to Miss Perfect Allison to hit the dramatics. "Look, you live twenty miles away and I live across the country. Surely you can find time in your busy schedule to sweet-talk Mother into doing what you want." You always have.

"You don't need to be sarcastic. Just because I'm not a high-powered executive with an office in New York City. It isn't like what I have to do isn't important, with two active teenagers and a busy husband."

"I didn't say that. But, Allie, there is no way I can leave right now. There are rumors of a possible buyout, and everyone is walking around whispering like someone died. Have you talked with her doctor? Surely if she is that bad, she should go to a nursing home to help get her back on her feet."

"That's part of the problem; she doesn't want to get back on her feet. She wants to die. She says life here has no meaning for her any longer and heaven will be a far better place."

"Mother said that?" "And yes, I have talked with the doctor, but you know I don't understand a lot about medical things."

"Google it."

"Gillian, please. She needs you."

"Mother has made it quite clear through the years that she much prefers your company to mine." So suck it up, baby sister, and live with it. She drummed her nails on the desk pad.

"Look, I have to go. I'll call you back tonight." She checked her calendar. "No, make that tomorrow night, I have a commitment for tonight."

"What if she dies before then?"

Gillian closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. "Look, she's not going to die. She's threatened this for years. Every hangnail is mortal peril, you know that."

"You haven't seen her, in what—five years?"

Leave it to Allison to go for the stiletto. Although Gillian sent expensive gifts at the proper occasions, she'd not graced California with her presence in a long time. Surely, it hadn't been five years, had it? She counted back, using Christmas as the starting point. She'd spent the last one in Saint Croix, actually two of the last five; she'd needed warm weather by then. And while California was usually sunny in December, she'd wanted somewhere really warm and tropical to go along with it. One year she'd gone skiing, the first and last time in Vermont and the first and last time with Pierre. Since that debacle she'd sworn off both skiing and men.

That was three of the five. Where else had she gone? Oh, yes, one year she'd been home in bed—with the flu and her own rotten company.

"Gillian, are you listening to me?" The strident tone jerked her back to the moment.

"Of course I am." What had she missed?

"Well, then?"

"Well, what?"

"When are you coming?" Gillian glanced heavenward as if hoping for deliverance.

"Sorry, I have a call that I have to take. I'll get back to you." She hung up before her sister could respond. Clicking on her intercom, she instructed her assistant to hold any calls from Allison and collapsed against the back of her leather executive chair. Why now? She really didn't dare leave, not if she wanted to be sure of an office to come back to. Glancing around the room, she focused on a painting she'd found at a local art fair and hung opposite her desk to help relieve moments of stress. The painting depicted purple wisteria cascading over a white trellis that had one corner of its arch in need of repair. Much like she did right now. The four-paned cottage windows of the cozy house at the end of a brick walk beckoned her in. She drew in a deep breath, held it to the count of ten, and blew it all out on a gentle stream. Her shoulders relaxed immediately, as did the tension pulling from the back of her head, through her scalp, and to her eyebrows.

Someday she would own a cottage like that, maybe as a summer place; it didn't matter on which coast. What mattered was the garden and the sense of peace that seeped from the picture into her soul. Digging in the dirt did that for her. Gardening was the one thing she had in common with her mother.

Surely Mother wasn't really dying.

Gillian flexed her fingers. Allie had been born exaggerating. No occasion was sufficient in and of itself; she always had to make it bigger and brighter, deeper and wider. Gillian stared at the computer screen where she'd been working on the proposal for a three o'clock meeting. The figures blurred, causing her to blink and blink again.

Her mother could not be dying. She was far too young and had always been robustly healthy. She claimed her gardening did that for her.

So what had happened to cause this, this manifestation of . . . of . . . of what? Granted even fingernail splits were traumatic to her mother, but she'd never taken to her bed before.

You don't have time to think on this now, she ordered herself. Get that proposal done. She knew the figures added up, but could she cut anywhere to reduce the bottom line?

The intercom clicked in. "Gillian, you have one hour."'

This excerpt is printed by permission of FaithWords, a division of Hachette Book Group.

All rights reserved.

Blessings, Lauraine Snelling

www.LauraineSnelling.com

and

www.onhummingbirdwings.com