The Lightkeepers' Ball; Daddy in the Making

The Lightkeepers' Ball

Colleen Coble

From Publishers Weekly:

In 1910, New York socialite Olivia Stewart resists an arranged, socially advantageous marriage, and the mysterious death of her sister Eleanor in Northern California is an unhappy but convenient excuse to go West to investigate. On the way, she is thrown off a Bay area ship and nearly drowned, so she has a number of reasons to hide her identity when she arrives in Mercy Falls, Calif. Her shipboard rescuer turns out to be her dead sister's fiance' Harrison Bennett, about whom she has suspicions. Harrison in turn has his reasons to distrust the Stewart family. In this atmosphere of deceit and suspicion, attraction between Olivia and Harrison grows. Coble spins a tangled web in this third book in the Mercy Falls series (after The Lightkeeper's Bride), with red herrings and oodles of duplicity.

Olivia leaned on the ship¡p's railing and watched the dark landscape slide past. They were nearly to Mercy Falls, and she wanted nothing more than to see the buildings of New York instead of the towering trees of this thickly forested coastline. The fog curling from the base of the trees and over the whitecaps made her shudder.

She sighed and toyed with the strings of her hat. She already missed home, though there would be much to see and do here. For the first time she would see the manor house her father had built in this town four years ago. It was a way of being closer to him.

"Are you frightened, Miss Olivia?" her maid Goldia asked, joining her at the rail.

She shook her head. "I've an idea though, Goldia. I'm going to be known here as Lady Devonworth."

"I thought you hated using your title."

"I do. But I'd rather not be known as Olivia Stewart. Harrison will be on his guard if he knows I'm in town. With a different name, I can observe him unhindered. I boarded this ship as Lady Devonworth, so please remember not to call me Miss Olivia."

Goldia's lips pursed. "I don't like it, miss. If someone really harmed Miss Eleanor, you could be in danger."

To Olivia, the plan seemed straightforward. Her maid's vapors were quite silly. "Not if I'm able to keep my identity a secret. I'll find out what happened and bring the culprit to justice."

"Well, I'm scared," the girl said.

Olivia turned away from the waters to face her. Was that a man in the shadows? Olivia squinted into the darkness.

"Who's there?" she called. No answer came, but a cat strolled into the wash of light, and she relaxed. "It's so damp here. Could you fetch my shawl?" she asked her maid.

Goldia nodded and hurried away. The fog quickly muffled the sound of her footsteps. Olivia stared at the lighthouse twinkling in the distance. Everything would change soon, and she would have to assume a role.

A sound came behind her, and she assumed it was Goldia until she smelled a man's cologne. She half turned at the furtive, sliding noise, but before she could see who was joining her, hard hands seized her from behind. The man's breath smelled of mint. She flailed at the assailant, but her fists struck only air. Her slippers slid along the polished deck, and the next moment, she found herself bent over the railing, facing the turbulent water. The hard rail dug into her stomach and stole her breath. She tried to scream, but panic closed her throat as her balance tipped toward the water and away from the boat. With a last push from her assailant, she was plunging into the waves with her arms pinwheeling.

Cold water closed over her head. She fought the pull of the sea on her soaked skirt. A current took her deeper. Panicked, she kicked toward where she thought the surface was, though there was no light to guide her. Her head broke through, and she drew in the sweetest breath she'd ever known before the waves grabbed her. Before she went under again, she saw a light winking to her right. With her lungs full of air, she groped at her laces. Before she managed to get her boots off, her chest began to burn with the need to breathe. With that weight removed, she was able to rocket back to the surface. Gasping, she dog-paddled in the waves. She gulped in air, gathered her strength, then struck out toward the blinking light.

Her arms and legs ached as she fought the current. A cramp struck her calf, and she cried out.

Her head went under the waves, and she gulped salty water. She was going to drown, just like her sister. She struggled for the surface.

A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her up, pulling her out of the depths. Hands flipped her onto her back, then a rough palm cupped her chin. The next thing she knew she was being towed toward shore.

Her bottom hit sand. She smelled kelp and realized seaweed was wrapped around her waist. Then arms dragged her forward until she lay across hard thighs. She gagged up seawater.

"Are you all right?"a deep voice asked. The man sat her up.

She blinked water out of her eyes and realized she was still sitting on his lap. His hands gripped her forearms, and she realized how scandalous her position was. Water dripped from his dark hair down his face, and his breathing was as ragged as hers.

"Were you trying to kill yourself?" he demanded. "I saw you in the water."

"Someone pushed me," she said. "A man. You were on the ship?"

"I didn't see anyone push you." His tone indicated he doubted her words. "I heard you scream and I ran to the railing."

"You jumped in to save me?" He shrugged.

"I could hardly do anything else. It was clear you were not going to make it to shore by yourself."

Something about him was familiar, but it was too dark to make out much more than the tilt of his head and his dark hair and eyes. She struggled to stand. "Thank you," she said. "You can let me up now."

He dumped her onto the shore, then stood and offered her a hand. She allowed him to help her up.

"Is that the lighthouse?" she asked, pointing toward the beacon on the hill.

"Yes, I'll get help. Stay here." He jogged off into the darkness.

She wasn't about to sit and wait when someone had just tried to kill her, but he didn't answer when she called out after him. He was quick, and her voice was too raw and thin from the salt water to be heard over the waters. She walked on wobbly legs toward the lighthouse.

Copyright Colleen Coble/Thomas Nelson Please 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's Carol Award, RWA's RITA, the Holt Medallion, the Daphne du Maurier, National Readers' Choice, and the Booksellers Best.

She has nearly 2 million books in print and writes romantic mysteries because she loves to see justice prevail.

Colleen is CEO of American Christian Fiction Writers. She lives with her husband Dave in Indiana.

Visit her website at http://www.colleencoble.com/.

The Lightkeeper's Ball is available at bookstores everywhere and may also be purchased at Thomas Nelson, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Christianbook.com and at your local Christian book store.

* * *

Daddy in the Making

book 2 in "New Friends Street" series for Love Inspired Romance

by Lyn Cote

"I just finished reading your book, Daddy in the Making and I want to say I REALLY enjoyed it tremendously!!! Parts of it made me tear up and other parts had me riveted to my seat." an email from Shirley, a reader.

Brought together by a Matchmaking Dog--

Dr. Jake McClure's basset hound has fallen in love. With a single mom, her adorable twins and the orphaned kittens they rescued. Man's best friend suddenly won't budge from Jeannie Broussard's home, and Jake can understand why. Jeannie's place is full of love, laughter and everything Jake has been missing in his life lately. As Jake spends time with Jeannie and her girls, a bond forges between them, and soon Jake is wondering if he's the perfect fit in this fatherless family....

New Friends Street: Where love and dreams find a home.

Chapter One

Longing for food and then bed, Jake McClure fumed over being forced to delay both. As he jogged through the winter's early darkness toward the church, his basset hound Bummer padded along beside him over the hard-packed snow. Jake slammed the side door behind him, shutting out the below-zero wind-chill. He paused, his glasses fogged from the temperature change. In the pause, he permitted himself to let the burn of irritation build inside.

Earlier after catching up on voice mails, Jake had felt compelled to come here to find Mike, to see if he done harm to himself. Glasses clear, Jake shuffled down the steps, with Bummer trailing behind. The two of them entered the brightly lit church basement where laughter punctuated cheerful voices of those attending the fundraiser potluck. As he scanned faces for Mike's, several people, many from his vet practice, greeted him.

Then the door opened behind him, letting in another rush of arctic wind. Two little girls rushed down the steps. "We found two kittens!" they shouted. "Out in the snow!"

Jake turned. He saw two little girls so bundled up that little of them showed, except their pink noses and tendrils of blond hair. And in the mittened hands of each little girl, a small golden tabby kitten mewed and shivered. He hurried to them and knelt down on the hard, cold linoleum.

"Where did you find these little ones?"

"They were in the snow near where I parked," a tall woman behind the girls replied, her voice low and rich. "Are they okay? It's so cold out and the kittens are so tiny." She dropped to her knees beside him.

"I think their eyes have just opened recently," Jake said. At his elbow, Bummer did something unusual. He licked one kitten and then the other with his big tongue.

"Don't let him bite the kitties!" one of the little girls cried. Jake held up a hand.

"Bummer isn't going to hurt them. Let's see what he does."

Bummer licked the kittens thoroughly. Then with delicate care, he lifted each kitten with his teeth by the scruff of its neck and placed it into Jake's hand, one then the other. The basset hound woofed.

"Do you want me to keep the little ones warm, Bummer?" Jake asked.

Bummer woofed again and licked the top of the kittens' heads. Jake pulled off his gray wool scarf and made it into a tight circle. Then he placed the kittens in the center of the makeshift nest. He cuddled them close, knowing they needed warmth fast.

"Oooh," the little girls sounded their approval. They both petted Bummer, crooning, "Good dog. You're a good dog."

"You're the vet, aren't you?" the young woman kneeling beside him asked.

"Yes." He realized he'd neglected his manners. Sliding the scarf nest to one arm, he offered her his hand. "I'm Jake McClure."

"Jeannie Broussard and these are my girls, Mimi and Cindy."

Jake became aware that Annie, a frequent volunteer at the local animal shelter, had appeared beside him. Middle-aged, Annie wore her usual denim, hiking boots "outdoorsy" attire. He recognized the concern on her face. Would they have to squeeze in two more stray kittens? Another question came to mind.

"Mimi and Cindy, did you see a mama cat outside?" Jake asked.

"No," Jeannie replied for them. "I looked around too. I can't see why kittens so small would be outside in this weather." A man in the crowd that had gathered around them cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I saw a cat at the side of the street near here. It was a golden tabby too." Jake didn't have to ask. The tone of the man's voice and his use of the past tense said loud and clear that the cat mother no longer needed his help. Annie and he exchanged weary glances. Beside him, Jeannie made a sound of sorrow and regret.

"Poor little orphans." As if understanding the words, Bummer bayed mournfully and licked each kitten again. Jake rose, still cradling them in his scarf.

"I'll take these little ones to the animal shelter before I go home tonight," he said.

The two little girls bounced up and down. "Mom, Mom, can't we keep them? Mom, please."

Jake hesitated, certain that the girls were putting Jeannie on the spot. But Jeannie nodded, a smile lifting her face. "I've been promising you kittens, haven't I? It looks like God has chosen just the ones He wants us to have."

"Thank heaven," Annie breathed.

Again as if understanding, Bummer woofed and grinned.

From around her neck, Jeannie untwined her fuzzy red scarf, followed Jake's example, and soon the two babies were transferred to it. The gathering around them broke up. Jake leaned forward. He wanted to make sure she knew how to take care of the babies.

"From my observation of their teeth, these kittens should be old enough to eat soft warmed food. I suggest a food specially formulated for kittens so it doesn't upset their delicate systems."

"I was thinking warm milk?" Jeannie lifted one eyebrow.

"No, most kittens are lactose intolerant. You can buy special kitten milk, but canned food and water is sufficient. They'll need to be fed every four hours." Jeannie looked worried. "Is that a problem?"

"No," one of the girls piped up. "Our babysitter likes cats. She'll help us when you're at work, Mom."

The woman's pretty face lightened. "Yes. Yes." She beamed at him. "Thank you."

He pulled out his card and handed it to her, slipping into the usual doctor-pet owner relationship. "I'm happy that these two have found a good home. Please bring them by sometime this week and I'll thank you with a free checkup and shots for them."

"Oh, no," she protested.

He held up a hand. "I insist. I volunteer my services at the local shelter. You just bypassed that step. I'm glad these two found a good home."

She took his hand and squeezed it. "Thank you."

This impulsive gesture embarrassed him. His usual shyness around women rushed back like gangbusters on steroids. He nodded and stepped back.

"No, thank you, Jeannie," Annie said. "We're almost out of room at the shelter. You're a godsend for these two." Still smiling shyly, Jeannie began shepherding the girls toward the coat rack along the wall. Unable to look away however, he followed her with his eyes. Something about her caught and held his attention.

"Well, we dodged another bullet," Annie said in an undertone. "What are we going to do when we reach capacity?"

copyright 2011 Lyn Cote *All rights reserved

To purchase, drop by my website http://www.BooksbyLynCote.com and click on covers

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The Story Jar

THE STORY JAR

by Robin Lee Hatcher and Deborah Bedford

ABOUT THE BOOK: A lovely novel of three women, their stories threaded together through the concept of The Story Jar…

The jar itself is most unusual—not utilized in the ordinary way for canning or storing food, but as a collection point for memories. Some mementos in the jar—hair ribbons, a ring, a medallion--are sorrowful, others tender, some bittersweet. But all those memories eventually bring their owners to a place of hope and redemption in spite of circumstances that seemingly have no solution.

Fresh, insightful, yet courageous in the face of difficult life issues, this collaboration by two talented writers first profiles a pastor’s wife with two young daughters who faces cancer just as her own mother did before her; and then a remarried mother working through a difficult relationship with a rebellious runaway daughter. The third woman, alone with two teenaged boys who no longer pay much attention to her and seem headed for trouble, discovers the long-lost “story jar” and its significance. She comes to realize she can bring her own sorrows and frustrations to the feet of the Good Shepherd, the Great Physician, the Healer of the brokenhearted. She too will have memories for her own story jar.

“…It captures with surprising sensitivity…communion with God, and some excruciatingly exquisite moments of parental love…” Publishers Weekly Included in the book are heart-warming tributes on motherhood fro novelists such as Jerry Jenkins, Francine, Rivers, Karen Ball, and Debbie Macomber.

************************

ABOUT THE AUTHORS: Robin Lee Hatcher is known for her heartwarming and emotionally charged stories of faith, courage, and love. She makes her home in Idaho where she enjoys spending time with her family, her high-maintenance Papillon, Poppet, and Princess Pinky, the kitten who currently terrorizes the household.

When Deborah Bedford isn't writing, she spends her time fly-fishing, cheering at American Legion baseball games, shopping with her daughter, singing praise songs while she walks along the banks of Flat Creek, and taking her dachshund Annie for hikes in the Tetons where they live.

********************

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY JAR

by Robin Lee Hatcher

In September 1998, I received a story jar as a thank you gift after speaking at a writers’ conference in Nebraska. The small mason jar, the lid covered with a pretty handkerchief, was filled with many odds and ends – a Gerber baby spoon, an empty thread spindle, a colorful pen, several buttons, a tiny American flag, an earring, and more.

The idea behind this gift was a simple one. When a writer can’t think of anything to write, she stares at one of the objects in the jar and lets her imagination play. Who did that belong to? How hold was he? What sort of person was he? What does the object represent in his life?

Writers love to play the “what if” game. It’s how most stories come into being. Something piques their interest, they start asking questions, and a book is born.

A week after receiving my story jar, I attended a retreat with several writer friends of mine, Deborah Bedford included. On the flight home, I told Deborah about the jar. The next thing you know (after all, what better thing is there for writers to do on a plane than play “what if”?), we began brainstorming what would ultimately become The Story Jar. We decided very quickly that we wanted this to be a book that celebrates motherhood, that encourages mothers, that recognizes how much they should be loved and honored.

The Story Jar was first published by Multnomah in 2000, but eventually went out of print. Thus Deborah and I are delighted that Hendrickson wanted to bring it out in a new, revised version because we believe these stories can inspire others, just as it did this reader back in 2001:

"I am an avid book reader and have read thousands of books––maybe more––since the age of 5. I can honestly say that [The Story Jar] has touched me more than any other I have read. I cried, I laughed, and I relearned things that I had forgotten long ago as well as realizing things I never knew. Thank you for sharing your stories with your readers. They are truly inspiring. I plan on giving it to all the ‘mothers’ in my life for Mother's Day."

You don’t have to be a writer to want a story jar. It can be a family’s way of preserving memories. Consider having a family get-together where everybody brings an item to go into the jar, and as it drops in, they tell what it means to them, what it symbolizes. We can learn something new about our loved ones when we hear their memories in their own words. Or do what my church did a number of years ago to create a memory for a retiring pastor. Inspired by The Story Jar, members of the congregation brought items to the retirement dinner to put into a story jar or they simply wrote their memories on a piece of paper to go into the jar. It was our way of saying thanks to a man and wife for all of the years they’d given in God’s service.

A story jar can be a tool for remembering all the wonderful things God has done in our own lives. As Mrs. Halley said, not all of God’s miracles are in the Bible. He is still performing them today in countless ways today, changing lives, healing hearts.

In the grip of His grace,

Robin Lee Hatcher

The Story Jar on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1598566652/novelistrobinlee

The Story Jar on ChristianBook:

http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?event=AFF&p=1138486&item_no=566659

Robin Lee Hatcher http:

www.robinleehatcher.com

Deborah Bedford http:

www.deborahbedfordbooks.com

Bathsheba

Can love triumph over treachery?

Bathsheba is a woman who longs for love. With her husband away fighting the king’s wars, she battles encroaching loneliness–making it frighteningly easy to succumb to the advances of King David. Will one night of unbridled passion destroy everything she holds dear? Can she find forgiveness at the feet of the Almighty? Or has her sin separated her from God—and David—forever?

With a historian’s sharp eye for detail and a novelist’s creative spirit, Jill Eileen Smith brings to life the passionate and emotional story of David’s most famous—and infamous—wife. You will never read the story of David and Bathsheba in the same way again.

“Thoroughly engrossing. Jill Eileen Smith receives my highest recommendation as an author of biblical fiction.”—Kim Vogel Sawyer, award-winning author of My Heart Remembers

“Bathsheba is Jill Eileen Smith’s finest work to date. It vividly portrays the devastation caused by selfish passion and betrayal, and the incredible blessing of repentance and restoration through God’s grace.”—Jill Stengl, award-winning author of Wisconsin Brides

“This well-researched and beautifully crafted story will resonate in your heart and mind long after you’ve read the final page. An excellent read with a message that transcends time.”—Judith Miller, author of the Daughters of Amana series

Here is the html code for where to purchase ~
You can purchase a copy of Bathsheba at:
Amazon
CBD
and wherever fine books are sold.

Bathsheba

Can love triumph over treachery?

Bathsheba is a woman who longs for love. With her husband away fighting the king’s wars, she battles encroaching loneliness–making it frighteningly easy to succumb to the advances of King David. Will one night of unbridled passion destroy everything she holds dear? Can she find forgiveness at the feet of the Almighty? Or has her sin separated her from God—and David—forever?

With a historian’s sharp eye for detail and a novelist’s creative spirit, Jill Eileen Smith brings to life the passionate and emotional story of David’s most famous—and infamous—wife. You will never read the story of David and Bathsheba in the same way again.

“Thoroughly engrossing. Jill Eileen Smith receives my highest recommendation as an author of biblical fiction.”—Kim Vogel Sawyer, award-winning author of My Heart Remembers

“Bathsheba is Jill Eileen Smith’s finest work to date. It vividly portrays the devastation caused by selfish passion and betrayal, and the incredible blessing of repentance and restoration through God’s grace.”—Jill Stengl, award-winning author of Wisconsin Brides

“This well-researched and beautifully crafted story will resonate in your heart and mind long after you’ve read the final page. An excellent read with a message that transcends time.”—Judith Miller, author of the Daughters of Amana series

Here is the html code for where to purchase ~
You can purchase a copy of Bathsheba at:

Amazon

CBD

Jill Eileen Smith
http://www.jilleileensmith.com
http://www.thewivesofkingdavid.com

Unforgettable; Watch Your Back

UNFORGETTABLE

Trish Perry

Summerside Press, March 2011



Rachel Stanhope tries to see the good in everyone. But even her good graces are challenged when she meets cocky reporter Josh Reegan outside her Arlington, Virginia dance studio on a brisk fall morning in 1951. Their paths cross often--between Arlington and New York; between the melodrama of ballroom antics and the real drama of political corruption; and between family involvement and romantic entanglement. The last thing either of them expects is mutual need and support. But once they stop dancing around the truth, the results are unforgettable.



Excerpt from Chapter One:



Rachel turned to see two kids approaching. A boy and a girl, most definitely coming for her dance class. She could tell, because the girl looked thrilled and the boy looked ready to bolt.

Jerry ran up to them. He immediately chatted with the boy and girl as if they were his best friends.


And the man escorting them? Well, he was, in a word, breathtaking. Dressed in a sharp suit and crisp white shirt, dark blond hair cut similar to Cary Grant's, and the kind of keen eyes so blue you could spot their color from far away. Rachel looked away from him. He was probably their father. She took care with the fathers. Sometimes they had the wrong impression about dancers.


By the time the small group reached Rachel, the kids had bonded. They ran to the other end of the storefront, where they stood on benches and stared through the studio windows, chatting like beauty parlor gossips.


The attractive man was still attractive, despite the scowl he wore. "Locked out, huh?"


"Yes, I'm afraid so. You see—"


"Exactly what I expected with this type of operation." He nodded at the empty seat beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?"


Rachel swallowed down the gasp brought on by his insult. "Be my guest. Uh, `this type of operation'?"


He cocked his head toward the building. "The whole artsy thing. Dancing, painting, singing. Usually draws your irresponsible types."


Well he wasn't good looking at all! As a matter of fact, he needed a shave.


"I can't say I agree with you there. Do you honestly mean you don't enjoy any of the arts? Is that what you're saying, Mr. . . ?"


"Reegan. Josh Reegan." He put out his hand and gave her a dazzling, genuine smile, and his dark-lashed eyes bordered on pretty.


How could such a stunning man be so stunningly boorish? She shook his hand. "Rachel Stanhope. But—"


"I don't mean to degrade all of that art stuff. But to devote one's whole life to it? That requires a personality I can't say I appreciate. Kind of frivolous work, don't you think?"


He had absolutely no idea who she was. And no idea what he was talking about.


"Not at all. I believe life would be dull if it weren't for people like . . . like dancers and other artists, both professional and amateur. Imagine what the world would look like without the arts."

He granted her a nod. "I understand what you're saying. I've seen parts of the world devoid of beauty. Berlin and London just a few years ago. Still, there are—"


"You served in the war?"


"Yep. Army Air Corps."


Yes. She could see that. She could imagine him in uniform. The crisp pinks and greens. The broad shoulders. The jaw as strong as his opinions.


"And you're still in the service?"


"No. Newspaper journalist." He patted the chest pocket of his starched white shirt, from the top of which a notepad peeked. "But I'm still after the bad guys."


Rachel sat back and crossed her arms. "So are you a cynic because of your war experience or because of your newspaper experience?"


His smile dropped. "Cynic? I'm not a cynic. I'm a realist."


She raised an eyebrow at him. "That's what the cynics always say."


"I just think—no, I know—there are too many dark places and events in the world, too many greedy, heartless people, to warrant some of the more flippant ways people use time they could devote to hunting down evil."


"Wow, I'll bet you get invited to a lot of parties, huh?"


She wasn't sure how to read the look he gave her then. Part amused, part hurt, part annoyed. But she couldn't study his face while she waited for him to respond, so she spoke again.


"I'm glad you're not allowing your disdain for dance to keep you from giving your kids a chance to experience it. They're just kids after all. They probably haven't figured out yet how horrible the world really is."


"Those aren't my kids. They're my sister's. I'm not married." He gestured toward the kids with his chin. "They seem to get along well with your boy, anyway."


Rachel frowned and glanced at the trio, who now squatted around a caterpillar as it ambled across the sidewalk.


"He's not mine. His mother dropped him off."


Josh raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Ah. So why are you here? Not that I haven't enjoyed being insulted by you."


She gave him a prim smile. "Mr. Reegan—"


"Josh."


"Yes, well, excuse me, but you don't know the first thing about being insulted. Apparently you don't even realize when you're insulting others."


A squeal of panic, and they turned their attention across the street. Rachel's errant employee Betty stood there, waiting to cross and shaking the studio keys.


"Sorry I'm late, Rachel! Traffic! Don't fire me!"


Two more parents and their children approached from opposite ends of the sidewalk. Rachel stood from the bench and called to the kids gathered around the caterpillar.


"Okay, kids, come on in." She smiled at the parents who had just arrived. "We had a bit of a delay getting open. Betty will check your registrations while I get started with the kids."


Finally she glanced back at Josh. He too had stood, all six foot something of him. He stared at the ground and rubbed at that stubble on his cheek as if he could wipe it away. When he shot a look up at her, she refused to hold a gaze with those contrite eyes of blue.


True, he was a single man. Possibly he was a war hero. Certainly he was easy on the eyes. But Rachel looked away for all of those reasons. In thirty-two years she had learned to trust her instincts. And instinct told her that Josh Reegan would cause her nothing but trouble.

Unforgettable is available at fine bookstores everywhere and online via:

HTtp://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=unforgettable+trish+perry&x=0&y=0

http://www.christianbook.com/unforgettable-trish-perry/9781609361129/pd/361129?item_code=WW&netp_id=851426&event=ESRCN&view=details

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Unforgettable/Trish-Perry/e/9781609361129/?itm=1&USRI=unforgettable+trish+perry

Visit Trish at http://www.trishperry.com/

© 2011 Trish Perry


* * *

WATCH YOUR BACK

By James Scott Bell


Like your suspense lean and mean?


From the master of the "heart-whamming" read (Publishers Weekly) comes a novella of suspense and three new stories. Full of the twists and shocks James Scott Bell is known for, these taut tales are guaranteed to keep you on the edge of your e-reader long into the night.

"Compulsively readable, Bell takes his place at the top of the crowded suspense genre." – Sheldon Siegel, New York Times bestselling author

"One of the best writers out there, bar none." – In the Library Review



Excerpt from RAGE ROAD:

"Please don't curse at me."

There was a catch in her voice. John didn't like that part of Tricia. The way she got upset so easily. Because if they were going to get married she would have to be able to handle stress better than she did. Even though she was the hottest of the hot and he was glad to have landed her, she still had to develop some stronger backbone. Especially after the therapy she'd been in and out of. That was supposed to have helped her, wasn't it?


He guessed he'd have to help her now, and this was a perfect time to start.


John heard the glove compartment snap open. He was looking in the rear view mirror. The guy was still there, right behind, still flipping him off. Coming up close to the bumper, dropping back, coming up again. Playing him.


"All right, here," Tricia said. John looked over and saw she was holding the gun like it was bomb that might go off with the slightest movement. He took it from her, then got his eyes back on the road. They were on the two-lane heading toward Santa Paula. Not a lot of traffic here. Most of that was on the 126. John had taken Tricia on the back road to show her the wildflowers.


Mr. Romantic. Only now he had a jerk on his tail, a guy in a pickup who had cut them off four miles ago. John had given him a hefty blast on the horn and, yes, gave him the finger. I mean, that's supposed to be it. Exchange fingers and maybe lip a curse or two, then drive on.


This guy was not driving on. This guy was out to make something of it. He'd dropped behind John so he could play.


"What are you going to do with that?" Tricia said.


"I don't want you to get upset, okay? I'm just going to show the guy behind us he needs to back off."


"Oh, John, no!"


"Easy. I'm just going to show him. That's all."


"He'll go away. He has to."


"He doesn't have to. This is one long highway, honey. He can stay with us as long as he wants."


"Then let him. He's just making a show."


"He wants a show I'll give him one."


"What if he has a gun? Did you ever think of that?"


"Odds are he doesn't," John said.


"But what if he does?"


"He doesn't."


"Please don't."


"Tricia, we can't let—" John saw in the mirror that the guy was speeding up, starting to pass him on the left. The left was the opposite lane. For a moment there was no oncoming traffic.


"No way, pal," John said and pushed hard on the gas. He put the 9 mm Beretta between his legs and grabbed the wheel with both hands. For a few brief seconds he and the truck were going the same speed. John's Altima was doing fine with its 3.5 V-6, keeping the pickup half a car length behind and to the side.

Then John saw, up ahead on the long strip of straight road, a big truck heading their way.

The pickup guy would have to get his butt back in line or die.


But the guy sped up. He was going to try to pass anyway.


John pushed the Altima.


"Let him pass!" Tricia said.


John said nothing, swiveling his head, watching the guy's truck and the big monster up ahead.


The pickup was almost even with John now.


John gave more foot to the gas.


"Let him in!"


The monster trunk was howling now, the sound of the horn spitting vicious warning.

John shot another glance to the side. The guy in the truck locked eyes with him. They were dark, squinty eyes, deeply set in a twenty-something face under a shaved head. He looked like he wanted to crash into John's car just for spite. For a second, that's what John thought he'd do.


But at the last possible moment, Squinty Eyes dropped back and got behind John.

The truck honked past.


John felt sweat and heat, like a fever, breaking out on his face. He heard Tricia crying softly.


"Don't," he said.


"Shh."


"Come on."


"Don't talk."


He put his hand on her left leg. "Baby, please, I need you to be with me on this."


In the mirror John saw Squinty Eyes staying close, about a car length behind.

Tricia issued a pitiful sob. Then put her hand on top of his. "I trust you, John. I promise I do. I just don't want anything to happen."


For the first time in miles John allowed himself to look at the rolling green hills. They always looked nice after a hard rain. "Nothing will, babe. Not as long as you're with me."


But what about Squinty? Would he have something to say about that?


Maybe, because here he came again, fast on the side.


John took his hand off Tricia's leg and grabbed the gun. Time to make things plain. Just show the guy what would happen if he messed with them anymore.


Of course, John would never use it, not for real. Now it was just for show. But a good show. A hard show.


Left hand on the wheel, John reached over with his gun hand and used his index finger to lower the window.


Wind whipped in.


"What are you going to do?" Tricia said.


"Scare him."


***

WATCH YOUR BACK is James Scott Bell original e-book, available for $2.99.

Kindle:

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A Bond Never Broken; A Dad of His Own

A Bond Never Broken

by Judith Miller

Copyright 2010 © by Judith Miller

ISBN 978-0-7642-0644-3



Romantic Times declares, "The final book in the Daughters of Amana series is filled with intrigue and romance. The characters are determined to stay true to themselves no matter what. Fans of Amish and Mennonite tales will appreciate Miller's take on their experiences during the first World War." 4 stars

Ilsa Redlich is disturbed when her childhood friend, Garon, decides to join the army, even though their beliefs forbid taking up arms against their enemies. Jutta Schmidt used to live in South Amana, but now lives in another village. When members of the Council of National Defense coerce her into moving back to spy, she fears that they will harm her parents if she refuses. Jutta takes a job at the Redlichs' hotel. She learns of some anti-war remarks and spots Garon helping a outsider. Will she turn her new friends in to secure her parents' safety?

A Bond Never Broken

October 1917

Amana Colonies, Iowa

Ilsa Redlich


I had failed.


There was no other way to justify our presence at the train station.


My brother, Albert, tipped his head and leaned down to look into my eyes. "Please smile, Ilsa. I don't want this to be a sad occasion. I want to remember your engaging smile and the twinkle in those big blue eyes."


I tried, but even his reference to my eyes didn't help. Gaining control over my trembling lips would be an impossible feat. "Please don't ask me to smile. To see you depart does not please my heart." The headpiece of my woolen cloak had fallen to my shoulders, and I touched my index finger to the black cap that covered my hair. "My head will not accept your choice, either."


Once Albert stepped onto the train, nothing would ever be the same. The war had changed everything, and who could say when I would ever see him again.


As if reading my thoughts, he rested his arm across my shoulders. "They've told me I'll serve all of my time at Camp Pike, and I'll probably get to come home for Christmas."


I nodded. "They told Dr. Miller the same thing. Did that stop them from sending him to Europe?" I didn't wait for my brother's answer. "The same is true for you, Albert. Those people can tell you anything they want, but it doesn't mean they will keep their word."


He tightened his hold and squeezed my right shoulder. "You worry too much, Ilsa. All will be well. You must put your trust in God."


Passengers skirted around us, eager to purchase tickets or locate a seat near the station's wood-burning stove. "Like Sister Miller? When I saw her at the Red Cross meeting last week, she didn't think all was well. She was in tears when she spoke of her husband." I lowered my voice. Speaking against the war was not a good thing, especially for those of German heritage. "And she was angry, too. She said her husband was told he wouldn't be sent overseas because of his conscientious objector status, but still they sent him."


"Ach! Who can know what happened with Dr. Miller? Not me or you. I am only certain of what I've been told: I will serve at Camp Pike and then return home."


He wasn't going to listen, so I bit back any further arguments. Not knowing when I would see Albert again, I didn't want to spoil our parting with cross words. Mother had kissed Albert's cheek, said her good-bye, and hurried to the kitchen to prepare the noonday meal for the hotel guests, but I hadn't failed to notice the tears she'd squeezed back. And Father had murmured a hasty farewell and pulled Albert into an awkward hug before heading to the wheelwright shop after breakfast. Around us, the clamor of conversation rose and fell. A train whistled in the distance. "You promise you'll write? Mutter and Vater will worry if they don't hear from you each week."


He wagged his finger back and forth beneath my nose. "It is not Mutter and Vater who will worry. They have peace because they trust God. But you, dear Ilsa, are not so quick to find that peace."


"Nein. Probably because I prayed you would be spared from the draft, yet you received your notice. Then I prayed you would file a request to be released from military duty because of your religious beliefs, but you didn't. Instead, you only checked the box saying you are a conscientious objector. So then I prayed you would fail the physical exam, but you passed with flying colors. My prayers failed on all accounts, and I find it hard to trust that God will answer my prayers to keep you safe."


"God heard your prayers, Ilsa, but He has other plans for my life, and those plans include serving in the U.S. Army. It's as simple as that."


I glared at a group of boisterous passengers congregated nearby, angry that their lives remained unchanged while mine was being turned upside down.


"I promise I'll write," Albert said, "but you shouldn't expect a letter every week. I don't know what my duties will be, and I don't want you to be disappointed." He grinned. "Maybe you could bake me some cookies and send them."


I forced a tight smile. "Ja. You know I will."


He pecked a kiss on my cheek. "I will be happy to have some, even if you burn them."


I gave him a playful shove. He never failed to tease me about the first cookies I had baked without Mother's help. Tearful when they had burned, I fretted there would be no dessert for the hotel guests. Albert had come home and joined me in scraping off the black crust. He'd declared them perfect, though I don't think the guests had agreed.


Tears threatened and I swallowed hard to keep them at bay. I could cry later. But not now, not during these precious final minutes with Albert.


With only an eighteen-month difference in our ages, we'd been close all of our lives, unlike many of our friends who didn't get along with their siblings. Perhaps that was why I'd taken it so personally when he refused to take my advice to remain at home. Then again, maybe it was because I feared his decision would influence Garon and change my life even more. And it had. Not only had Albert's decision wreaked havoc in my relationship with him, it had also caused problems between me and the man I was pledged to marry.


"Unless the elders tell us the government wants us to use even less flour and sugar than we already do, I will do my best to send you something gut to eat at least once or twice a month." I did my best to keep my tone light.


Please visit Judy at her website at www.judithmccoymiller.com where you can sign-up for her newsletter and discover more information about her writing life.

A Bond Never Broken is available at bookstores everywhere and may also be purchased at www.bethanyhouse.com; www.christianbook.com; www.barnesandnoble.com and www.amazon.com; and at your local Christian book store.

* * *

A DAD OF HIS OWN

Gail Gaymer Martin

Loved Inspired, March 2011



One Child's Wish

With his Dreams Come True foundation, Ethan Fox turns wishes into reality. Amazing trips. Meeting heroes. But Ethan has come to care deeply for a sick boy whose dream is . . .a dad. And not just any dad. Ethan. Though little Cooper has a great chance of getting well, widowed Ethan can't chance loving---and losing---again. Yet he's spending time with the sweet boy and his lovely, single mother, Lexie Carlson. Could a little boy's wish for a dad of his own come true after all?


Multiaward-winning novelist and author of Writing the Christian Romance from Writers Digest, Gail Gaymer Martin, writes women's fiction, romance and romantic suspense for Love Inspired and Barbour Publishing. She has forty-eight published or contracted novels with over three million books in print. Gail is a full-time novelist, popular keynote speaker and workshop presenter across the United States and abroad. She is the cofounder of American Christian Fiction Writers.


Visit Gail's website at www.gailmartin.com


The novel is available where all good books are sold or Click to Order at Amazon.com




Chapter 1 Excerpt


Lexie Carlson peeked into the meeting room of Mothers Of Special Kids. She hated being late, and the reason for her delay had plunged her spirit to the pits. Despite trying to slip in, her friend Kelsey Rhodes, the moderator, spotted her. She sidled the few steps to Lexie's side, a frown etching her face. "Something wrong?"


Lexie shook her head, uncomfortable with Kelsey's attention especially with the intriguing guest speaker standing nearby. A grin curved his full lips, and smile lines crinkled the edge of his gray eyes canopied by thick blond lashes. His honey-colored hair glinted with copper highlights.


She leaned closer to Kelsey, managing as pleasant a look as she could. "Just a phone call." Hoping to end the questions, she slipped into a chair and turned her focus to the front.


Kelsey had moved away, relief spreading across her face.


Relief. The welcome expression from women who faced life with seriously ill children. Their support brought her here weekly and had become her mainstay.


"As I was saying," Kelsey sent a teasing smile her way, "I'm glad so many of you are here today since we have a special guest." She motioned toward the good-looking man.


Something about him captured Lexie's attention. His gray eyes glided past her with a twinkle that matched his grin. A giddy feeling swept over her. The ridiculous reaction unsettled her.


Kelsey beamed at the women. "This is Ethan Fox who sits on the board of Dreams Come True Foundation, and he's here to tell us about a wonderful opportunity for you and your family."


He swung his hand in a brief wave. "Happy to be here."


The women applauded.


Lexie liked his voice, warm and rich as a cinnamon bun fresh from the oven. Guilty pleasure swept over her, picturing the sugary treat, one of her vices.


Ethan strode to the center, slipping one hand into his khaki-colored pants while the other clutched what appeared to be a stack of brochures. His shirt had thin blue stripes on a white background. Lexie liked the way he coordinated his attire with his beige and navy tie. He looked like a spit-polished executive minus the suit jacket. She grinned at her fashion commentary.


Ethan noticed and grinned back.


A flush warmed her neck, and Lexie glanced away, but the look hadn't escaped Kelsey. She ambled closer to Lexie and arched a brow.


Lexie drew in a breath and gave a quick shake of her head, immediately wishing she hadn't responded to Kelsey's implication.


"I hope most of you have heard about the Dreams Come True Foundation." Ethan scanned the group of women.


His comment yanked Lexie's attention. She'd never heard of it. She surveyed the group to see how many had. Looking around, she noticed only a few nods. Most looked at Ethan with blank looks that probably matched hers.


He shook his head. "I'm disappointed. I had hoped most of you knew about us, but this makes me especially pleased that I'm here today." He handed Kelsey a stack of brochures and refocused on the women.


Kelsey stood at the end of the first row of chairs and counted out the brochures, but Lexie didn't keep her focus on her. She studied Ethan Fox.


"Dreams Come True is a foundation that provides children who are surviving a serious illness with the means to reach a dream. By this, I mean the foundation plans, arranges, and finances your child's wish. This isn't a national organization, but one founded in South Oakland County by an anonymous donor. He doesn't serve on the board, and he is contacted solely through an attorney."


Kelsey appeared, slipped a brochure into her lap and settled into the empty chair beside her. Lexie evaded her gaze. She wanted no more arched eye brows. Instead she scanned the brochure as she listened to Ethan.


Sincerity always captured her attention, and she suspected the man had a love for what he did for kids, but the foundation sounded like a Disney movie. Lexie had given up long ago wishing on a star and singing down a well. Her prince had galloped right past, taking the glass slipper with him, and at this point in her life, she didn't expect another knight to pass by.


Ava Darnell's hand shot upward.


Lexie liked Ava, although her curiosity sometimes took precedence over wisdom. Ava's son and hers shared a similar disease—cancer—and being alone she empathized with Ava's struggle as a single mom.


Ethan acknowledged her, and Ava lowered her hand. "Does the donor live in the area?"


Ethan lifted his shoulders. "I don't know for sure, but I suspect he does."


"Do you think he's a teacher or something? Someone who knows--"


"Those of us on the board have no other information. As I said, he's an anonymous donor." A frown flashed across his face. "But that doesn't diminish the wonderful opportunity that you have as parents to apply for one of these gifts."


Ava looked away, her mumble still heard. "But why? I don't get it."


Kelsey strode to Ethan. "It's difficult to imagine such kindness from a stranger, someone who doesn't know our children, but we appreciate learning about this wonderful charity."


Lexie tried to cover her grin. Kelsey served as the meetings troubleshooter, and Lexie wished she had her friends knack to calm a crisis. She approached trouble with commonsense.


Ethan's tense face relaxed. He gave Kelsey a pleasant nod. "It is a charity, but please know your family's income isn't considered. This donor wants to give a sick child something to look forward to. To experience something that seems impossible. You've all faced family adversity, watching your child suffer from a variety of serious illnesses. The Bible tells us to be imitators of God and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us." His gaze scanned the women. "I think that's what the donor has done. He wants to bring unexpected joy into your child's life and yours."



© 2011 Gail Gaymer Martin

One Child's Wish

One Child's Wish

With his Dreams Come True foundation, Ethan Fox turns wishes into reality. Amazing trips. Meeting heroes. But Ethan has come to care deeply for a sick boy whose dream is. . .a dad. And not just any dad. Ethan. Though little Cooper has a great chance of getting well, widowed Ethan can't chance loving---and losing---again. Yet he's spending time with the sweet boy and his lovely, single mother, Lexie Carlson. Could a little boy's wish for a dad of his own come true after all?

In stores now where ever books are sold or order on line: Click to Order:

Bio:

Multi-award-winning novelist, Gail Gaymer Martin writes Christian fiction for Love Inspired and Barbour Publishing, where she was honored by Heartsong readers as their Favorite Author of 2008. Gail has forty-eight contracted novels with over three million books in print. She is the author of Writers Digest’s Writing the Christian Romance. Gail is a co-founder of American Christian Fiction Writers, a keynote speaker at churches, libraries and civic organizations and presents workshops at conference across the US. She has a Masters degree from Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan and was a licensed counselor for many years. She lives with her husband in a northwest Detroit suburb.

Gail's Video Interview about A DAD OF HIS OWN and a little about her career can be view on her blog at: http://www.gailmartin.blogspot.com/



Visit Gail's Website at www.gailmartin.com
Gail on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/profile.php?id=1429640580

Promises to Keep; A Deadly Game

Promises to Keep

By Ann Tatlock

"A lively narrative….poignant and moving." Publishers Weekly


"A wonderful read….The story threatens to break our heart with its velvet hammer truth, but sacrificial love triumphs!" Rusty Whitener

What 11-year-old Roz Anthony wants more than anything is for her daddy to quit drinking, to be the good man she knows him to sometimes be, and to take his rightful place as husband and father. He promises to change. But should Roz trust him?


Chapter 1


We hadn't lived in the house on McDowell Street for even a week when we found a stranger on the porch, reading the morning paper. Wally saw her first, since it was his job to fetch the newspaper from the low-lying branches of the blue spruce where the paper boy always tossed it. I was in the kitchen setting the table, and from there I could see Wally—tall and lanky and bare-chested in the summer heat--move down the hall toward the front door. He was grumbling about the rain as the soles of his feet slapped against the hardwood floor. He reached for the doorknob, then stopped abruptly. In the next moment, he hollered back toward the kitchen, "Mom, there's an old lady out on the porch."

Mom was frying bacon at the stove. She jabbed at the sizzling pan with a spatula and hollered back, "What's she want? Is she selling something?"

"I don't think so," Wally said. "She's just sitting there reading the paper."

"Our paper?"

"Well, yeah. I think it's our paper."

"What now?" Mom muttered as she moved the frying pan off the burner and untied her apron. When she turned around I saw the flash of fear in her eyes. It was a look I was used to; it showed up on Mom's face whenever she didn't know what was coming next, which happened a lot in our old house in Minnesota. But not because of strangers.

Mom laid the apron over a chair, smoothed back her blonde hair, and ran the palms of her hands over the wrinkles in her housedress. At the same time she tried to smooth the wrinkles in her brow enough to look confident. I followed her from the kitchen to the front door where Wally stood so close to the window the tip of his nose touched the glass. "Can you believe it?" he said quietly. "She's just sitting there like she owns the place or something."

Mom raised one hand to her lips in quiet hesitation. Meanwhile I slipped to the living room window and peered out from behind the curtain, finding myself only inches from our uninvited guest. At first glance she was one huge floral print dress straining the straps of the folding lawn chair on the porch. Her legs were propped up on the railing and her bulky black tie shoes dangled like dead weight over the lilac bush below. I couldn't see much of her face, just a small slice of fleshy cheek and the bulbous end of a generous nose, a pair of gray-rimmed glasses and a mass of white hair knotted at the back of her head. She was reading the Sunday comics and something must have tickled her because she laughed out loud.

That howl of glee sent enough of a jolt through Mom to get her going. She gently pulled Wally away from the door and swung it open. She pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. I saw the old woman's head bob once as though to acknowledge Mom's presence.

"Can I help you?" Mom asked. Her voice was strained, the way it sounded when she was trying not to yell at one of us kids. She waited a few seconds. Then, a little more exasperated, she repeated, "Can I help you with something?"

The stranger folded the paper and settled it in her lap. "No, dear, I don't think so." The corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile. "But thank you just the same."

Mom stiffened at that and all her features seemed to move toward the center of her face. "Well," she said, "may I ask what you're doing on my porch?"

"Just sitting a while," the old woman said, as though she'd been found passing the time of day on a public bench. "Anyway," she went on, "it's not your porch. It's mine."

"Uh oh," Wally whispered in my direction. "She's one of those crazies. You'd better go keep an eye on Valerie."

But I didn't want to go keep an eye on Valerie. I wanted to stay right where I was and watch Mom talking with the crazy lady.

Mom looked off toward the street like she was hoping someone would walk by and help her, but it was early Sunday morning and the streets were quiet, save for one lone soot-colored cat slinking along the sidewalk in the misty rain.

Finally, Mom turned back to the stranger and said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, and if you don't, I will call the police."

The old lady pulled her feet off the railing, and I thought maybe she was going to stand up and leave, but she didn't. Instead, she said quietly, "Well now, I wish you wouldn't do that."

"You don't give me any choice. You're trespassing on private property."

"I might say the same for you."

Mom's eyes widened. "What do you mean by that?"

"The law might say you own this house, but it'll always be mine."

"Mom," Wally hollered though the screen, "you want me to call the cops?"



Available from www.amazon.com, www.bn.com, www.christianbook.com.



Copyright © 2011 by Ann Tatlock

Published by Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group

Do not reproduce without permission.



To learn more about Ann and her books, please visit her website at www.anntatlock.com.


* * *


A Deadly Game


By Virginia Smith



It began as a harmless game, a competition of wits between ten wealthy businessmen. But when one of them is killed, Susanna is drawn into a nightmare like she never imagined. The only person she can rely on is someone she vowed she would never trust: the son of a billionaire, very much like the man who ruined her life three years earlier. And though she hasn't talked to God in years, she must now pray that Jack can help her figure out the clues in an ingenious game with the highest stakes of all — life and death.


An exciting and suspenseful story with some intriguing twists. – RT Book Reviews


1


The moment she rounded the corner of the building, Susanna Trent knew something was wrong. To her right, darkness shrouded the wooded area that ran the length of the building housing Ingram Industries. Tiny frozen daggers of sleet sliced through the nighttime sky to fall onto the crowded evergreen branches, the contact goading the trees into an eerie dance. To her left, slivers of light peeked through the cracks of closed blinds in the floor-to-ceiling office windows. Sleet stung her cheeks and slapped at the nylon hood of her jacket as she skidded to a halt on the sidewalk.

Behind her, Jack Townsend didn't stop quite as quickly. He bumped into her, and almost knocked her off her feet.

Jack slipped a strong hand under her arm to steady her. "Sorry about that."

Susanna acknowledged the apology with an absent nod, her stare fixed on the windows. A finger of disquiet tapped at the edges of her mind. She'd expected to see her boss standing there, waiting for her to arrive with his new Corvette. Mr. Ingram had been ecstatic when she called him after the auction ended to tell him that she'd succeeded in buying the car he wanted. Why wasn't he watching for the moment she arrived, ready to dash outside to see it? Something definitely wasn't right here.

Jack's head turned as he followed her gaze. "Is something wrong?"

Susanna shook her head, as much to dislodge the uneasy feelings as to answer. "It's just that the blinds are closed. They're never closed."

"Maybe he wanted some privacy."

"From what?" She pointed toward the desolate woods. "Nobody ever comes back here except him and me."

Jack peered into the ice-covered evergreens, then shrugged. "Why don't we ask him?"

His smile tilted sideways, and Susanna couldn't help but admire the guy's strong jaw, chiseled nose and short-cropped dark hair. They'd just met a few hours ago, at the car auction, and she'd noted his wholesome good looks right off. Normally she would have found him attractive, but Jack Townsend was exactly the kind of man she made a point of avoiding. He shared too much in common with someone she hoped she'd never have to see again.

Still, he was doing Mr. Ingram a favor by delivering the new Corvette. She had to admit that was a nice gesture, especially when he had been bidding against her for the same car. Unusual, too. In Susanna's experience, the sons of billionaires were far too self-centered to do something nice for someone else.

She glanced again at the closed blinds and couldn't completely dismiss the feeling of foreboding that bloomed. Hurrying to the heavy metal door, she shrugged the strap of her voluminous handbag from her shoulder. The cavernous interior of the purse held a wealth of useful personal items, with plenty of room for the envelope containing the papers for Mr. Ingram's new car. But it also ate keys. She rummaged inside, shaking to listen for the telltale jingle. Finally, she found them. Her gloved fingers fumbled to locate the right one, and she shoved it into the lock.

The hallway inside was empty, but it would be at this time of night. Susanna led Jack down the short corridor and around the corner. A quick glance toward the front of the building showed that the main lights were off in the accounting department. Stillness filled the office, normally bustling in the daytime. A few safety lights cast a dim glow over the empty desks.

She didn't pause when she entered her own work space, but hurried across the carpeted floor, past her tidy desk. The door to Mr. Ingram's private office had been pulled almost closed. Was he on a phone call, maybe? She halted for a moment, but didn't hear any noise from inside.

"Mr. Ingram?" She tapped on the wood, the sound muted by her gloves. "I'm here with your car."

No answer. Alarm crept like spider legs up the back of Susanna's neck. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She exchanged a glance with Jack, whose brows had drawn together over eyes dark with concern.

"Mr. Ingram? Is everything okay?"

Susanna laid a gloved hand on the solid door and gave a gentle push. It swung inward, and she slipped through the enlarged opening. The desk chair was empty, but her gaze was drawn to the floor.

A body lay halfway hidden behind the big wooden desk. But the head was visible. The image seared into Susanna's brain like a hot brand, and she knew she would remember it as long as she lived. Mr. Ingram's face was purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets to stare at something no living person could see.

A scream tore from her throat.

---

Copyright © 2011 by Harlequin Enterprises

Copyright © 2011 by Virginia Smith



Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A. Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved. ® and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises and/or its affiliated companies, used under license.


For more information about A Deadly Game and Virginia Smith's other books, visit www.VirginiaSmith.org


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Beneath the Night Tree; False Money

Beneath the Night Tree

By Nicole Baart


"Beneath the Night Tree is a poignant glimpse of a woman's past merging with her future. Filled with poetic symbolism and lush description, Baart's work vividly portrays an individual at a crossroads, faced with circumstances that force her to examine her deepest motivations...

Baart has the guts to examine what many won't contemplate -- convention and the social norm. Her work combines down-to-earth elements of daily living with abstract concepts meant to be considered on a broad scale. Nothing about this book is cliched and her characters may surprise those who think they know the outcome; for just as in real life, it's the unforeseen events that often bring unexpected results." ForeWord Magazine, 2010


A single mother to her son and younger brother, Julia DeSmit cherishes living with her beloved grandmother and is hoping to be engaged to Michael Vermeer—the man of her dreams—by year's end.


Then a cryptic e-mail from her son's father spins her world off axis. She hasn't heard from Parker since he left her in a college parking lot without a backward glance. But one look at her son—the spitting image of his father—is enough to convince her that, for better or worse, Parker is a part of their story.


Faced with this new reality and the potential unraveling of her unorthodox family, Julia begins a tightrope walk between what was, what is, and what she hopes will be.




Beneath the Night Tree

Nicole Baart


Chapter 1


Daniel hummed in his sleep. It was an unconscious song, a midnight lullaby, as familiar to me as the sigh of my own breath. I fell asleep at night listening to the cadence of his dreams, and when I woke in the morning, his quiet melody was a prelude to birdsong.


I opened my eyes in the darkness and strained to see an imprint of peach on the horizon beyond my open window. It was coming, but when I blinked at the black reflection in the glass, dawn was nothing more than a promise, and Daniel's every exhalation seemed tuned to charm it into being. I pictured him in his bed, arm flung over the pillow and palm opened toward the sky as if God had set an orchestra before his still- chubby fingers. As if God had chosen my son to coax light into our little house.


Maybe He had.


If there was one thing I had learned in five years of being a single mom, it was that the Lord did exactly that: He used the small, the inconsequential, the forgotten to shame the wise. He worked in contradictions, in the unexpected. And I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if He hovered over my Daniel, drawing music from the curve of his parted lips with the gentle pull of divine fingers.


The thought made me smile, and for a moment I longed to tiptoe across the cool floorboards and be a part of it all, to slip into the tiny attic nook that was my son's bedroom. I wanted to feel my way through the shadows, stretch out beside him, and kiss the sugar-sweet little-boy mouth that puckered like a perfect bow.


But I didn't. Instead, I did what I did every day. I got up, grabbed the clothes that I had laid out the night before, and headed downstairs. If Daniel was singing, then I danced: avoiding the stair that creaked, twisting around the smooth-worn banister like a ballerina, waltzing to Simon's room, where I peeked through the crack of the mostly closed door.


My ten-year-old half brother was on his stomach, bare back exposed to the unseasonable cool of an August morning. We had all the windows flung open, and the house whispered with a light breeze. It wasn't cold, not really, but the sight of his skinmade me stifle a shiver. I floated into Simon's room, a part of his dreams, and laid a blanket across his shoulders like a blessing. Schoolboy shoulders, I noticed. Thin and angular, but broadening, hinting at the strong man he would soon become as if the clean line of his skin were bursting with promise. A tight bud about to unfurl. Sometimes I still couldn't believe that she had left him here to blossom.


I touched the mop of his dark hair with my fingertips and thanked God that the child below me slept in peace. That he loved me.


When I spun into the kitchen and switched on the coffeemaker, I couldn't stop the prayer that rose, a balloon lifting beneath the cage that held my heart. Thank You, I breathed in the silence. For Daniel, for Simon, for my grandmother, who still slipped from bed not long after I turned on the shower to whisk pancake batter or fold blueberries into muffins for breakfast. Thank You for the four corners of our family and the way that we folded into each other like one of my grandma's quilts. Edges coming together, softening.


Most of all, I was grateful for the stillness of the predawn hush, for the short reprieve when everything was dark and new, emerging. It was in these moments as the day was still lifting its head that I could believe everything was exactly as it should be instead of the way it was.


Not that life was horrible—far from it. But as the weeks and months circled on, I couldn't deny that our ramshackle family was often more off than on. The whole thing reminded me of Daniel's birthday present: a carved model train track. Though the sleek, red engine could pull a chain of cars around the twining loops for hours on end, there inevitably came a moment when a single wheel tripped off the track. Who knew what caused the quiet stumble? It was a magician's trick, a sleight of hand—everything bustling along one minute and struggling the next. But the train kept going; the engine pulled on. It just dragged the coal cars behind it, clacking unevenly all the way.


I felt just like that engine, hauling everything in my wake. Hauling everyone in my wake.


When I pulled back the shower curtain, it became obvious that the DeSmit family train was already well on its way to derailment. There were worms in the bathtub, a dozen or more squirming in a mound of dirt so rich and black it made me think of cake. Devil's food.


I had specifically told Daniel not to put worms in the bathtub and had even given him an ice cream bucket in which to store his newest collection. My son needed to have his hearing checked again, I decided. But it was an exercise in futility. I knew that what plagued Daniel wasn't a hearing problem; it was a listening problem.


As I deposited handfuls of squirming earthworms into the bucket I rescued from the front porch, I felt the momentary bliss of my morning slackening its fragile hold. Hot on the heels of the stark reminder that Daniel was an angel only when he slept came a familiar twinge of worry for Simon, the boy who earned his wings in a thousand different ways. By the time I finally stepped into the mud-streaked shower and turned it on full blast, I could feel concern overflow my fists like worry stones too heavy to hold.


Handsome as Simon was, and growing more mature by the day, he still wore loss like a chain around his neck, heavy and awkward, dragging his head down. He loved us, I knew that, but he missed her. And why shouldn't he? Janice was a terrible mother to me, and yet I missed her every single day. I felt her absence in the shadowed corners of my heart, where longing echoed. It was a sound track of hurt—soft, but always there.


And Janice had been a good mom to Simon. Or at least, as good as she could bring herself to be. No wonder he bore her ghost like an anchor.


Copyright: Nicole Baart (do not reproduce without permission)


Learn more at:

http://www.nicolebaart.com


Buy now at:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Christianbook.com

***


FALSE MONEY

5th in the Abbot Agency series

By Veronica Heley



Bea Abbot does not `do' murder, but the disappearance of Tomi, star of an award-winning short film, is a different matter. Bea discovers that Tomi's circle contains a secret so deadly that they are dying one by one, even though none of them will go to the police. Which of them will talk to Bea, and if they do, will that no also put her at risk?


The extract:

Widowed Bea Abbot ran a domestic agency whose watchword was `discretion'. Every now and then people brought her problems which they couldn't or wouldn't take to the police. Occasionally this meant she dealt with murder.


Friday afternoon

Bea walked into her office and found a bouquet of flowers on her desk.

Was it a gift or a bribe?


The flowers wouldn't be from her live-in assistant. Maggie had green fingers and looked after their secluded back garden with energy and style, but Maggie did not care for cut flowers, so it wasn't she who had put the bouquet on Bea's desk.


Bea rarely bothered to buy cut flowers either, being content with one or two strategically placed pot plants which didn't object to central heating.


So, who had brought her flowers?


A name leaped into her mind.


She picked the bouquet up to make sure but there was no card with it. It wasn't an expensive bouquet. It was made up of carnations, chrysanthemums and one rose bundled into a cellophane wrapper, with a sachet of plant food taped to it. It looked as if it had been plucked from a bucket on the way out of a convenience store. Bea could see where an attempt had been made to rip off the price tag.


She weighed the bouquet in her hand, thinking about the one person who was always asking her to do things for him that she didn't want to do . . . and dropped it into the waste paper basket.


She liked flowers. What she didn't like was bribery and corruption, and she could smell that a mile off.


He'd be lurking in the vicinity, of course.


She threw her suit jacket over the back of her chair and stretched to ease her back. She was tired. She'd been out of the office all morning and this was the first moment she'd had to sit at her desk and boot up her computer. In a minute, her elderly and pensionable but refusing-to-retire personal assistant would knock on the door – which was entirely unnecessary, but the elderly Miss Brook liked to observe the formalities – and enter with the few items from the day's post that she felt her employer should see.


Meanwhile Bea accessed her emails.


`Boo!'


Of course. He'd concealed himself behind the long curtains framing the French windows.


Bea set her teeth. `No. Whatever it is you want, the answer is "No".'


`You don't really mean it.' Chris slid into the chair before her desk. Nineteen years old, he had a narrow head under a mop of chestnut hair, was of medium height and well-made. He had startlingly blue eyes and charm enough to get his own way ninety nine times out of a hundred. He was out-of-this-world clever in some respects but, in Bea's opinion at least, made up for it by being totally lacking in common sense.


As Bea had expected, Miss Brook now tapped on the door and brought in the post. Chris jumped up and reached out to take the stack of letters from her, fumbled the job and let the papers fall to the floor.

Bea rolled her eyes at Miss Brook, who pinched in her lips and said, `I don't know how he got in.'


`Don't you bother to pick up those letters, Miss Brook. Chris knocked them down, and Chris can pick them up.'


Which indeed, he was scrabbling around on the floor to do.


`I should think so, too,' said Miss Brook, who was one of the few people impervious to Chris's charm. Miss Brook closed the door soundlessly behind her.


Chris dumped a messy pile of papers on her desk and opened his mouth to speak.


`No,' said Bea. `What ever it is that you want, the answer is "No". As I've said many times before, you may not move into the spare room. You may not bring your synthesizer in here to practice, and I am not taking you out in my car to give you a driving lesson.'


`That's not fair. I've passed my test.'


`At the eighteenth attempt?'


`Oh, come on! It was only my fourth try.'


`Is your driving instructor now on tranquillisers?' She held up her hand to stop him. `I'm delighted – though surprised – to hear that you've managed finally to pass your driving test but no, you may not borrow my car under any circumstances. Anyway, aren't you supposed to be out and about, making another of your amazing art-house films that will wow the critics? No!'


He opened his mouth to reply, but she got there first. `Don't tell me. Your next film's held up for some reason, your father's fed up with you hanging around the house, and you can't go back to university till next terms starts–'


`I'm not going back to university.'


`But you will, Chris. You will. In due course you'll see the sense of it. Whatever you decide to do in life, a university degree helps. What's more, it teaches you discipline, which is something you lack. So, the answer is "NO!".'


He grinned. `You haven't heard what it is I want yet.'


`I don't need to,' she said, returning to her computer and deleting some spam. Why did you always have to check your spam nowadays, to make sure nothing has dived into the wrong slot?


He put on his puppy-dog face. `My father suggested that–'


She lifted her eyes from her screen. His father was some sort of high-up civil servant, a grey man with influence. She liked CJ, and she rather thought he liked her – not in that way, of course. But she trusted him, which is more than she did his likeable but harum-scarum son.


`Honest. He did say I should ask you to help to find my library books–'


`WHAT! Get out of here before I lose my temper completely!'


`Oh, and the girl who lost them. She seems to have got lost, too.'

998


Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com


Available from Amazon and all good bookshops and libraries everywhere. Do not Reproduce without permission.

Mutiny of the Heart

MUTINY OF THE HEART


Book 1 in an exciting new series set in historical Charleston


By award winning author Vickie McDonough


When a young woman arrives on Lucas Reed's doorstep, claiming the small boy in her charge is his son, Lucas is certain she's a charlatan, but then he looks at the child's face—a face that remarkably resembles his own.




Charleston, South Carolina

1788


Heather Hawthorne gazed at the monstrous homes of Charleston as another wave of doubt slammed into her with the full force of a hurricane. Was she making the right decision?


Hadn't she asked herself that question a thousand times since boarding the ship back home in Canada? Was it too late to hail the carriage driver and ask him to return them to the Charlotte Anne before it set sail for the Caribbean?


"Are we almost there, Aunt Heather?"


Smiling down at the lad she loved as her own, she ruffled his hair then found his cap on the seat and set it on his head. "Aye, dear one, we've nearly arrived."


Jamie furrowed his brow and leaned against her arm. "Do you think he will like me?"


Heather's heart clenched as she patted his soft cheek. "Of course he will."


Please, Lord. Let it be so. Holding the lad's hand, she watched the tall homes, and even taller palm trees, pass by. She hadn't seen the likes of such houses since her family left England and settled off the coast of Canada on Nova Scotia. Her poor cottage was probably a fraction of the size of the carriage houses that sat behind many of the giant homes. Nearly all had one- and two-story porches, or piazzas as she'd heard them called. Many of them faced the Charleston harbor, welcoming the cooling breezes of the sea. She lifted her head. Though she could not see the harbor at the moment, she could smell the salty air.


Lucas Reed was said to be one of the wealthiest ship- builders in the area and would certainly live in one of these large homes. No sooner had the thought taken wing than the coach slowed and stopped. Heather gasped and held her hand against her chest. The imposing brick house looming above them was three stories tall. The decorative front door was sheltered by a rounded portico supported by four massive white columns. Curved stairways on either side led up to the landing. Ivy clung to the brick below the portico and crept out onto the stairs, giving the home a soft accent.


The carriage driver lowered the steps and opened the door. "The home of Mr. Lucas Reed, miss."


She accepted the hand he held out and descended the steps, turning to check on Jamie. He shrank back, staring at her with wide blue eyes. "Don't be afraid, lad. I'll be with you."


He nodded then gathered the bag that held his favorite possessions and hopped down, looking around with a crinkled brow. "Where's the house?"


The driver chuckled and motioned toward the red brick structure. " 'Tis here, boy."


"But that's a big building." Jamie tilted his head back and looked up at the portico.


"Aye, the houses here are quite large."


Now that was an understatement if there ever was one. Heather swallowed the lump in her throat. She'd gone through so much to get here, but what if the man didn't want the boy?


Lucas Reed had more money than he knew what to do with from the looks of this house, and his reputation for helping others was widely talked about—although he surely hadn't helped Jamie's mother any. She pursed her lips, trying to maintain a proper attitude. She would see that he did right by the lad, even if she had to remain in this hated country to do so.


The coachman lifted out her satchel and Jamie's smaller one. "I shall run these up the stairs for you, miss."

She smiled, found a coin in her handbag, and paid the man when he returned to the coach. "Thank you for your service."


"Should I wait for you, miss?"


"Nay." Surely Mr. Reed could provide transportation back to the docks. Straightening her back and her resolve, she took Jamie's hand and climbed the stairs to the massive white door. She pounded the knocker and gazed around at the homes crowded together. How could one live with neighbors clustered so nearby?


The door opened, and she swallowed hard. A butler studied her, gazing down her length and back up. His eyes narrowed a bit. "How can I be of service?"


"We're here to see Mr. Reed. Is he at home?"


"Hmm. . .I don't remember him having an appointment today."


"We don't have one." Heather lifted her chin at the stern man. "We've just arrived in town, and I had no chance to notify Mr. Reed in advance."


Jamie tugged her hand, shuffling his feet. "I need to use the. . .you know."


The butler backed away, holding the door open. "Step inside, miss, and I'll see if Mr. Reed is available. May I tell him the nature of your business?"


" 'Tis rather private." Heather ducked her head beneath his stern gaze. She got the impression he didn't think much of her, but he wasn't the one she was worried about. They stepped inside, and he hoisted their bags and set them in the entryway then closed the door.


"Stay here. I'll return shortly. You may leave your card in the receiving tray over there." He pointed to a long, narrow table that held a hammered silver tray with three of the four corners bent inward, then strode into the interior of the house.


She wandered over to the table, taking in the fine furnishings of the home. In the dish lay several calling cards with the owners' names on them. She had no card to leave. What would it matter anyway?


"Aunt Heather. . . "


"Hang on a bit longer, please." She stooped in front of Jamie and brushed his dark hair from his deep blue eyes. Oh, how she'd miss him. He was like a son to her, but he deserved to know his father, especially since his mother had died.


But would the father be worthy of such a fine lad?

Vickie McDonough

www.vickiemcdonough.com


Where to buy a copy: www.heartsongpresents.com/book/detail/9781616261122/



Do Not Reproduce without permission.

The Baby Promise

The Baby Promise

by Carolyne Aarsen

Romantic Times calls the Baby Promise - " An emotional story with a
heroine who is danger of making bad decisions out of love and a hero who
discovers God's plans are always best." 4 stars

On leave from the army, Nick Colter heads to a quiet Alberta ranch to
fulfill a promise. His buddy left behind a pregnant wife in need of
protection and friendship that only Nick can provide. Despite years in
combat, he isn't prepared for the battle to earn wary Beth Carruthrs's
trust. there is more than grief in her beautiful blue eyes, and caring
for her becomes more than an act of duty. He wants to bring a smile to
her face . . . and restore faith and love in her heart. Yet the secrets
she harbors may destroy the one chance at family he thought he'd never
find.

Carolyne Aarsen

www.carolyneaarsen.com

His buddy's description had not prepared him for this.

As the taxi that brought him from Calgary drove away, Nick Colter eased
a long ragged sigh, his breath creating ribbons of fog in the crisp
January air. He tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder and looked
around.

The log house Jim had described lay nestled in a copse of pine trees,
smoke curling out of the stone chimney. Behind the house, rolling hills
blanketed with snow and frosted spruce trees edged toward granite
mountains, their rugged edges crisp against a blue midmorning sky.

Nick's eyes scanned the mountains, darting over their surface his
hand reaching for . . .

He caught himself and flexed his tightening fingers, reminding himself
to relax. These were the friendly mountains of Alberta not the enemy
riddled mountains of Afghanistan.

And he wasn't a soldier anymore.

He let the utter stillness ease away the memories of dust, heat, pain,
brokenness and war.

How long had it been since he felt the peace permeating this place? How
long had it been since he looked at space and did not scan it for enemy,
for trouble, but instead just looked?

He dragged his hands over his stubbled face and shifted his weight,
wincing as the movement resurrected pain from an injury that had given
him a one-way ticket back home.

Behind the pain came the thought that he shouldn't be here. He
needed to be back with his unit doing the job he'd trained for since
he was eighteen.

But he had a medical discharge he couldn't work around and a promise
to keep.

"Can I help you?"

A melodic voice broke the quiet of the morning. Nick spun around and
there she was, walking down a path toward him looking as much a part of
the picture as the house did.

Her curly blonde hair was pulled loosely away from her heart-shaped
face, cheeks pinked with cold. She wore a pale blue woolen jacket
straining over a rounded belly and black pants tucked into leather
boots. In spite of the cold she wore nothing on her head and her bare
hands clutched the handles of a large, black briefcase.

Beth. Jim's widow. Looking even more beautiful than the pictures Jim
had shown him.

And pregnant with the child his buddy Jim had talked so often about and
now would never see.

Nick walked toward her, pulling his hat off as he did. She stopped a few
feet away from him, her expression guarded and cautious, her violet eyes
narrowed.

"Hello, Beth. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Nick
Colter. I was stationed with Jim in Afghanistan."

As he spoke sorrow blanketed her features and she took a faltering step
away. Her small action sent a myriad of emotions running through him.

Grief, anger, sorrow but laying beneath all that, a deep well of guilt
at being the one standing here instead of her beloved husband, Jim. He
who had little to live for had survived, and Jim who had so much, had
not.

This was wrong, he wanted to tell her. And I know it is. I shouldn't
be here.

Beth wrapped her arm around herself as if trying to hold in her sorrow,
her eyes flitting away from him. "I remember you." She spoke
quietly, grief softening her voice. "I saw you at the funeral."

Nick wanted to say something to ease her pain, but any words he might
have to say were too small for the moment. So he stood in front of her,
hat in hand, letting his silence say what his mouth couldn't.

Sometimes words couldn't say it all.

"What . . . what are you doing here?" she asked, still looking
away from him.

He was here because as Jim lay dying in his arms, he pleaded with Nick
to keep an eye on his wife, to watch over her

and make sure she was okay. While Jim's life seeped out of him into
the desert sand, his eyes held Nick's with an intensity branding
itself into Nick's very soul while he pleaded with Nick to take care
of his family.

But when Nick looked into Beth's eyes, he wondered if this was the
time to say all that.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers asked me to come for a visit." He
decided to go with the safest reason for now. The visit was true. Bob
and Ellen had offered at the funeral when they had found out about
Nick's medical discharge from the army.

"That's very considerate of you," she said.

He slipped his hat back on his head, unable to keep his eyes off her,
remembering too well Jim's pictures of her.

In those pictures Beth's blonde, curly hair flowed free, and her
wide violet eyes looked as if they held some secret and her mouth barely
hinted at a smile.

Though her features now held the same ethereal quality, they also held
the stamp of sorrow.

"Jim talked about you a lot," he added, struggling with his own
grief. "He really loved you."

She took another step away from him, shaking her head and lifting her
one hand as if pushing him away. "I can't talk about Jim."

"Of course. I'm sorry. I'm sure this is a difficult time for
you."

She turned her head aside, hiding her sorrow. "Enjoy your visit with
my in-laws," was all she said. She moved past him and walked to a
small car, got in and started it up.

Nick watched her sitting stock still in the car, her hands gripping the
steering wheel as she stared straight ahead, plumes of exhaust swirling
around the car.

He wasn't surprised at her reaction. She was still grieving. He was
still grieving. It had been only eight weeks since his friend breathed
his beloved wife's name with his last breath. Only fourty-one days
since he watched Jim's brown eyes slowly become lifeless and felt
his body grow heavy and slack in his arms.

Nick clenched his hands and tamped down the sorrow. He wouldn't be
any good to Beth or Jim's parents if he couldn't control his own
grief.

For a moment he cursed Jim again. Had Nick done what he always did -
went his own way, did his own thing, kept himself from making friends
like he usually did - he wouldn't have had to deal with this grief.

But when Jim burst into their tent with his big grin and boisterous
personality he also burst through the walls Nick had carefully built
around his life.

Now Jim was gone and Nick was alone again.

Nick slung his duffel back over his shoulder, then limped over the
packed trail toward the log house.

Toward Jim's parents and their sorrow.

The Baby Promise can be found wherever books are sold. Do not reproduce
without written permission.