CAW Chapter A Week

The Gentleman Takes a Bride in The Wedding Season

By Louise M. Gouge





Surely Elizabeth Moberly was born to be a nobleman's bride. She can't possibly be attracted to the untitled stranger who interrupts her cousin's wedding. Yet Elizabeth finds herself drawn to Philip Lindsey's tender heart and strong faith. And if Philip has his way, he'll convince Elizabeth the only title she needs is Mrs. Lindsey, beloved wife.



The Wedding Season reached #8 at amazon.com for Kindle romance anthologies! It has been in the top 50 for over a month.





Hampshire, England

June 1810



"I will not settle for an untitled husband." Lady Diana Moberly lifted her pretty little nose and sniffed. "I shall find a peer to marry, or I'll not marry at all."





Seated beside her cousin in St. Andrew's Church, Miss Elizabeth Moberly listened with rapt attention. After all, Di had just returned from her first London Season and knew everything about courtship and marriage. And in a few minutes, the wedding ceremony would begin, and Di's older sister would marry a handsome gentleman she met at Almack's only two months ago. An untitled gentleman. Di insisted she would do better.





Before Elizabeth could voice agreement, her other cousin, Miss Prudence Moberly, squeezed Elizabeth's hand and leaned around her to address Di.





"But what if the Lord wills for you to marry a good Christian gentleman without a title?"





Elizabeth swung her attention from Pru back to Di.





Di sniffed again. "La, such a question, Pru, but just what I would expect from you. Haven't I told you? The Almighty and I have an understanding about such things." She gazed down her nose at Pru.





Elizabeth released a quiet sigh. She and her two cousins had been born within months of each other eighteen years ago. The youngest daughters of three brothers, they looked almost like triplets, with blond hair, blue eyes, and ivory complexions. They had enjoyed a merry childhood together, yet these days their views on most everything were different. Di was always ready with an opinion on any topic and brooked no contradiction. Pru was the sweetest soul, but she never backed down from differences with their more influential cousin, especially on spiritual matters. Elizabeth vacillated between the two, but these days she tended to follow Di, who always seemed to have more fun.





Still, Elizabeth could not deny the peace she felt in this small stone church, which her family had attended for over two centuries. Nor could she guess how many relatives had been baptized here or how many lay buried in the ancient graveyard outside. This building was a place of beginnings and endings and all good things in between. Whenever she came here, it seemed to enfold her in sheltering arms, encouraging her always to seek God's will, whatever she might undertake in life.





Perhaps she could take the advice of both cousins. She would ask the Lord to send her a titled Christian husband.





But this was Sophia's day, and Elizabeth wished her great happiness with Mr. Whitson. Today, all things seemed to smile upon the bride. The sun shone brightly, and no one in their vast family had succumbed to illness to spoil the celebration. Flowers from Aunt Bennington's garden and bright green and white ribbons bedecked the altar and the pew ends, filling the air with the heady fragrance of roses.





The rustling of ladies' gowns and the shuffling of leather shoes on the wooden floor caught Elizabeth's attention, and she glanced over her shoulder. Across the aisle, several people had moved down so a tall young man of perhaps three and twenty years could slide into the pew.





Goodness, he was handsome, if a bit untidy. His wavy black hair appeared to have been arranged by the wind, and his black coat, while quite the mode, had a leaf caught under one lapel and perhaps a stray burr or two clinging to the sleeves. His lean, strong jaw was clenched, and his blue eyes gleamed with the look of a man set on accomplishing an important task. The gentleman must have ridden posthaste to arrive in such a condition. At the sight of him, Elizabeth's heart seemed to hiccough.





Or perhaps it was Pru's elbow in her ribs. "Tst," her proper cousin admonished.





"Humph." Di's ever-uplifted nose punctuated her disapproval of the latecomer.





Wishing to please her cousins, Elizabeth stared ahead. Her aunt, Lady Bennington, sat on the front row with her eldest son, the viscount. In the second row, Elizabeth's parents, Captain and Mrs. Moberly, sat with one of her brothers.





Soon the door beside the altar opened, and the vicar, Mr. Smythe-Wyndham entered, followed by Uncle Bennington, the bride Lady Sophia, and Mr. Whitson.





Elizabeth's resolve about titles wavered when she saw the groom. Tall, with broad shoulders and blond hair that curled around his well-shaped face, Mr. Whitson more than made up in form what he lacked in rank. Elizabeth could not deny cousin Lady Sophia had found a handsome man, even though Elizabeth preferred darker features.





As if summoned by her own thoughts, she turned toward the dark-featured stranger across the aisle. Seeing the stormy expression on his face, she drew in a quiet gasp. His strong, high cheeks were pinched with. . .anger? Dark stubble shaded his clenched, sun-bronzed jaw. His black eyebrows met in a frown over his straight nose, which pointed like an arrow toward the wedding couple, while his blue eyes shot flashing daggers.





Alarm spread through Elizabeth, but she had no time to think or act.





"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony." Mr. Smythe-Wyndham intoned the opening words of the solemn rite in his rich baritone. He read of God's purpose for marriage, then moved on to charge the couple to confess it now if there existed any impediment to their union.





Suspicion shot through Elizabeth, and her gaze again slid across the aisle to the dark-browed stranger. His face exhibited a controlled rage much like her father's when indignation filled him over some serious matter. The man edged toward the front of his seat, like a lion about to spring upon its prey.





"If any man do allege and declare any impediment," the minister read, "why they may not be coupled together in Matrimony, by God's Law, or the Laws of this Realm—"





The stranger shot to his feet, holding high a folded sheet of vellum. "Indeed, sir, I do declare an impediment."





Copyright 2011© Louise M. Gouge and Deborah Hale. All rights reserved. Do not reprint.





The Wedding Season is available at Walmart, amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and cbd.com.





Read more about Louise M. Gouge at http://blog.Louisemgouge.com




Hero in Hiding

By Mitchell Bonds



It's Monty Python meets Lord of the Rings. It's an unholy hybridization of Shrek and the Enchanted Forest Chronicles.



It's an Epic of Disastrous Proportions, and it's available on Amazon.



The sequel to the comedic fantasy satire "Hero, Second-Class," Hero in Hiding brings more laughs, more magic, more Monologues, Diabolical Plots, and in-combat narration than its predecessor. Join the young Hero Cyrus Solburg as he attempts to foil the plot of Voshtyr Demonkin and his attempt to rule the world with the P.L.O.T. Device!



---







"Serimal! Brother dearest! Come out and play!" Voshtyr spun the tube and flicked it out at arm's length. A marble column a few yards away exploded into dust. "I know you're here," he called. "You can hide until I reduce the castle to rubble, the rubble to dust, and the dust to nothing, but you'll just be wasting both our time!"



"Then waste this, Demonkin!" Jolan hurled one of his black lances at Voshtyr's head.



Voshtyr dropped to the ground, and the bolt passed overhead and blasted the single remaining loadbearing column for the only patch of roof left standing on the entire castle. It collapsed into rubble.



Voshtyr pushed himself up, dusting himself off. "Tsk, tsk, Hero," he said, looking at Jolan. "Destroying centuries-old architecture? That should come out of your pay!"



Jolan scowled. "Don't even start with the cute insults. And no, before you start, I don't care what your plans are, what the number of Heroes you've killed today is, or how pathetic you

think I am. You keep your kharestin Monologue to yourself."



The two sized each other up.



Voshtyr flexed his metal arm, snapping his concealed blade in and out of its chassis.



Jolan took a wide stance and allowed all four of his mechanical limbs to vent pressure. "Looks like you've had some work done too," he said. "Who designed yours?"



"Beelsephaz, Chief Demonic Artifactor," Voshtyr said. "Do you like it?"



"It's not bad . . . for cheap trash," Jolan said. "Mine were designed by Dair Kormari Angelis, master wizard and fine father."



"Cheap trash?" Voshtyr said. "Can yours do this?" His fingers folded and split into knives.



"Something that tawdry?" Jolan said. "Of course not. Mine can do this!" A set of glowing claws sprouted from the fingers of one hand, and his other hand transformed into a hammer. "Your little knife fingers are nothing!"



"Oh, really?" Voshtyr twisted his wrist sideways and tapped on the back of his hand. A full projection of the world appeared, hovering above the arm. Little red pinpricks of light floated inside it. "Can you track all your forces around the world with your arm?"



"No, but I can call my lawyer with my foot!" Jolan bent down and removed his left foot, which he held it up to his ear. "Hello, Cornwall and Associates?" he said. "Jolan Foster. No,

I don't need anything, just making a point. Goodbye." He put his foot back on. "Top that, nancy boy!"



"I can and will!" Voshtyr looked peeved. He tapped his shoulder. "Death ray!"



Jolan slapped his thigh. "Explosive launcher!"



Voshtyr pointed to his elbow. "Grappling hook!"



Jolan pulled a silver screen out of his left arm. "Tanning screen!"



"Blender!"



"Beverage warmer!"



"Sandwich press!"



"Nail gun!"



"Alarm clock!"



"Hang glider!"



"Spork!"



Jolan looked at Voshtyr askance. "You have a spork?"



"Well . . . yes?" Voshtyr said. "You never know when you might need a spork."



-



"So it looks like there's only one way to settle this," Green said, drawing his knives.



"All right," the Dwarf said, readying his halberd. "What'd that be, then?"



"A dance-off, of course!" Green threw down his knives points first in the dirt on opposite sides. "He who has the smoothest dance moves keeps the stone. Have at ye!"



The Green Falcon leapt into the air and did a backflip, then launched into a series of acrobatic loop-kicks and tumbles.



The Dwarves looked at each other as if stunned. And then, as a squad, they began to dance.



* * *



It is a little known fact that Dwarves, of all the Races in the world, are the best dancers. It stems from the fact that, over the course of the takeover by Axebeard and his ilk, most forms of

political and personal expression were either severely limited or completely banned. No speech was allowed against the government, nor fliers permitted to be printed, and any assembly for any purpose had to have a government monitor present to enforce these laws.



One thing Axebeard overlooked was the art of Dance.



Thorbeard Hammerheart, a master of Break Dancing, an ancient art combining the artistic and graceful movement of dance with the destructive power of berserker rage, began teaching local Dwarves his art as a manner of political protest. Over the next few years, handfuls of Dwarves would show up in front of the Polithaus where Axebeard held his meetings, and they would dance in protest. At one point, five hundred Dwarves danced in unison in the Grand Square of Underhall, and then they attacked the building.



Dancing gave the Dwarves their freedom from a tyrant, and thus they practice it to this day.

* * *



The Dwarves opened up with a set of unison squat kicks, followed by some traditional Polka crossed with some sort of violent stomp.



Green countered with an Electric Slide and the Wyrm.



The Dwarves launched into a spinning Break Dance, and pulverized boulders as they spun on their heads, slammed to the ground, and did flips off one another.



It went on for five minutes. Green's lack of teammates severely limited his available options, and at the end of that time, he ran out of impressive dance moves.



The Dwarves finished by running up the side of the valley and jumping onto one another's shoulders, then striking a dramatic pose all at once. They held the ta-da pose for a moment, all breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. And maybe some glitter.



The two tiny men Cyrus had seen earlier stepped out of the shrubbery and clapped. "Well done, well done!" said the little man in blue. "Very impressive, both sides. But the victory goes

to the Dwarves."



The Dwarves laughed and clapped Green on the back. "Ye may be a Hero, lad, but you just got served."



(C) 2011 Mitchell Bonds and Marcher Lord Press. Do not reproduce without permission.





Like it? Get it now! http://www.marcherlordpress.com/books/hero_in_hiding.html
or
http://www.amazon.com/Hero-Hiding-Mitchell-Bonds/dp/0982598742/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1311033957&sr=8-1

Treasuring Emma; Diagnosis Death

Treasuring Emma

by Kathleen Fuller



Book One in the Middlefield Family Series

Emma always put the needs of others ahead of her own.

Now her heart is torn between two men. But will either truly treasure her?

Adam was Emma's first love, but two years ago he left Middlefield, set on experiencing the freedom of living in the Yankee world. In his wake, he left Emma's shattered heart. Now Adam is back and Emma's heart is breaking for other reasons.

Kathleen Fuller is the best-selling author of over twenty novels. Her latest book, Treasuring Emma, releases in August, 2011.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1595547754/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d3_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=1WP0RBM4FZHZQTPEHF81&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938631&pf_rd_i=507846

www.kathleenfuller.com

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kathleen-Fuller/81836200502



Chapter 1



"Emma, I'm so sorry."



Emma Shetler lifted her gaze to meet Moriah Miller's eyes. Moriah had been a good friend to her over the past year, and Emma had never noticed until now how blue her eyes were. Blue like the summer sky, and at this moment, full of compassion.



Emma tried to swallow down the thorn of grief that blocked her throat. "I appreciate you and your familye coming by this afternoon."

"Your mammi was a very special fraa." Moriah laid a hand on Emma's shoulder. The warmth of the gentle touch seeped through the thin fabric of Emma's black dress.



The color of mourning. Of death.



Despite Moriah's comfort, that's what Emma felt inside. Dead.



She glanced around the living room. As expected, most members of the church district were here to pay their respects and show their support. Dark dresses and white kapps for the women, black pants and hats for the men—all of them in mourning clothes. They milled around the living room. Conversation and movement blurred into a meaningless cacophony of sound and motion.



Emma tapped her toe against the polished wood floor of the old farmhouse, her nerves strung tight as a barbed wire fence. She should have been in the kitchen, preparing and serving the traditional meal. But her sister Clara had taken over the cooking and banished her to the living room. This was supposed to make her feel better, stuck here, doing nothing?



She spied her grandmother Leona across the room. Clara must have chased her out of the kitchen, too. Several women between the ages of fifty and seventy created a circle of support around Grossmammi. Emma smiled to herself as she noticed the women's ample hips drooping over the seats of creaking, wooden folding chairs. They spoke in low tones, nodding and shaking their heads. The thin ribbons of their white prayer kapps swayed against the stiff white aprons covering their dresses. Emma had no doubt they were offering comforting passages of scripture and words of encouragement to their old friend.



During the seventy-five years God had granted her, Leona Shetler had loved her family deeply. But that love came with a cost. Three years ago, her son--Emma's father, James--had passed away. Now she had to deal with the death of a daughter-in-law she loved as her own.



Emma felt the grief stab at her. First her father, then her mother. It didn't seem fair. She wished she could muster even a small measure of the grace and peace her grandmother demonstrated. But instead she simply felt bereft, abandoned, and confused.



"Emma?"



She turned her attention back to Moriah. "Sorry. Did you say something?"



"I asked if you needed anything else."



"Oh, ya. I did hear you say that." The words clanged around in her head, empty noise. "Nee, I'm fine."



"All right." Moriah lifted an eyebrow. Her concern echoed that of her sisters Elisabeth and Ruth, along with everyone else who had passed by Emma's chair. The same question over and over: How are you holding up?



How did they think she was holding up? She had nursed her mother through a painful, deadly cancer. She buried her today.



Emma fought to contain her emotions: Anger. Resentment. Guilt. The community's heartfelt concern didn't deserve such rudeness. But nothing anyone said could penetrate the emotional wall that was growing around her, inch by excruciating inch.



Throughout the rest of the afternoon people paused to talk. Relived special moments they'd shared with Emma's mother and father. Assured Emma of God's will, His plan. Phrase after empty phrase about God's comfort and mercy.



She nodded and smiled and tried to look peaceful, while her foot went on tapping incessantly against the floor she'd scrubbed on her hands and knees. Why wouldn't they just leave her alone? That's what she wanted.



No, that wasn't the truth. There was one person she longed to have by her side. Only one. His words, spoken in a soft, deep voice that never failed to affect her, had the best chance of soothing her broken heart.



But he wouldn't come. He had walked out of her life two years ago, and she had no hope he would walk back into it now.

* * *

Diagnosis Death

Richard L. Mabry, MD



"…Another riveting medical drama, the third in his Prescription for Trouble series. Full of sudden twists and turns, the novel's fast pace makes it hard to put down."

(4 ½ stars) ~Romantic Times Book Reviews





The medical career of Dr. Elena Gardner hangs in the balance when she is accused of ending the life of two critically ill patients, one of them her husband. Midnight calls torments her, and she can't decide whether the people around her are friends or enemies. She only knows that one of them is stalking her.



When her comatose husband died in the ICU while on life support, the whispers about Dr. Elena Gardner began. They were stronger after another patient died in ICU. After she took up practice in a small town, the whispers turned to a shout: "mercy killing." What was the dark secret that kept Elena's lips sealed when she should be defending herself?

Prologue



She stood by his bedside and waited for him to die.



Outside the room, the machines and monitors of the ICU hummed and beeped, doctors and nurses went about their business, and the hospital smell—equal parts antiseptic and despair—hung heavy in the air.



With one decisive move she flipped the switch of the respirator and stilled the machine's rhythmic chuffing. In the silence that followed, she imagined she could hear his heartbeat fade away.



She kissed him and exhaled what passed for a prayer, her lips barely moving as she asked for peace and forgiveness—for him and for her.



She stood for a moment with her head bowed, contemplating the enormity of her action. Then she pocketed the empty syringe from the bedside table and tiptoed out of the room.

* * *



Elena entered her apartment that night to the accompaniment of pounding pulse and jangling nerves. As she crossed the threshold, she asked herself once more, "What's wrong with me?" She was an intelligent woman, a trained physician. There were no demons waiting in the darkness. True, once this apartment had been a home, and now it was only a place to sleep and eat and mourn. But that was no reason to let her grief take over her life.



Then again, it wasn't just the grief. There were the phone calls. If she'd heard heavy breathing or a torrent of obscenities, she'd know what was going on. She could handle that. Any single woman living in the city knew such things occurred. But these calls were more than that. And she thought she finally knew what they represented.



Elena dropped her backpack, slammed the door, and turned on the TV for company. The mail went onto the small table beside her armchair. It could wait. First, a shower and a cup of tea.



Clean, but in no way refreshed, Elena dropped into the easy chair and considered the mail. There was never anything good there anymore. The condolence cards and letters had dried up. She had no family to send her cheery notes. Only her creditors and the people wanting her to spend money she didn't have now accounted for the handful of mail she received.



The envelope was there between her MasterCard bill and an ad for a new textbook. The envelope was a cheap, self-sealing one, addressed by hand in block capitals using blue ballpoint. Two different stamps were affixed to provide the proper postage. The blurred postmark gave no indication of the city of origin.



Elena ran her finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper from a lined tablet.



The message was printed in the same block capitals. At the end, the writer had pressed down hard enough to penetrate the paper. Elena read the message twice, unable at first to understand and then unwilling to believe it.



I KNOW WHAT YOU DID AND YOU'LL PAY.



She dropped the paper onto the table and pressed both hands to her temples.







Do not reproduce without permission.





Diagnosis Death is available for purchase at fine bookstores, and at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Christian Book.com.



Richard L. Mabry, MD

"Medical Suspense With Heart"

http://rmabry.com

http://facebook.com/RichardMabry

The Muir House

The Muir House

By Mary DeMuth

Zondervan, July 2011

ISBN-13: 978-0310330332



Blurb for The Muir House:


'You'll find home one day. Sure as sweet tea on a hot afternoon.' Words from Willa Muir's sketchy childhood haunt her dreams and color her days with longing, regret, and fear. What do the words mean? Willa is far from sure. When Hale Landon places a ring on her finger, Willa panics, feeling she can't possibly say yes when so much in her past is a mystery. Bent on sorting out her history, Willa returns to Rockwall, Texas, to the Muir House Bed and Breakfast, a former funeral home. But the old place holds her empty memory close to itself. Willa's mother utters unintelligible clues from her deathbed, and the caretaker of the house keeps coveted answers carefully protected. Throw in an old flame, and Willa careens farther away from ever knowing the truth. Set in a growing suburb of Texas, The Muir House explores trauma, healing, love new and old, and the life-changing choices people make to keep their reputations intact.


Endorsements:

"Willa Muir is one of the strongest twenty-something characters in modern fiction. Her quest to reconnect with her past before embracing her future will resonate with anyone who has ever left loose ends untied. The Muir House is a fascinating coming-of-age tale with twists and turns that constant leave the reader wanting more. It is Mary DeMuth's finest work yet and it shouldn't be missed. Whether young, or young at heart, you will find yourself enraptured by Willa's determination to finally find home. In fact, this book just might lead you home too." Shannon Primicerio, author of The Divine Dance



"Mary DeMuth has once again captured my soul with a story that resonated long after I closed the back cover. DeMuth is a master at immersing readers in another world—one of hopes and fears and triumphs. She's done it again with The Muir House. Her finest novel yet." James L. Rubart, bestselling author of Rooms


one

Seattle, March 2009

In that hesitation between sleep and waking, that delicious longing for dawn to overwhelm darkness, Willa Muir twisted herself into the sheets, half aware of their binding, while the unknown man's face said those words again.


You'll find home one day.


She opened her eyelids, forced wakefulness, maligning sleep's lure. Her two legs thrust themselves over the side of the storm-tossed bed. Toes touched hardwoods, chilling her alert, finally. She pulled the journal to herself in the dusky gray of the room, opened its worn pages, then touched pen to paper. She copied the words as she heard them. The same sentences she'd written year after year in hopes of deciphering its message, understanding it fully. But they boasted the same syntax, the same prophecy, the same shaded sentences spoken by a dream man with a broken, warbled voice. A faceless man of the South, words erupting like sparklers from the black hole of Willa's memory.


Why couldn't she remember the man? Understand his cryptic message?


Something stirred then. A flash of recognition. Willa closed the journal, placed her pen diagonally on top, then curled herself into a sleep ball, covers over her head like a percale cocoon. She forced her eyes shut, willing her mind to remember the glinting.


There! Like an Instamatic from her childhood, the flashbulb illuminated a gold ring. The man didn't cherish it on his finger. He held it like a monocle, as if he could see through it clear to eternity. Through that ring, a circular snapshot of the man clarified. Though the rest of his face faded into blue mist, his eye, wrinkle-creased and wise, focused like an eye doctor's chart under the perfect lens. A crocodile-green iris circled a large black pupil, its whites streaked pink with lacy vessels. It winked at Willa, or maybe it merely blinked. Hard to decipher, looking at one eye. The eye held sadness and grace, laughter and grief — ​and an otherworldly hint of promise. Willa memorized that eye behind the gold ring.


But like every other snatch of Willa's memory from that vacant memory of a four-year-old, the eye vaporized.


So familiar.


Yet so unfamiliar.


Nearly the green of Blake's eyes so long ago, those bewitching, enticing eyes she'd made herself turn away from, breaking her heart. Shattering his.


She returned to her journal, sketching the ring, the hazy face. The muddy-green eye she highlighted with an olive pencil. Light played at the window shade. She tugged it down so it would fling ceilingward, which it did in flapping obedience. She opened the sash, ushering in Seattle's evergreen perfume. The crisp air stung her Southern arms with goose bumps as she inhaled its scent. Fifty-five degrees in the morning felt like ice to Willa, even now. But facts were facts: You just couldn't compare the air's pristine cleanness to the South's sometimes thicker-than-mud humidity. And if she could help it, she'd never breathe Texas again.


Mother made it quite clear. Not even Southern hospitality could woo Willa back, not with Mother's hateful words swirling through the heat.


Willa fingered Mrs. Skye's letter atop her pile of books. "Come home," the caretaker wrote, in plainer-than-plain English — ​dark blue letters on crisp white stationery. "I need your help remodeling the Muir House. Need your expertise. Besides, your mother needs you. She's fading as fast as the house's paint peels. It's time."


Willa shook her head in response. "No," she said to her room, her heart, her will. "I can't. Won't."


But something deep inside told her it was time to find home.


Willa folded Mrs. Skye's letter in half. Instead of quartering it and returning it to its envelope, she tore it into confetti. When she left the room, the confetti stuck to her bare feet.


Do not reproduce without permission.


Mary DeMuth

http://www.marydemuth.com

http://www.twitter.com/MaryDeMuth

http://www.facebook.com/AuthorMaryDeMuth

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