Camy's Loft

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2012-02-06T14:23:00.000-08:00

The Phenomenon of Not Downloading Free Ebooks

2012-02-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 02.01.2012

So here’s a weird phenomenon. There are a bunch of free thriller books available today on Kindle but I’m not a huge fan of secular thriller because many of them tend to get a little more gristly than I like. I looked at the book blurbs, but they were mostly serial killer type of thrillers, which do tend to get bloody.

So I am actually not downloading free ebooks! I can’t believe it!

But it also got me to thinking. These days there are so many free ebooks that people can start to pick and choose which free ebooks to download.

Isn’t that a strange thing? Before, I’d be snatching up almost any free ebook available because, well, it’s free.

Now, I’m like, “Thrillers, eh. I read them but not my favorite genre. I’ll pass.”

I probably should have had this mentality for some of the other free ebooks I downloaded in the past, because I wouldn’t have so many ebooks that I probably won’t ever read.

Then again, they don’t take up space in my house because the ebook files are stored on my Amazon digital bookshelf or my Barnes and Noble Nook shelf, not on my computer. So I suppose it doesn’t matter if I download books I’ll never read since I don’t have to store the files.

I wonder, does this glut of free ebooks defeat the marketing purpose of a free ebook? I’m sure it works sometimes--a reader will pick up a free ebook from an author he/she hasn’t read before, and suddenly the reader is a new fan of the author.

But with so many free ebooks these days, does it make it less likely that reader will get around to reading the author’s book since there are so many other free (and paid) ebooks the reader has gotten?

So would I utilize free ebooks as a marketing tool? I’m not sure. Maybe. I might offer a novella for free if it was the first of a series. Or I might offer a full-length ebook for a really cheap price, like $0.50. The reason is because I’m wondering if the people who would pay those few cents for my ebook would be more likely to read it than those who got it for free.

What do you think?

Update: I also started this discussion on Goodreads if you want to participate there!

Street Team Book List excerpt - Firethorn by Ronie Kendig

2012-02-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

Firethorn
by
Ronie Kendig

Blown and dismantled, Nightshade is ready to repay the favor.

Former Marine and current Nightshade team member Griffin "Legend" Riddell is comfortable. So comfortable he never sees the set up that lands him in a maximum security prison, charged with murder. How can he prove his innocence behind bars?

Covert operative Kazi Faron is tasked with reassembling Nightshade—the black ops team someone dissected. Breaking Griffin out of a federal penitentiary amid explosive confusion may turn out to be her last assignment. What will it take to convince the fugitive that whoever set him up has also dissected the Nightshade team? As Kazi and Griffin race to rescue the others and discover the traitor,
love begins to awaken in their hearts.

Can a covert operative and the felon she's freed overcome their mutual distrust long enough to save Nightshade? Will anything prepare them for who—or what is coming?

Excerpt of Chapter One:

To all American military heroes

At home and abroad,

Those who have gone before

and those serving today—

THANK YOU!

Because of you, we are FREE!

RECON CREED

Realizing it is my choice and my choice alone to be a Reconnaissance Marine, I accept all challenges involved with this profession. Forever shall I strive to maintain the tremendous reputation of those who went before me.
Exceeding beyond the limitations set down by others shall be my goal. Sacrificing personal comforts and dedicating myself to the completion of the reconnaissance mission shall be my life. Physical fitness, mental attitude, and high ethics—The title of Recon Marine is my honor.
Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit. To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail. To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; To overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission.
On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. Through professional pride, integrity, and teamwork, I shall be the example for all Marines to emulate.
Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.
A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word and achieve what others can only imagine.

Swift, Silent, Deadly

Chapter 1

The Shack
      “It’s sad, really.” Marshall “The Kid” Vaughn trudged away from the thumping rotors of the helo that had deposited them back at the Shack, his pack almost dragging the ground. “Ya don’t realize how much a person adds until he’s gone.”
      “Legend’s not gone.” Max “Frogman” Jacobs hoisted his rucksack into a better group, his mind locked on Sydney and their two sons waiting for him at home. Poor woman had to be going out of her mind with two of his Mini-Me’s running around.
      “Yeah.” John “Squirt” Dighton hit the light breaker, then waited for the six-man team to clear the door. “He’s just temporarily detained.”
      Lights sizzled and popped to life. Groaning bounced off the grimy windows as he hauled the door closed, locked it, then started toward the showers.
      The Kid grunted. “Forty-years-to-life temporary.”
      In the locker room, a depressive gloom hung over the team. They’d been on countless missions, hit just about every terrain and environment imaginable, but none had taken the toll the last couple had. And there was one reason—they were down a man. Griffin “Legend” Riddell. If Max could write the playbook, they wouldn’t do another mission without the guy. But with the man in federal prison for murdering a congressman, it’d be a long wait.
      It was quiet. Too quiet. Max looked around the Spartan room. Walls of lockers, most unused. A few benches. A giant once-white bin for dirty duds. And the team. Six men, now. All very skilled. Good men. Even the one missing. Every man here knew Legend had been set up—he didn’t murder that congressman. But nobody could prove it. The evidence was damning. Justice—injustice was more like it—came swiftly. Lambert, ever the puppeteer, couldn’t pull the right strings to get Legend off.
      “I’m heading up to visit him tomorrow. Anyone game?” Colton “Cowboy” Neeley slumped on a bench and ran a hand over his short, dark hair. His blue eyes probed the group.
      “Nah, man. I’ve got a date,” the Kid said.
      Squirt beaned him with a towel. “What girl would go out with you, mate?”
      The Kid snapped the terry cloth back at the former Navy SEAL. “Your sister.”
      Squirt froze. His jaw went slack. Then his eyes darkened.
      Laughing, Canyon “Midas” Metcalfe rose to his feet from the corner. “You just proved his point by thinking your sister would actually go out with him.”
      Squirt swallowed, his face drained of color. “I introduced them at a New Year’s party.”
      Midas laughed harder. “Your mistake, mate.”
      Shuffling closer, Squirt pointed a finger at the Kid. “I swear, you touch her, I’ll shove a fist full of witchety grubs down your gullet.”
      “Give me credit, dude.” The Kid raised his hands. “I’m a gentleman.”
      Max grunted. “Right.” As he strode around the lockers to the shower well, he heard more threats and much more laughter from the Kid. Max shook his head. Would the Kid ever grow up, learn when to leave things alone?
      As he tossed his oily, grimy duds on the bench, Max paused, thinking maybe he should send his report to Lambert now so he wouldn’t have to mess with it tomorrow. The mission had been simple enough, a snatch-n-grab of an Iranian doctor. It’d been nice and clean, in and out. The report wouldn’t take long. Then he could shower, bug out, and know he had the whole weekend with Syd and the boys.
      Max jogged up the iron stairs, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Down the hall to the right. He punched in the code and entered the secure hub, the door hissing shut behind him. The most high-tech part of this dump-of-a-warehouse.
      Shouts drew his attention to the blinds. He jabbed two fingers between a couple and spread them to peeked down into the main area. Squirt and the Kid raced into the bay and back the way they came. Squirt looked ready to kill. The Kid’s face revealed his fear. Max shook his head again. Man, he wanted Griffin back. The guy seemed to bring balance to the team. Badly needed balance.
      Max powered up the computer. Hand propped on the warped wood, he waited for the system to boot.
      More shouts. Loud thuds.
      He pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they never—?
      Tat-a-tat! Tat-tat-a-tat!
      Instinct drove Max to his knee at the sound of gunfire. He scrambled to the window. Through the slanted blinds, he peered down into the slab of cement. His brain wouldn’t assemble what he saw. Gunmen. A dozen or more. Rushing into the Shack from the parking bay. Moving swiftly, as if. . .
      They know the layout.
      Max darted to the door and jerked it open. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairs. As his boot hit steel, he froze. A shadow emerged. Floated into the hall.
      Too late.
      Max jerked back. Pressed his spine against the wall.
      By the showers, the Kid looked up. Max signaled to him. Then made his best and loudest Nightshade whistle, hoping it would penetrate the building, give the men warning to take cover.
      The Kid threw himself back into the locker room.
      Men swarmed the corner. One looked to his left, one right. His weapon slowly rose as he traced the stairs with his M16.
      Max leapt backward into the darkness and into office. He closed the door. As the lock clicked, darkness dropped like an anchor over the entire building. Behind him, a glow screamed his location. The monitor!
      Max spun. Lunged across the desk. Stabbed the power button. And paused with his hand still near the monitor. If someone was coming after them. . .accessing this computer. . .
      On his knees, Max yanked the cords free. With the box, he moved to the window and reassessed the parking bay. Another van with a half-dozen men with AK-47s. They streamed into the warehouse.
      Max’s gut wound into a dozen knots. They were screwed.
      Think! Hand on the door, he considered going back downstairs. But that would get him captured. Killed. Yet he’d rather be with his guys than running like a chicken.
      No, not running. Considering options, gaining the advantage. Planning. The invasion force was armed to the teeth. They knew who they were coming after. They’d brought weapons. And those guys moved with precision. Swift, deadly precision.
      Though Nightshade had a stellar ops record, perhaps they had finally met their match. Still. . .two to one? Nightshade had faced worse.
      A large black Suburban screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking bay. Two men emerged, both wearing trench coats.
      Max cursed his luck to be up here, away from his gear, his weapons. Up here, without firepower. Thus, powerless.
      Okay, enough. He was going down there. He eased the door open and slid across the hall. Bathed in darkness, he crouched at edge of the landing, using the wall for cover. A dozen men so far, rushing here and there. Quick, quiet chatter between the men.
      A smirk slid into Max’s face. His team had taken cover and these goons couldn’t find them. If he could just get a weapon. . .
      “Can’t find them.”
      “They’re here. I saw them go in,” the man nearest the SUV shouted. “Find them! Lights!”
      Light rushed through the building as headlamps from the vehicles stabbed the dusty, damp building. Max yanked back, out of sight. He needed to get down there, defend his men. His boot hit the landing.
      Shouts erupted. A shot bounced off the steel rafters, taunting as it echoed through the Shack. Stilled, Max waited. More shouts. The sound of a scuffle. The half-dozen men waiting by the SUV lifted their weapons to the ready.
      The locker room door swung open. A man walked backward, his AK-47 aimed at a large form filling the doorway. Cowboy. Arms raised, dressed only in his jeans, he stalked forward. Someone shoved him from behind, which barely moved the big lug.
      Spine pressed against the wood, Max peered down into the bay.
      “You move one wrong muscle,” the one in front of Cowboy growled, “and so help me God, I’ll kill you.”
      “No you won’t.” Cowboy lowered his hands. “If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be out here.”
      Ride ’em, Cowboy.
      From the side entrance to the showers, three men dragged a shouting, cursing Kid into the bay. Max smirked that it took three tangos to wrangle the Kid.
      Hand clenched, Max’s mind went into overdrive. What could he do? God. . .I need. . .something. What could he pray for? Intercepting the team was impossible. Twelve, fifteen armed tangos against one unarmed man?
      He latched on to the hope that they’d only found Cowboy and the Kid. No Midas, Squirt, or Aladdin. Good. Maybe they could regroup and—
      A man flew through the bay door from the showers and landed with a thud a yard from the others. Midas flipped over, scissored his legs, and swept the thug off his feet. The Kid seized the confusion to attack the men guarding him. And impressively. With a hard right, he dropped the first and used that weapon to disable the second.
      Cowboy took a step back and rammed his elbow into the gut of the nearest guard. The gunman bent forward—straight into Cowboy’s meaty fist. The big guy pivoted, slapped the interior of the gunman’s wrist, effectively seizing the weapon and flipping the muzzle around. He fired at the guy.
      Crack!
      In the split second it took for Max to realize the sonic boom that rent the air wasn’t the report of Cowboy’s .45 MEU but of a rifle, Max saw the man in the black trench coat drop to the ground. A circle spread out like a dark halo.
      “Sniper!” someone shouted.
      The dead guy had fallen backward. Most likely shot from the front. Which meant. . . Max’s gaze rose to the rafters. With no light, it’d be the perfect hiding spot. But. . .who? Squirt? Aladdin?
      Crack!
      The man guarding Colton stumbled forward, then went to his knees before hitting the cement.
      The man in the black trench coat nearest the SUV dropped. A pool of blood spilled out.
      “There!” One guard swung and fired his fully automatic at the ceiling. Four others followed suit, firing at the bank of grimy windows on the southeast wall of the building.
      Max followed their direction and watched. Waited, his breath caught at the back of his throat. Cracks and shattering glass blended with the staccato punches of the guns to create a wild cacophony of noise. Max tuned it out, praying whoever—Aladdin or Squirt—wouldn’t be hit.
      But then he saw it. A shift of a shadow. Like someone rolling. . .
      The gunfire petered out as a body plummeted the eight feet to the ground.
      The thud seemed to have supernatural powers as it pounded Max’s chest and pushed him back. Away from the window but not far enough that he lost line of sight.
      Silence dropped on the Shack.
      “Where’s Max Jacobs?”
      As the question streaked through the warehouse, Max registered a red glow in the far corner. Even as he noticed it, he heard a beep. Another. His gaze darted to the source of the noise. Two men were walking the perimeter, their M16s dangling as they raised their arms and pressed something against the supports. Arms lowered and the men stepped back revealing gray bricks with wires.
      Explosives.
      Gotta stop this. Do something. His gaze collided with Cowboy’s. The big lug gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
      Max’s nostrils flared as he wrestled with what to do.
      “Where’s Dighton?”
      How do they know our names?
      “Dead,” someone answered.
      Pulled back into the shadows, Max clenched his eyes and bit down on his tongue. Dighton was dead. What about Aladdin—had he survived the fall?
      Sirens wailed in the distance.
      “Load ’em up.”
      “What about Jacobs?”
      “Outta time.” The leader left as the gunmen dragged the team out of the building.
      Stealthily, Max held on to the box and sprinted the length of the hall to the side of the Shack. In the conference room, he plunged toward the window. Craned his neck to peek out. Three vehicles—twin white vans and a black town car.
      The guys were loaded into the van and one into the car.
      The leader shifted, held something out, then it wavered.
      Detonator.
      Max spun around, searching for an out. Doors. Only one way down—the stairs. But they led to the bay, which would be engulfed.
      Windows. Overlooked the dock. The canal. It was January. The water would be brutal cold. His split-second assessment told him no matter what route he took, it’d be deadly. Despite his training, if he didn’t find shelter out of the water once he broke surface, he’d die an ice cube. If he stayed, he’d die a fireball.
      Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.
      Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up. . .up. . . Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.
      Boom!
      Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.
      Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.
      Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling. . .down. . .down. . .

© 2011 by Ronie Kendig

ISBN 978-1-60260-0785-9
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

For more information about Ronie Kendig, please access the author’s Web site at the following Internet address: www.roniekendig.com

Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683,

www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in the United States of America.

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Street Team Book List excerpt - Nightshade by Ronie Kendig

2012-02-01T13:00:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

Nightshade
by
Ronie Kendig

Soldiers all across the globe are returning home to their families after brutal tours of duty. They are discharged from the service. . .and on their own. Meet Max Jacobs, one of these discarded heroes, as he faces a wall of failure—in his career, his friendships, and his marriage. Failing again—this time to end his life—he is offered a thread of hope. Are covert government operations the answer for him, or will they only bring more danger and dissension upon his broken family?

Excerpt of chapter one:

Prologue

Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in Goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man’s face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.

Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—

The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.

“You almost missed the fun.” Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.

Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. “You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?”

The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families. . . . “We could leave now.”

“You know this has to happen.”

After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. “So, the body count’s finally high enough?”

Blue eyes narrowed. “I’m here. That should tell you something.”

“Indeed.” Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. “I need full autonomy for me and my team.”

Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.

“Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I’m a sitting duck out here.” He rubbed his hands and glanced around.

Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. “I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours.”

The man shook his head. “No trails.”

The corner of Olin’s mouth quirked up. “You’ve already got one.” He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.

A curse hissed through the night. “You’d bleed me out if you could.”

“Whatever it takes to protect these men.”

Eyeing him, the man hesitated. “The men? Or you?”

“One and the same. If they’re protected, I’m protected. Whatever happens out there, we’re not going to take the fall for it.”

“If it goes bad, someone will get blamed.”

Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?”

“Seven.”

On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. “Then we’re through.”

The man caught his elbow. “Sit down.”

Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he’d ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize deep-six missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.

The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.

“Get me their names. I’ll write a carte blanche.”

Olin’s gut twisted. “Not happening.” If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. “Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn’t happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up.”

“If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert.”

“And a million people will die if you don’t.”

“We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there.”

A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. “You’ve been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility.” Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They’d be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.

He let out a long exhale. “If you aren’t going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11.”

He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. “You’ve always impressed me, Lambert, even though you’re Army.”

“Navy lost the last game, Admiral.” Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. “These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don’t have time to wrangle the pundits. Let’s get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir.”

Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. “You’ll have it by morning.”

Chapter 1

Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from . . . everything. Here only pine trees, concrete and speed were his friends.

His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.

Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10% grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise.

He twisted the throttle.

Eighty.

Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge.

Ninety.

He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break.

The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped.

This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd . . .

Take me. Just take me.

The Hayabusa plummeted.

Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth.

The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—

Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him.

Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane. Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.

Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.

Finally. It’d be over. He closed his eyes. No more—

THUD! “Oof.” The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees.

He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn’t going to die, he didn’t want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through.

He dumped into a ditch.

Smack!

Everything went black.

He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. “Argh!”

Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and . . . everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should’ve punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him.

Why couldn’t God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn’t have to face his consummate failures in life. “Just let me go!” he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He’d do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.

But that wasn’t an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.

A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He’d seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn’t a coincidence. And he didn’t like being hunted.

Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn’t he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.

Sydney. . .

He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.

Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.

The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn’t mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. At least not easily.

Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man’s jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.

“You through? Or you want another go at it?”

What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.

“We took you for stronger.” The man glanced back at the bike. “But maybe you’re nothing but broke and no use to no one.”

Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?

“So, what’s it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?”

How does he know my name? “Who are you?” Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn’t show him weak. “What’s the game?”

The man’s eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater’s sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. Force Recon, if Max made out the symbol correctly.

An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.

“Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It’s the Rangers I don’t like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time.”

Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull.

“What’s it going to be, squid?” The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. “You don’t have a ride back to town. So why don’t you climb in and listen to what I have to say?”

Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. “You flash a tattoo and think I’ll just bend my knee? I don’t think so.” A silent brotherhood had closed Max’s knife. But he didn’t want company. The oaf’s or anyone else’s. But how else would he get home?

“What? You think you’re going home? To your can opener and mattress?”

Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.

“No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out.”

At least, as the man had said, he’d have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.

He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.

Mr. Force Recon grinned. “You’re predictable, Jacobs.”

Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. “So what’s this about? Why have you been following me?”

A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. “You’ve been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs.”

Max snorted. “Already did my time. I’m out.” He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy’s gut. He’d left the service for Sydney. Only it’d been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything.”

Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you’ve been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife.”

The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.

“Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation.” He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. “How am I doing?”

“If you knew anything about me, you’d dull your edge.”

Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. “The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it.”

“And won.”

“Yessir.” The man nodded for several seconds. “So, why now? Why’d you let them put you out this time?”

Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.

“You’re a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs.”

Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.

“Who are you? What’s your story?”

“Name’s Griffin.” He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. “My story. . . ?” A toothy grin. “Let’s just say I got smart.”

The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. “So, what’s the gig?”

“The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you’ve returned from your last tour?”

Max grunted. “Yesterday.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. “Then this is where it starts.”

Elite soldiers stood in a semicircle, waiting. For what, Max wasn’t sure. And he wouldn’t ask. If his guess was right, then time would tell—because Griffin seemed to be the guy in the know, and his relaxed posture against the SUV said things were going according to plan.

“Hey, dude, want me to look those over?” A blond guy dressed in khaki shorts, a faded tank, and a pair of flip-flops motioned to Max’s scrapes and lacerations.

Right. Beach bum wanted to play nurse. “I’m good.”

“About as good as a dog in a meat grinder,” the guy replied.

Max clenched his teeth. Whatever kind of circus Griffin was running. . .

A diesel engine growled, the sound reverberating off the aluminum in the cavernous space, preempting the shiny blue dualie truck pulling into the dank building. The engine cut. A guy stepped out and donned a black cowboy hat that added about five inches to his six-foot-two frame.

Griffin’s laugh rumbled as he pushed off his SUV. “Colton.”

A broad grin spilled under the rim of the man’s Stetson. “Hey.” The two clasped hands and patted backs. “How’s Dante?”

A quiet dialogue carried between the two for several minutes that effectively cut out the rest of those gathered. Yeah, they had a friendship, one that said they trusted each other with more than superficial things. Something about the tight bond rankled Max. Hit deep.

“Why are we here?”

Max’s gaze bounced to the shortest and youngest of the six men in the building. The Kid had read his thoughts. A warehouse full of warriors? This setup smelled rotten.

“If you’ll be patient—” Griffin paused and glanced behind him. “I think it’s time.”

A black Chrysler 300 glided into the middle of the grouping. The hollow clunk of an opening door echoed off the steel rafters and grime-laden windows. A man emerged. White hair feathered back. A sun-bronzed nose sported dark-tinted sunglasses. The thud of the door almost swallowed the crunching of his squeaky shoes. New, expensive shoes. Maybe even tailor-made. He gripped the rim of his glasses and drew them off.

Was the old man supposed to mean something? Be someone who mattered? Irritation skittered along Max’s shoulders as the old man shook hands with Riddell and the cowboy.

“Who’s the hoo-hah?” Max mumbled to himself.

“You kidding me, man?” The blond look at him and smirked. “That’s—”

“For those not enlightened,” an authoritative voice cut through the surfer’s explanation, “my name is General Olin Lambert. I am a member of the Joint Chiefs. But among the seven of us, I am merely a citizen of the United States just like you.” Blue eyes probed each man.

Right into Max’s soul.

“With Mr. Riddell’s help, I’ve hand-chosen each and every one of you for a very specific purpose. There isn’t anything about you or your lives that I don’t know.” Lambert paused, as if to let his words sink in, but Max just wished he’d get on with it. Scabs were forming on his scrapes.

“Chosen us for what, ese?” asked the Hispanic man.

“A black ops team.”

And that meant two things: military and that this meeting was over. Max turned and started walking.

“It’s not military, Mr. Jacobs.”

Hesitation held him at the large, garage-style door he’d entered. “How can you do black ops without military aid, intelligence, and backup?” He turned around, ignoring what felt like glass stuck to his calves and thighs.

“I didn’t say we wouldn’t have aid or intelligence.” Creases pinched Lambert’s eyes at the corners. “I said it’s not military.”

“Come again?” the beach bum asked, disbelief coloring his words.

“Let the general explain.” Griffin leaned back against the truck with his cowboy buddy.

“Thank you, Mr. Riddell.” Lambert tucked his sunglasses in his left breast pocket, then threaded his fingers in front of him. Impressive and commanding. “Each of you has returned from combat changed, affected.”

Nervous glances skidded from man to man. Max glued his attention to the general, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Lambert’s words.

“You’re what I’ve dubbed discarded heroes.”

Grunts of approval rang through the building, and the group seemed to tighten in around the old man. Being a general, he knew what it was like to have slanted glances of pity from those who knew where you’d been, what you’d probably done, and what it was like to go against a politically correct ideology and fight for freedom on foreign soil. Or to have some tree hugger spit in your face and call you a murderer.

“You served your time, saw and experienced things no normal person would be expected to deal with. Sure, you were trained. Taught to expect evil. Demanded success. However, when confronted with the true terrors of war, no human mind can dissolve the images embedded in memory for all time.

“Then it’s time to get out. They yank you back here, give you a once-over, and toss you out with a ‘thank you very much and have a good life.’ So you go home, try to reintegrate into society, and—”

“It’s screwed up,” the Kid said. He shrugged when the others scowled at him. “Well? I’m right, aren’t I? From what I heard you saying earlier,” he pointed to the beach bum, “you’ve spent time in Afghanistan—a lot.” Then to the Latino, “You probably did your tours of duty in Panama or the like.” His gaze came to Max.

“Don’t.” Fists balled, Max willed his feet to remain in place. He didn’t want anyone digging in his brain.

“Mr. Vaughn is correct,” Lambert said. “You’ve all seen combat. You’ve all been trained to kill; then you come back, and what do you do with those skills but go out of your mind?”

Max shifted. Was it over yet? He eyed the wide-open berth to freedom behind the blue dualie.

“Max Jacobs.”

Hearing his name felt like a detonation that blasted his attention back to the general.

“You served eight years with the SEALs. Your experience in command and combat no doubt left indelible scars. Watched your best friend toss himself on a grenade to save the team.”

Bile pooled at the back of Max’s throat as the memory surged. He flared his nostrils, pushing the images back into the pit from which they’d been drawn.

Lambert stalked the inner perimeter, as if prepping troops for war with a pep talk. “Lieutenant Jacobs is the man I’ve chosen as team leader, but his position is no more valuable than anyone else’s. You’ve all seen war. In this building are years of tactical experience. Incredible wisdom. And one element that makes each of you vital for this to work.”

“What’s that?” Cowboy asked, his arms folded over his thick chest.

“Loyalty, Mr. Neeley. Your duty with the Marine Special Operations Team is bloated with exemplary conduct, commendation after commendation.” He waved his hand around the cozy circle. “I’ve reviewed all of your files and found the same thing in every one.”

Awkward silence cooled some of the tension in the room, and once again Max eyed the exit.

“Mr. Reyes, your career as a pararescue jumper, specifically your medic skills, saved dozens of lives.”

“Pair o’ what?” Cowboy taunted.

“Hey,” Reyes grinned. “You’re just jealous. I’m a PJ. Why you think they call me Fix?”

“Because you put everyone in one?” Griffin chuckled, eliciting more laughter.

“Nah, man. It’s ’cause of this,” he said as he drew out a crucifix from his shirt and kissed it. “My crucifix. They called me Cru at first, then since I’m a medic, they started calling me Fix.”

Swallowing his groan, Max ran a hand through his short crop. Religion and military. This was starting to feel worse than an AA meeting. And there wasn’t a point. “This is a lot of flowery, moving discourse, but what do you want from us?” Max mentally shook off the way the others looked at him. Was he the only one who was still waiting for the boom to lower?

“Mr. Riddell, if you please.” Lambert pointed to the black SUV as Griffin opened the tailgate. “Give each man one.”

Griffin handed out small black packs that bore a lone symbol. A strange star backed by a sword and wings. The Kid, the Beach Bum, and the Latino dug into the packs, almost excited. In seconds, a black phone, keys, a watch, and a set of duds spilled across the gray cement floor in front of them.

Max remained in place, his pack dangling from his clenched fist. He didn’t like being played. And this definitely felt like a setup.

General Lambert faced him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?”

He dropped his pack onto the floor. “Not seeing the point.”

Behind the general, Griffin seemed to grow several inches as he towered over the aged officer. “What?” he growled. “You want to take another nose-dive off that hill? Hope this time there’s only enough of you left to fill a baggie? Want to make that estranged wife of yours a widow before you can be called a failure?”

Hands coiled, Max drew up his shoulders. Saw red. No. No. He wouldn’t give in to the goading. He dragged his attention back to the general.

“Ease up, Legend,” Cowboy said, patting Griffin’s chest. “Give the guy a chance.” Lambert remained unwavering. “The point, Lieutenant, is to establish a team that can penetrate hostile situations without any entanglements, without any blame on the good ol’ US-of-A or any other entity or government. You returned from two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and a covert mission nobody in this room will ever know about. You were the best, a natural, your CO said. But you were so volatile after those experiences took their toll they tried to discharge you, and your compatriots nicknamed you after a volatile chemical. Somehow you held it together. Then jumped ship out of the blue.” More than recitation of information lurked behind the general’s blue eyes. A knowing—no, an understanding, quiet and unnerving. “Tell me, Mr. Jacobs, what are you doing with your life now?”

“Minding my own business,” Max answered through tight lips.

Lambert laughed. “And that’s exactly what you’ll be doing as part of my team. Funding isn’t a problem. You’ll have unlimited resources.”

“That’d be a change,” the Kid grumbled.

“To go where?” the Beach Bum asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Kid interrupted. “Man, how is this any different than military? Igot out for a reason.”

“You’ll go wherever needed.” The general turned toward the younger man. “Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?”

The Kid paled.

“Why?” Max couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why are you doing this? What’s this thing to you?”

Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. “I am. . .discarded just like you.”

“Bull.” Max tucked his hands under his arms. “You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You’re paid, you’re connected—”

“I know what you guys have been through.” The general tapped his temple. “MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.

“Heard the phrase ‘peace with honor’?”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t?”

“It was a platitude.” Lambert’s eyes flamed under his passion. “The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put ’em.

“I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished.” The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. “But I slowly remembered that I’d joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a man. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after.”

Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max’s barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the old man’s chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.

Lambert’s lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. “What’s it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?”

“Whoa-hoa!” Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. “Old Man’s got some fire under that shiny dome.”

Lambert spun toward the bum. “What’s it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?”

The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. “I’m in.”

The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.

“You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up.”

A half smile slid into Lambert’s face. “A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?”

“You all right, old man.” He hooked Lambert’s hand and patted his back. “You all right.” Reyes leaned in toward the general’s shoulders and looked at the Kid. “But I don’t know about this kid. He don’t look like he’s out of diapers yet.”

“That’s wrong. That’s just wrong.” The Kid’s face flushed. “I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—”

“Rangers.” Max couldn’t help but grunt his disapproval. “That explains a lot.”

The Kid’s chin jerked up in defiance. “I’m in.”

It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. “Mr. Neeley?”

Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. “I’m ready.”

Lambert smiled. “Good. Good.”

They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. “What if we get in trouble out there?”

“Then get out of trouble,” Lambert said. “Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he’ll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean no one—will know your names.”

“So our orders are coming from on high?” Metcalfe asked.

A twinkle brightened Lambert’s eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. “Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States. You will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know.”

“Or care.” The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.

Max wanted to punch him.

“Or maybe that’s where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch.” Lambert ambled toward him.

The beach bum made a tss noise and shook his head. “Nothing golden, just hard work.”

The general’s smile disappeared behind a stern facade. “What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?”

“This is crazy.” What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. “Fine.” The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. “I’m in.”

“Good.” General Lambert’s smile softened his commando persona. “Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you’re pinned down and need an extraction.

Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. “Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade.”

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Street Team Book List excerpt - Love Blooms in Winter by Lori Copeland

2012-01-31T13:21:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

Love Blooms in Winter
by
Lori Copeland

A romantic new book from bestselling author Lori Copeland that portrays God’s miraculous provision even when none seems possible.

1892—Mae Wilkey’s sweet next-door neighbor, Pauline, is suffering from old age and dementia and desperately needs family to come help her. But Pauline can’t recall having kin remaining. Mae searches through her desk and finds a name—Tom Curtis, who may just be the answer to their prayers.

Tom can’t remember an old aunt named Pauline, but if she thinks he’s a long-lost nephew, he very well may be. After two desperate letters from Mae, he decides to pay a visit. An engagement, a runaway train, and a town of quirky, loveable people make for more of an adventure than Tom is expecting. But it is amazing what can bloom in winter when God is in charge of things.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter 1

Dwadlo, North Dakota, 1892

The winter of ’92 is gonna go down as one of the worst Dwadlo’s ever seen,” Hal Murphy grumbled as he dumped the sack of flour he got for his wife on the store counter. “Mark my words.” He turned toward Mae Wilkey, the petite postmistress, who was stuffing mail in wooden slots.

“Spring can’t come soon enough for me.” She stepped back, straightening the row of letters and flyers. She didn’t have to record Hal’s prediction; it was the same every year. “I’d rather plant flowers than shovel snow any day of the week.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hal nodded to the store owner, Dale Smith, who stood five foot seven inches with a rounded belly and salt-and-pepper hair swept to a wide front bang. “Add a couple of those dill pickles, will you?” Hal watched as Dale went over to the barrel and fished around inside, coming up with two fat pickles.

“That’ll fix me up.” Hal turned his attention back to the mail cage, his eyes fixed on the lovely sight. “Can’t understand why you’re still single, Mae. You’re as pretty as a raindrop on a lily pad.” He sniffed the air. “And you smell as good.”

Smiling, Mae moved from the letter boxes to the cash box. Icy weather may have delayed the train this morning, but she still had to count money and record the day’s inventory. “Now, Hal, you know I’d marry you in a wink if you weren’t already taken.” Hal and Clara had been married forty-two years, but Mae’s usual comeback never failed to put a sparkle in the farmer’s eye. Truth be, she put a smile on every man’s face, but she wasn’t often aware of the flattering looks she received. Her heart belonged to Jake Mallory, Dwadlo’s up-and-coming attorney.

Hal nodded. “I know. All the good ones are taken, aren’t they?”

She nodded. “Every single one. Especially in Dwadlo.”

The little prairie town was formed when the Chicago & North Western Railroad came through five years ago. Where abundant grass, wild flowers, and waterfalls had once flourished, hundreds of miles of steel rail crisscrossed the land, making way for big, black steam engines that hauled folks and supplies. Before the railroad came through, only three homesteads had dotted the rugged Dakota Territory: Mae’s family’s, Hal and Clara’s, and Pauline Wilson’s.

But in ’87 life changed, and formerly platted sites became bustling towns. Pine Grove and Branch Springs followed, and Dwadlo suddenly thrived with immigrants, opportunists, and adventure-seeking folks staking claims out West. A new world opened when the Dakota Boom started.

Hal’s gaze focused on Mae’s left hand. “Jake still hasn’t popped the question?”

Mae sighed. Hal was a pleasant sort, but she really wished the townspeople would occupy their thoughts with something other than her and Jake’s pending engagement. True, they had been courting for six years and Jake still hadn’t proposed, but she was confident he would. He’d said so, and he was a man of his word—though every holiday, when a ring would have been an appropriate gift, that special token of his intentions failed to materialize. Mae had more lockets than any one woman could wear, but Jake apparently thought that she could always use another one. What she could really use was his hand in marriage. The bloom was swiftly fading from her youth, and it would be nice if her younger brother, Jeremy, had a man’s presence in his life.

“Be patient, Hal. He’s busy trying to establish a business.”

“Good lands. How long does it take a man to open a law office?”

“Apparently six years and counting.” She didn’t like the uncertainty but she understood it, even if the town’s population didn’t. She had a good life, what with work, church, and the occasional social. Jake accompanied her to all public events, came over two or three times a week, and never failed to extend a hand when she needed something. It was almost as though they were already married.

“The man’s a fool,” Hal declared. “He’d better slap a ring on that finger before someone else comes along and does it for him.”

“Not likely in Dwadlo,” Mae mused. The town itself was made up of less than a hundred residents, but other folks lived in the surrounding areas and did their banking and shopping here. Main Street consisted of the General Store, Smith’s Grain and Feed, the livery, the mortuary, the town hall and jail (which was almost always empty), Doc Swede’s office, Rosie’s Café, and an empty building that had once housed the saloon. Mae hadn’t spotted a sign on any business yet advertising “Husbands,” but she was certain her patience would eventually win out.

With a final smile Hal moved off to pay for his goods. Mae hummed a little as she put the money box in the safe. Looking out the window, she noticed a stiff November wind snapping the red canvas awning that sheltered the store’s porch. Across the square, a large gazebo absorbed the battering wind. The usually active gathering place was now empty under a gray sky. On summer nights music played, and the smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts filled the air. Today the structure looked as though it were bracing for another winter storm. Sighing, Mae realized she already longed for green grass, blooming flowers, and warm breezes.

After Hal left Mae finished up the last of the chores and then reached for her warm wool cape. She usually enjoyed the short walk home from work, but today she was tired—and her feet hurt because of the new boots she’d purchased from the Montgomery Ward catalog. On the page they had looked comfortable with their high tops and polished leather, but on her feet they felt like a vise.

Slipping the cape’s hood over her hair, she said goodbye to Dale and then paused when her hand touched the doorknob. “Oh, dear. I really do need to check on Pauline again.”

“How’s she doing?” The store owner paused and leaned on his broom. “I noticed she hasn’t been in church recently.”

Dale always reminded Mae of an owl perching on a tree limb, his big, dark blue eyes swiveling here and there. He might not talk a body’s leg off, but he kept up on town issues. She admired the quiet little man for what he did for the community and respected the way he preached to the congregation on Sundays.

How was Pauline doing? Mae worried the question over in her mind. Pauline lived alone, and she shouldn’t. The elderly woman was Mae’s neighbor, and she checked on her daily, but Pauline was steadily losing ground.

“She’s getting more and more fragile, I’m afraid. Dale, have you ever heard Pauline speak of kin?”

The small man didn’t take even a moment to ponder the question. “Never heard her mention a single word about family of any kind.”

“Hmm…me neither. But surely she must have some.” Someone who should be here, in Dwadlo, looking after the frail soul. Mae didn’t resent the extra work, but the post office and her brother kept her busy, and she really didn’t have the right to make important decisions regarding the elderly woman’s rapidly failing health.

Striding back to the bread rack, she picked up a fresh loaf. Dale had private rooms at the back of the store where he made his home, and he was often up before dawn baking bread, pies, and cakes for the community. Most folks in town baked their own goods, but there were a few, widowers and such, who depended on Dale’s culinary skills. By this hour of the day the goods were usually gone, but a few remained. Placing a cherry pie in her basket as well, she called, “Add these things to my account, please, Dale. And pray for Pauline too.”

Nodding, he continued sweeping, methodically running the stiff broomcorn bristles across the warped wood floor.

The numbing wind hit Mae full force when she stepped off the porch. Her hood flew off her head and an icy gust of air snatched away her breath. Putting down her basket, she retied the hood before setting off for the brief walk home. Dwadlo was laid out in a rather strange pattern, a point everyone agreed on. Businesses and homes were built close together, partly as shelter from the howling prairie winds and partly because there wasn’t much forethought given to town planning. Residents’ homes sat not a hundred feet from the store. The whole community encompassed less than five acres.

Halfway to her house, snowflakes began swirling in the air. Huddling deeper into her wrap, Mae concentrated on the path as the flakes grew bigger.

She quickly covered the short distance to Pauline’s. The dwelling was little more than a front room, tiny kitchen, and bedroom, but she was a small woman. Pauline pinned her yellow-white hair in a tight knot at the base of her skull, and she didn’t have a tooth in her head. She chewed snuff, which she freely admitted was an awful habit, but Mae had never heard her speak of giving it up.

Her faded blue eyes were as round as buttons, and no matter what kind of day she was having, it was always a new one to her, filled with wonders. Her mind wasn’t what it used to be. She had good and bad days, but mostly days when her moods changed as swift as summer lightning. She could be talking about tomatoes in the garden patch when suddenly she would be discussing how to spin wool.

Mae noted a soft wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney and smiled. Pauline had remembered to feed the fire this afternoon, so this was a good day.

Unlatching the gate, she followed the path to the front porch. In summertime the white railings hung heavy with red roses, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. This afternoon the wind howled across the barren flower beds Pauline carefully nurtured during warmer weather. Often she planted okra where petunias should be, but she enjoyed puttering in the soil and the earth loved her. She brought fresh tomatoes, corn, and beans to the store during spring and summer, and pumpkins and squash lined the railings in the fall.

In earlier days Pauline’s quilts were known throughout the area. She and her quilting group had made quite a name for themselves when Dwadlo first became a town. Four women excelled in the craft. One had lived in Pine Grove, and two others came from as far away as Branch Springs once a month to break bread together and stitch quilts. But one by one the women had died off, leaving Pauline to sew alone in her narrowing world.

Stomping her boots on the porch, Mae said under her breath, “I don’t mind winter, Lord, but could we perhaps have a little less of it?” The only answer was the wind whipping her garments. Tapping lightly on the door, she called, “Pauline?”

Mae stepped back and waited to hear the shuffle of feet. Pauline used to answer the door in less than twenty seconds. It took longer now. Mae made a fist with her gloved hand and banged a little harder. The wind howled around the cottage eaves. She closed her eyes and prayed that Jeremy had remembered to stack sufficient firewood beside the kitchen door. The boy was generally responsible, and she thanked God every day that she had him to lean on. He had been injured by forceps during birth, which left him with special needs. He was a very happy fourteen-year-old with the reasoning power of a child of nine.

A full minute passed. Mae frowned and tried the doorknob. Pauline couldn’t hear herself yell in a churn, but she might also be asleep. The door opened easily, and Mae peeked inside the small living quarters. She saw that a fire burned low in the woodstove, and Pauline’s rocking chair sat empty.

Stepping inside, she closed the door and called again. “Pauline? It’s Mae!”

The ticking of the mantle clock was the only sound that met her ears.

“Pauline?” She lowered her hood and walked through the living room. She paused in the kitchen doorway.

“Oh, Pauline!”

Print book:
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Ebook:
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Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM

Guest blog and Street Team Book List excerpt - Allie Pleiter

2012-01-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

Falling for the Fireman
by
Allie Pleiter

There's something achingly familiar about the look in fire marshal Chad Owens's eyes. Widowed mom Jeannie Nelworth knows firsthand what it is: loss, hurt and yes—bitterness. Ever since the fire that changed their lives, Jeannie's young son has borne that same look, pushing everyone away. So she's grateful when Chad tries to get through to the boy with the help of his trusty fire station dog.

But the man who's all about safety and prevention keeps himself protected—from loving and losing again. Seems as if Jeannie will have to add his kind, guarded heart to her rebuilding efforts.

And now, here's Allie!

I’m not sure I buy into the concept of a universal consciousness, but every once in a while the world lines up in a way that makes you wonder if the Holy Spirit couldn’t easily pull it off.

I needed a positive fire experience. Something a little more exotic than roasting s’mores around a campfire, but nothing huge and inferno-like, either. After trolling around the internet for a few weeks, I came upon the Chinese lantern ceremony. It was perfect. Visually stunning, filled with spiritual metaphors, and extravagant enough to feel out of place in the small Illinois town I’d created as the setting for FALLING FOR THE FIREMAN. A romantic night backdrop for a pivotal turning point in Chad’s relationship with Jeannie.

Smiling smugly, I congratulated myself on having grafted a unique and somewhat exotic custom into my next novel.

Then, my nieces come to visit. For fun, we rent TANGLED--Disney’s surprisingly clever re-do of the Rapunzel. What’s crucial to the plot? Floating lanterns straight out of the Chinese lantern ceremony.

Some part of me wants to stand up and yell “I thought of it first!” but I didn’t. I just hadn’t seen the movie until months after it came out. And really, who am I to lay claim to a thousand-year-old oriental ceremony?

Nothing’s ever really “new.” The creative people on the planet just take old ideas and use them in new ways.

But really, I thought of it before Disney. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Excerpt of chapter one:

TEST

Print book:
Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
LARGE PRINT Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
LARGE PRINT BOOKSAMILLION.COM

Ebook:
Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle

Booksigning schedule in OK and TX!

2012-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

I finally figured out how to add events to Goodreads! I hope this works:
http://www.goodreads.com/event/list_author/291940

I think this link will lead to all my current "events," which are some booksignings and a couple writing workshops in Oklahoma and Texas both this week and next week.

I hope you guys who are near some of these cities will come by to say hi!

Excerpt - Stalker in the Shadows by Camy Tang!!!!!!

2012-01-14T16:37:00.000-08:00

Some of you have been asking about it, so here it is! Available at retail stores this month only, and some online stores will have it for a few months longer, or order it on ebook (see links below).

Stalker in the Shadows
by
Camy Tang

"Consider this a warning."

Lately, nurse Monica Grant feels she's being watched. Followed. And then she receives a threatening letter—accompanied by a dead snake. If she doesn't stop her plans to open a free children's clinic, she'll end up dead, too. Terrified, Monica turns to former lawman Shaun O'Neill—who believes the same madman murdered his own sister five years before. She understands how much it means to the handsome, heart-guarding man to save her—and her dream. Even if he has to lure a deadly stalker out of the shadows—straight toward himself.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Someone was watching her.

Monica Grant glanced around the bustling central plaza in downtown Sonoma, California, and rubbed the back of her neck, but the ugly, prickly feeling wouldn't go away. She remembered the well-worn phrase from her Nancy Drew books—"the hair stood up on the back of her neck"—but she'd never realized how true it was. Until now.

She couldn't actually see anyone looking at her—there were tourists strolling around Sonoma City Hall and the fountain, cars driving slowly around the square, shoppers stepping in and out of the quaint shops. A few locals across the street noticed her looking at them and waved hello. She waved back with a smile, recognizing them as staff from a nearby restaurant. The Grant family's successful day spa, Joy Luck Life, had helped bring even more activity to the small tourist town, and all of her family was acquainted with most of the local business owners and staff.

But as she continued walking along the line of shops and historical buildings, the creepy feeling crawled up her shoulder blades. She whirled around suddenly, but didn't catch anyone in the act of staring at her, or ducking into a shop doorway to escape her notice.

It had been a silly thought, anyway. She wasn't a spy. She was probably imagining things.

She turned to enter Lorianne's Cafe, a popular new restaurant owned by one of her high school classmates, which served California fusion cuisine made exclusively with local produce. She thought the feeling of being watched would go away as soon as she entered the building, but an uncomfortable shaft of prickling shot down her spine. She turned to look out the restaurant's glass front doors, toward the green park area around Sonoma City Hall, but couldn't see anyone except a few tourists walking by.

"Monica Grant, are you stalking me?"

The voice, still betraying the slight Irish lilt of his homeland, made her turn. "Mr. O'Neill! I should say,you're stalking me."

Patrick O'Neill's light blue eyes creased deeply at the corners. "Seeing you at the Zoe International charity banquet last week wasn't enough. I had to get in more of your lovely company." He enfolded her in a hug that made her cheek rasp against his usual Hawaiian-print, button-down shirt. Quite a contrast to the tuxedo he'd worn at the annual dinner that Zoe International, an anti-human-slavery organization, had hosted to thank its donors.

"Are you here in Sonoma just for the day?" Monica asked. "Or are you staying overnight before you head back down to

Marin?"

"I'm here for a few days, spending time with my new grandson."

"That's right, I heard about the new baby yesterday from Aunt Becca." At first Monica had been shocked because she'd thought the new baby was Shaun's son, but quickly realized her mistake—it was Brady's son, Shaun's nephew. She hoped Aunt Becca hadn't noticed her initial stunned reaction.

"What have you been up to in the seven whole days since

I've seen you?" He tugged at a silver lock of hair on his wide forehead. It brought back an image of Shaun doing the same gesture.

She forced her mind away from his eldest son. "I'm still taking care of Dad since he had his stroke."

"He's doing better? Last week, we were interrupted before I could ask you about him."

"He still needs a live-in nurse, but I'm also taking him to physical therapy several times a week, and he's gaining mobility back. He doesn't need me quite as much, which is good, because my sister Naomi announced her engagement six weeks ago. She's planning her wedding, so sometimes when she has to take off work at the spa, I fill in as manager for her."

"Will she still be manager when she marries?"

"No, she's going to start her own private massage therapy business in the city, closer to her future husband's office. We're trying to hire someone to take over when she leaves, but until then.. " She had to stifle a small sigh. Because she still took care of her dad, filling in for Naomi stole precious free time that she didn't have. The spa needed to hire someone soon.

"From nurse to manager." His blue eyes were more piercing than his son's. "It doesn't sit with you well?"

His insight startled her. "I loved being an Emergency Room nurse," she said, "but I have to admit I don't regret quitting my job at Good Samaritan Hospital when Dad needed me. What I'd really like to do is run a free children's clinic for Sonoma and Napa counties."

Unlike Monica's father, Mr. O'Neill didn't roll his eyes at her. Instead, he nodded gravely. "Then you should do it, my girl. You only have one life to love."

His phrasing touched her on a deeper level, stirred up things she had left collecting on the bottom. She shifted uncomfortably, then changed gears, giving him a teasing look. "So who are you meeting for lunch? Yet another struggling hotel owner whose hotel you're going to buy and then turn into a raging success?"

"No, I'm just here having lunch with my son." He gestured behind him.

Brady, his second eldest son, lived only a few miles from Sonoma in Geyserville. Monica's gaze flickered over Mr. O'Neill's shoulder, past the hostess waiting patiently behind the desk, toward the restaurant's bar.and she froze.

Shaun O'Neill stared right back at her. Her breath stopped in her throat and seemed to hum there. She recognized the strange sensation, something she had only felt twice before in her life—at her first sight of a cherry red Lamborghini, and the very first time she'd met Shaun O'Neill, ten years ago at a Zoe International banquet.

Her heart started racing as he rose from his seat at the bar and walked toward them. His expression was unfathomable. Was he happy to see her? Indifferent? Something about the way he held his eyes made her think he felt the same rush of intensity she did.

No, she had to find a way to smother the electricity zinging through her veins. Shaun was a cop, and she would never, ever date anyone in law enforcement. In the E.R., she had seen what that profession did to the families left behind, had tried to heal the unhealable pain of losing a fine man to a criminal's gunshot. She knew her heart wouldn't be able to handle it.

She also knew she wouldn't be able to handle him.

As he approached, his scent wrapped around her—a thread of well-tooled leather, a hint of pine, a deep note of musk—a combination uniquely Shaun's. "Hi, Shaun." She gave a polite smile that hopefully masked the way he made her feel so…alive.

"Hi, Monica." The deep voice had a slight gravelly edge to it, promising danger and excitement. "It's been a long time."

"I didn't know you were back in Sonoma."

"I quit the border patrol," he said softly.

"What?" Surprised, she looked up at him and immediately drowned in the cerulean blue sea of his straightforward gaze. Shaun had always been aggressive with his stance, with his looks—and he was that way now, standing a little too close to her, staring a little too intently. "I.. " She cleared her throat. "I thought you loved the border patrol. The last time we met, you were so enthusiastic about it."

"I'm back to spend time with my family. I'm thinking of applying for the Sonoma Police Department."

"Not as exciting as the border patrol," she remarked, looking for his reaction.

He shrugged.

How strange. He still had that bad-boy air about him, but there was something that reminded her of a wounded dog. No, a wolf. A wounded wolf. She wanted to reach out to him, to help him if she could.

Wounded wolves still bite. She had to remind herself that he wasn't her type. She had to stop now so she wouldn't go any deeper. She wouldn't submit herself to the kind of pain she'd seen in the Emergency Room. She shook off the memory of a cop's widow's shaking shoulders and forced her mind back to the present.

Then something invisible raking along her spine made her jerk. She turned to look out again through the glass of the restaurant doors but only saw the same view of Sonoma City Hall, made of local quarried stone that looked more flint-gray today under the overcast skies. Different tourists from the last time she'd looked walked around the grounds now.

She was being paranoid. She had to get a hold of herself.

She turned back to Mr. O'Neill. "The last time we talked, you mentioned how you were going to sell the Fontana Hotel in Marin and do consulting work rather than buy another hotel. Do you know when that's going to happen?"

Mr. O'Neill smiled at her. "Does your question have anything to do with the rumors I heard that your father's going to expand the spa and add a hotel?"

Monica grinned. "Guilty as charged. I have a lunch appointment in a few minutes, but do you have time today to talk about possibly consulting for him?"

He gave her a sharp look. "Have you talked to Augustus about this yet?"

Heat like a sunburn crept up her neck. "Uh…Dad mentioned yesterday how he needed help now that he's actually decided to go forward with the hotel."

Mr. O'Neill smiled. "I do have time this afternoon." He turned to Shaun. "Did you want to come with me or pick me up later?"

"I'll come with you." His voice was light, but his blue eyes flickered to Monica.

She had to remind herself that she wanted to speak with his father, not with him. "Great. Thanks, Mr. O'Neill. Three o'clock at our house?"

"Sounds good. Who are you meeting for lunch, by the way?"

"It's a potential investor for my free children's clinic. Phillip Bromley."

Shaun's jaw suddenly tightened and his eyes became shards of ice. "The son of the CEO of Lowther Station Bank in San Francisco?"

She nodded. "His brother's a medical missionary in Kenya. I've known Phillip for a few months, but last week at the Zoe banquet, he expressed interest in my clinic and mentioned that his brother might be willing to donate his time to the clinic when he returns to the States this summer."

But Shaun was shaking his head. "You should stay away from Bromley."

"Shaun.. " Mr. O'Neill said gently.

"Why?" Monica said. "Phillip has always been perfectly civil to me." Whereas Shaun's wildness seemed to exude from him, only barely restrained by his conservative white cotton shirt and jeans.

There was also anger underlying that wildness as he answered, "It's just a mask. It's not the real him."

A mask? Monica hadn't seen that at all, and she prided herself on being able to read people rather well. She didn't particularly like Phillip—there was something about his manner that seemed too self-focused and self-serving—but she hadn't detected anything deceptive during the times they spoke to each other.

"He's dangerous," Shaun growled. "You need to stay away from him."

Shaun's commanding tone grated down her spine, and she lifted her chin to glare at his set face. "How is he dangerous?" Shaun's lips tightened briefly. "He just is. You don't know him."

"And you do?"

"Better than you do."

"Children," Mr. O'Neill said in a long-suffering voice, "play nice."

Monica backed down. Mr. O'Neill was right, she was being childish. The same fiery temper that got her into arguments with her dad was now picking fights with a man who only wanted to…what? Warn her? Protect her? She wasn't used to men like Shaun, whose life work was protecting people. Her ex-boyfriends had mostly been artists and playboys, who all seemed "soft" now compared with Shaun's solid presence.

She had to admit that his presence made her feel less uneasy, less vulnerable to the eyes that might—or might not—be watching her. She couldn't stop herself from glancing outside again, but saw no one lurking or looking at her.

At that moment, her cell phone rang, and the caller ID said it was Phillip.

"I'll talk to you later," Mr. O'Neill said quickly, giving her a peck on the cheek before letting the hovering hostess seat him and Shaun at a table.

She answered the call. "Hi, Phillip." Were his ears burning because they'd been talking about him?

"Hi, Monica. I'm sorry, but there's an overturned construction truck here on highway 121. I'll be about twenty minutes late."

"No problem. I'll be waiting."

She had the hostess seat her at a table, but stopped when she saw it was right in the center of the large windows at the front of the restaurant. She glanced out at the tourists and pedestrians on the street. No one was even looking in her direction, but she felt as if a cold hand gripped her around the throat.

"Could I get a table near the back?" she asked, and the hostess nodded and seated her at a small table at the back of the restaurant.

However, it was close to where Shaun and his father were seated. She didn't want to request another change so she sat, but it was hard for her to keep her head averted with Shaun only a few feet away to her right.

At least the horrible feeling of being watched was gone. She spent a few minutes checking her email on her phone, but then the restaurant's owner and chef, Lorianne, approached her table with a long white florist's box and a huge grin on her face. "Hey, Monica. I happened to be up front just now when this was delivered for you." Excitement radiated from her bright eyes as she sat down across from her. "Who's it from? You didn't mention a new boyfriend when I talked to you a couple weeks ago."

"I still don't have a boyfriend. Your guess is as good as mine." Monica didn't look at Shaun, but could sense him glancing at her at Lorianne's words. Really, what business was it of his? She wished she weren't so close to their table.

"Ooh, a secret admirer," Lorianne said. "Well, as owner of this fine establishment, I am entitled to view any and all flowers delivered." She winked at Monica.

A part of her was flattered by the gift. Who wouldn't be? But another part of her was wary. Who gave flowers to a woman through a delivery and not personally? Then it occurred to her that maybe Phillip had them delivered in advance of their meeting. He had seemed a bit friendly last week at the Zoe banquet, but she'd been careful not to encourage anything more than a business relationship. She hoped he didn't misinterpret her body language.

Well, she knew who it wasn't from. She tried to angle her body away from Shaun as she lifted the lid. An odd cigarette smell made her eyes burn, and she blinked away sudden tears.

In the box, nestled among white tissue paper, lay a huge dead snake.

Monica gasped and dropped the box onto the table, making the silverware rattle.

"Oh, my gosh." Lorianne's eyes were huge.

The ugliness of the gift seemed to stifle her, and Monica fought to breathe. Who would send her something so hateful, so horrible?

Print book:

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Ebook:

Harlequin.com romance, fantasy and scintillating suspense books at great low prices. Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!
Nookbook

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Street Team Book List excerpt - His Steadfast Love by Golden Keyes Parsons

2012-01-13T00:17:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

His Steadfast Love
by
Golden Keyes Parsons

It isn't until the Civil War comes to her doorstep that Amanda Bell must choose between love and family.

It's the spring of 1861 on the Gulf Coast of Texas. Amanda never thought she would marry because of a promise she made to her dying mother, but her attraction to Captain Kent Littlefield is undeniable.

When Texas secedes from the Union, her brother Daniel aligns with the Confederate States, while Kent remains with the Union troops.

Her heart is torn between the two men she is closest to and the two sides of the conflict. Amanda prays to God for direction and support, but hears only silence. Where is God in the atrocities of war-and whose side is He on?

Amanda senses her life is at a turning point. She must trust God to deliver her family through the chaos of war with her heart and her faith intact.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Print book:
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Amazon
Christianbook.com
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Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Kobobooks.com

Redux: Reading goals for 2012

2012-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 01.11.2012

I know I just posted about this but I read this post by Danica Favorite and am inspired to challenge myself with new reading goals this year.

1) Read the 4 Love Inspired Suspense novels each month. I should be doing this already, but I’ve been bad about keeping up with them. I’ll usually only read two Love Inspired Suspense novels each month, and after looking at my book catalog, I realized that I’ve been reading all backlist books, not current ones. So I will be trying to read all current Love Inspired Suspense novels each month.

2) Start at least one new-to-me author each month. I copied this straight from Danica because I think it’s a fantastic idea. I also recently lamented on Facebook and Twitter that I had a ton of free ebooks on my Nook but I never seem to get around to reading them. Well, here’s my chance, because most of the free ebooks I get are new-to-me authors whose books I got for free because I wanted to try them.

3) Start at least one old book from my TBR pile each month. And let me confess, my TBR pile ranges in the thousands.

You will notice the language on numbers 2 and 3: Start, not read. Meaning, if I start a book and it doesn’t interest me, I reserve the right to not finish it and still count it toward my reading goal for the month. Aren’t I devious????

The reality is that I’m a slow reader. I’m not as slow as some, but I’m definitely not as fast as Danica and some other readers who can read a Love Inspired in an hour. (I know! Don’t you hate her???)

I don’t have the time to spend on a book that doesn’t captivate me. Some of you will gasp, but since I have so little reading time these days, because I do so much writing instead, I have to be very protective of the time I do set aside for reading.

Now, in order to accomplish these lofty reading goals, I realized today after talking with my friend Dineen Miller that I need to set small, attainable goals each week or each day.

So I will commit to at least 30 minutes of reading each day. I will set my timer and not do anything else but read. (That actually sounds heavenly to me. I have a feeling that won’t be a problem!)

If I read 30 minutes a day, that’s three and a half hours of reading each week. I can definitely finish a book in three and a half hours, depending on the book. I might even get a book and a half done each week. I think this will allow me to get 6 books done a month.

What do you think?

Click here to join the conversation on Goodreads!

Street Team Book List excerpt - The Rose of Winslow Street by Elizabeth Camden

2012-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

The Rose of Winslow Street
by
Elizabeth Camden

The last thing Libby Sawyer and her father expected upon their return from their summer home was to find strangers inhabiting a house that had been in their family for decades. Widower Michael Dobrescu brought his family from Romania to the town of Colden, Massachusetts with a singular purpose: to claim the house willed to him long ago. Since neither party has any intention of giving up their claim, a fierce legal battle ensues between the two families.

When important documents go missing from the house, Libby suspects Michael is the culprit. Determined to discover the truth behind the stolen papers, Libby investigates, only to find more layers of mystery surrounding Michael and his family. Despite their rivalry, Libby finds herself developing feelings for this man with the mysterious past.

As a decision about the house looms in the courts, Libby must weigh the risks of choosing to remain loyal to her family or give her heart to a man whose intentions and affections are less than certain.

Excerpt of chapter one:

The Rose of Winslow Street

Print book:
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Ebook:
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Street Team Book List excerpt - The Maid of Fairbourne Hall by Julie Klassen

2012-01-03T23:13:00.000-08:00

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall
by
Julie Klassen

Pampered Margaret Macy flees London in disguise to escape pressure to marry a dishonorable man. With no money and nowhere else to go, she takes a position as a housemaid in the home of Nathaniel Upchurch, a suitor she once rejected in hopes of winning his dashing brother. Praying no one will recognize her, Margaret fumbles through the first real work of her life. If she can last until her next birthday, she will gain an inheritance from a spinster aunt--and sweet independence. But can she remain hidden as a servant even when prying eyes visit Fairbourne Hall?

Observing both brothers as an "invisible" servant, Margaret learns she may have misjudged Nathaniel. Is it too late to rekindle his admiration? And when one of the family is nearly killed, Margaret alone discovers who was responsible. Should she come forward, even at the risk of her reputation and perhaps her life? And can she avoid an obvious trap meant to force her from hiding?

On her journey from wellborn lady to servant to uncertain future, Margaret must learn to look past appearances and find the true meaning of "serve one another in love."

Excerpt of chapter one:

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM

Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM

You can now give Nookbooks!

2011-12-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.18.2011

I am so happy! My beloved Barnes and Noble has finally gotten with the program and now allows people to give Nookbooks to others!

Okay, I won’t bash Amazon because Amazon is like chocolate to me--indispensable--but I had been very sad that Barnes and Noble wouldn’t let people give Nookbooks to others when Amazon would.

I have lots of people on my Street Team who love ebooks, but when a Street Team member was able to claim one of my books as a prize, I could only offer Kindle ebooks and not Nookbooks, and if they had a Nook and not a Kindle, they were out of luck.

However, now I can give away Nookbooks! Hooray!

This also means that OTHER PEOPLE can give away Nookbooks! Hooray for me!!!!!!

(Okay, so that’s a bit selfish. Sue me. I love receiving books as gifts!!!!!)

(Oh, I just realized that it also means other people can give my novels away as Nookbooks to others! Woohoo! Go buy my books and give them to people for Christmas! Nookbooks and Kindle books are instant delivery to a person’s email Inbox, and they don’t need a Nook or Kindle to read them--they can read the ebook on their computer!)

Sorry, sorry, my seizure of wild self-promotion has now passed.

Anyway, I’m VERY happy now that people can give Nookbooks!

A Rant About Out of Print Books

2011-12-14T15:42:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.14.2011

Forgive me, but this is going to be a full-on rant.

My friend let me borrow her copy of Practice to Deceive by Patricia Veryan, a Georgian romance author who died a few years ago. Practice to Deceive was published in hardcover in 1985 (with a rather nice pencil drawn cover) with one other English version, mass market paperback with a truly horrid cover in 1986.

Practice to Deceive is the first book in the Golden Chronicles, one of the Georgian romantic intrigue series that Patricia Veryan was famous for. The series premise is fascinating--in the months after the Jacobite rebellion in England, there was a six part cypher that pointed to the location of Prince Charlie’s treasure and also the names of his financial supporters. The series is about the six parts, each carried by a different man, escaping the agents of the Crown.

The book was incredibly entertaining, but I also knew, even before I started reading it, that the copy I held was extremely rare. The paperback copy sells for a minimum of $45 on Amazon! It’s because the book is out of print, and the publisher no longer prints copies of it. Therefore, the few copies left out there are for sale for exorbitant prices.

I’m returning my friend’s copy to her (carefully stored in a plastic bag to protect it), and I’d like my own copy of this book but I can’t afford it! I think it’s ridiculous how some of these out of print books are being sold for so much!

Most of the time, readers just want to read the story, they’re not out to collect the books. Readers might want a copy (like I do) to reread occasionally, or to let someone else borrow it. Most typical readers don’t need pristine copies to keep on their climate-controlled collectors’ bookshelves.

(Okay, well, I’ll admit I’d prefer a nice copy but only because I’m a germaphobe, not because I need a pristine copy to collect. But I’ll settle for a used copy just to have the book to reread.)

Why do books go out of print? Why can’t publishers go through the contract processes to reprint them? Why do online book sellers have to charge an arm and a leg?

Why is it so hard for a reader to read a good book???????

If you'd like, you can also contribute to the discussion on my Goodreads group.

Christmas decorations

2011-12-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.11.2011

I'm watching a TV show about the lights other people put up for Christmas. Some of them put in SO much time and work into their Christmas lights! Many of them synchronize their lights with music. One guy starts in September!

We are very low key in general. We have a fake wreath that I've decorated with Hawaiian themed Christmas ornaments and a string of lights, which we pull out every year. This year we might get a small tree, too.

What do you guys do for Christmas decorations? Post pics on my Goodreads thread if you can!

Excerpt - F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire by M. C. Pearson

2011-12-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Camy here: I'm just terribly excited to post this excerpt of this book because M.C. Pearson has been an internet friend of mine for a long time. This is perfect for a tween girl in your life who loves fantasy--I would have loved this when I was 11 or 12. Actually, the illustrations reminded me of the Harry Potter books a bit, making it even more enjoyable. I hope you enjoy this excerpt!

Today's Wild Card author & illustrator is:

M. C. Pearson

and the book:

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)

***Special thanks to M. C. Pearson of FIRST Wild Card Press for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

M. C. Pearson graduated from San Jose State University with a B. A. in art, served as a multi-media illustrator in the United States Army, earning the rank of sergeant, and spent four years as a house parent for at-risk youth. Now married over 20 years, she homeschools her two children, volunteers with her church youth group, and runs a book review blog alliance (FIRST Wild Card Tours) while writing and drawing. F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire is her first novel.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Unwittingly chosen to join an army of fairies, who fight for the Light of the One, a teenaged girl learns about spiritual warfare as she attends a military academy with fantastical beings.

FROM THE BACK COVER:

Here lies a most precious treasure,

Awaiting one Chosen to deliver.

Seek out the red cousins in the East,

For on this your greed mustn't feast.

The wealth of a species now in your hands,

Do with it as the light demands.

Give them your gift to unite,

For it is the darkness we all must fight.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS:

"Imagination runs wild in F.A.I.R.I.E.S. Pearson brings young readers through a looking glass and into a world bursting with adventure, heroism, and fascinating creatures. Readers will be inspired to be true to the One and left with anticipation of more to come."

--Jill Williamson, award-winning author of

By Darkness Hid, and other books

"Sprinkled with delightful illustrations, and brimming with a full bestiary of magical creatures, F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is a fun, clever romp through the alternate landscape of the most magical world of all, our own. Read, and take up the call: 'Defend and Emancipate!'"

-- D. Barkley Briggs, author of

The Book of Names, and other books

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. will appeal to readers who love the interplay of fantasy and reality. A rich cast of eccentric characters and exotic settings make this a fun addition to the folklore of the battle between good and evil."

--Mike Hamel, author of

YA fantasy series: MATTERHORN THE BRAVE

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is one of those rare gems I want to tell everyone about. It's highly imaginative, packed with adventure, and full of hope. A must read for kids and for kids at heart. Even better than Narnia! I was thinking about Pearson's wonderfully memorable characters for days."

--C.J. Darlington, author of

Thicker than Blood

"Ms. Pearson's extravagant and imaginative F.A.I.R.I.E. kingdom will surely delight the young and the young-at-heart in this tale of good and evil, light vs. darkness. The fantasy-loving reader will not be disappointed!"

--Linore Rose Burkard, award winning author of

Before the Season Ends, and other books

Product Details:

List Price: $17.99
Paperback: 482 pages
Publisher: FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0615530222
ISBN-13: 978-0615530222

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Four thousand seasons shall pass while our swords grow rusty.

Where once one chose to divide, another shall be chosen to unite.

One changed the past, the other shall change the future.

One must emancipate the other to allow the light its dominion.

The realm, now torn, allows the shadow to abide, as humanity lies blind to its peril.

The bond of friendship must endure, for the army of shadows awaits another tear.

Dust off your swords.

Unite the realm.

Destroy the strongholds.

Foretelling of Didasko Gnome Digdeep

†

PART ONE

MANY ARE CALLED

BUT

FEW ARE CHOSEN

†

CHAPTER ONE

Off and Running

t was an accident!” Mellie yelled, not caring who heard or stared. Tears streaked her face as she fled down the Santa Cruz coastline, away from her family.

You don’t need them, a voice hissed in her ear, Escape. Run away.

Scorching sand burned at her feet and bitterness ate at her heart. Mellie pumped her legs as fast as they would go. Her feet pounded with the rhythm of her emotions, beating a tempo with the crashing waves. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, quickening her step.

Why did I have to be the youngest? Only 12 years old. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. I just wish they loved me.

Once, just once, she wanted to do something that would make her sisters see that she wasn’t the stupid, awkward, ugly, little baby sister.

As she ran, she wiped away some tears with the palm of her hand. Her fingers settled on her large nose, a gift from her dad’s Hungarian ancestry.

Chelsea got the ski-slope shaped nose. I had to get Half-Dome. It just isn’t fair.

Her hand dropped to her side and she pinched at her stomach. It still had some of its baby fat.

Ugh, why are my sisters so perfect? What happened to me?

Pushing her short bangs from her forehead in disgust, she mumbled, “Maybe I’ll find treasure. I’ll be the rich one, and then they’ll have to accept me.” But she knew better. California didn’t hold any more undiscovered treasures.

The sand, hot and coarse, cut at her feet. I wish I had remembered my shoes. She wore only a black, one-piece swimsuit and a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt tied tightly around her waist.

Breathing rapidly, she began to tire. She slowed her pace to a walk and looked back across the beach. The sand was so hot that waves of heat rose from it and blurred her view. A lone seagull screeched overhead.

Her sisters were nowhere in sight.

Man, I thought for sure that Chelsea was going to chase me down and kill me.

She had to admit that it was a little gratifying to see the sand fly from her foot, covering Chelsea’s sub-sandwich and freshly oiled stomach. Grinning slightly, the tears stopped flowing. She rubbed her eyes.

Mellie looked in the direction of her sisters. “You guys can never take a joke.” Flipping her golden hair, she turned her head back toward her chosen path. She no longer smiled as she stomped her feet in the cold surf, remembering the hateful words that had been said.

“Oh, waa waa, you stupid cry baby! Go tell mommy! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for her ugly, fat baby. Why don’t you grow up? We don’t want you near us. Can’t you understand English? You are so dumb. Look at her mouth open. Oh wait, here she goes…come on, baby…cry!”

Mellie knew she couldn’t go back. They would only ridicule and torment her further. Her mom would never believe it was Chelsea’s fault. No, the evidence was on Chelsea’s side. Who was the one with the sand all over her oily, coconut-smelling body? Who was the one who had a sandwich full of sand? Mellie walked on.

After her temper finally cooled, it occurred to her that she had never walked so far alone.

How far have I gone?

A shadow passed over her, and she looked up. Nothing was there. A cool breeze from the ocean created a stark contrast to the scalding sand. She shivered but kept walking, lost in her loneliness.

Not until she stubbed her toe on a large broken clamshell did she look at the beach. A chill snaked up her back. Nothing appeared familiar. The sounds of the surf were still there, yet something was decidedly different. She felt dizzy. Looking around, she could not quite pinpoint the change. Then it struck her.

No people.

Where did everybody go?

Even though she could see no one, Mellie could swear that she felt eyes staring at her.

She looked inland across the sand, saw movement near some eucalyptus trees, but decided that the wind must have caused it.

Trees? So close to the beach?

Something shook the trees again, causing goosebumps to stand out on Mellie’s arms. Alarmed, she checked the skyline. The sun was close to setting. She hoped that the police weren’t out looking for her.

Suddenly cold, she pulled at the arms of the sweatshirt still tied around her waist. It fell to the sand. Bending to pick it up, she once again saw a blur of movement, except this time it came from a rocky outcrop by the waves. She shook the sand out of the sweatshirt and hurriedly tugged it over her head.

“Okay, I’m seeing things.” Mellie yanked at her hair, pulling it out of the sweatshirt. She stared at the sinister rocks. “Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke louder. “Is someone the-ere? Hello?” No answer. The shadowy rocks seemed to quiver with excitement, beckoning her closer.

Hmm…probably just a seagull.

Even if it was a bird, she did not want to see it.

There’s no way I’m going over there.

The wind picked up and blew her hair into her eyes. The sand spun with the wind.

Yes, definitely time to move. I need to find a road.

She turned back toward the sweet smelling, oddly placed trees.

Mellie arrived at the base of the first, colossal eucalyptus tree. Without warning, one of the branches fell in front of her, then seemed to get up from the ground and pose its bottom stems in a military-like stance.

Mellie screamed and jumped back. “Branches don’t stand.”

“They do if they are walking sticks.” The eucalyptus branch chuckled, stretching to its full height, considerably taller than Mellie’s meager five feet.
She gasped, grabbed the branch, and threw it like a javelin, as hard as she could.

As she took off running, she heard a bark and halted. Turning, she saw a golden retriever bounding toward her with the stick in his mouth. The dog dropped it at her feet. She watched the dog run into the grove of trees and disappear before she fearfully turned back to the possessed stick.

It had already gained its footing again and stood over her. Mellie was too frightened to move this time.

A face emerged from the skinny twig and took on the characteristics of a male human, but none like Mellie had ever seen. He had hair made up in rolls as if it were a powdered, green-silver wig, the same color as the leaves that grew all around his skinny body. His face was long and his forehead high. The twiggy man smiled and said in a distinctly British, albeit breezy, accent, “Do not worry, you are safe.”

Mellie couldn’t answer.

“Ahh…I love new recruits. They are so easily addled.”

Feeling more confused than threatened, Mellie found her voice. “What? What do you mean, new recruits?” She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m talking to a stick now. Yes, I have lost it. I have gone totally mental.”

“Oh, I say, am I to understand that I am the first to be revealed to you?” With round, leathery leaves, the branch resembled a toddler toy with rings stacked on one another.

She dropped open her mouth and nodded.

“Well, let me do this properly, then. Ahem. Mortal, made of clay, you have been Chosen to join the Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads.”

“What? What are you? You look like a stick…but you can talk.”

“Yes, child,” the stick replied with a sigh. “But, I think we are quite past that by now. Have you not heard me? You have been Chosen.”

Mellie opened her mouth wider, closed it, frowned, and opened it once more. “Chosen? For what?”

“You did wish to be different? To change who you were? ’Twas an especially strong desire, yes?” The branch crossed its arms and tapped its twiggy foot.

“Umm…”

“Dear me, this is highly unusual. You made a choice to run away from a miserable life and asked to be set free? Correct?”

“Well, I, ah…yeah. I guess so. What did you say about recruit for some squad?”

“Humph. I see that I was not understood. Yes? Let me elucidate. The Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads , or shall I say F.A.I.R.I.E.S.? have accepted you into their organization. You asked. You were answered.” The branch attempted a smile, but looked impatient instead.

“Fairies? I don’t believe in fairies.” Mellie winced, half expecting him to fall down and writhe in pain until she clapped her hands.

“Quite right. You are not supposed to. If humans truly believed we existed, we would never get anything accomplished.”

Mellie laughed and looked around for a hidden camera, thinking this must be a joke. “Right. Ah…heh…okay, bud, brilliant costume,” she said, imitating the branch’s accent. “Where’s the zipper?” She reached toward him and touched a soft leaf.

The branch slapped her hand away and stamped its foot with a loud cracking noise. “I beg your pardon. I have not been a bud for over 800 springs!” He paced, his leaves crumpling, mumbling to himself about humans and why, in the One’s name, did he listen to that confounded gnome who told him that he needed to stand gate duty. With his rank!

“I’m sorry I upset you. Please, I’m very confused. I’m lost, and I just want to go home.” Mellie bit her lip.

The branch stopped mid-pace. “Home? Earlier, did you not wish for a new life? And riches? I know you wished for treasure, hmm?”

“How do you know that?” Mellie furrowed her brow. “Have you been reading my mind?”

The twig man didn’t answer her questions, asking his own instead. “Ahh, so, you admit this, yes?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but…well, this really isn’t what I had in mind.”

The branch threw up its twiggy fingers. “Oh, well, of course you did not have this in mind. After all, we are reasonably inconspicuous, especially to humans. How could you have this in mind? However, is it not superior of the One to think that this is what you would have chosen had you known about us? Anyway, ’tis irrevocable now. So, if you would just follow me, we shall get you signed in and enrolled for training.”

The branch marched off between the trunks of two large eucalyptus trees.

Mellie slid uncontrollably after the walking stick. She planted her feet firmly, refusing to budge, but she slid after him anyway. Grasping at branches of nearby trees, she panted heavily as she struggled to resist following the branch. Some kind of invisible tie connected her to him. He seemed to pull her along with his every step.

Mellie thought about her sisters and how mad they were at her. I’m dead meat if they find me. Mellie quickly gave up her battle and ran after the eucalyptus branch, barely keeping up with his stride.

†

The sand changed to coarse dirt, with pebbles and sticks. More and more trees filled Mellie’s vision. Bushes scraped against her bare legs and slapped her face as she moved deeper inside a forest of eucalyptus and redwood trees. She winced in pain as a razor-sharp rock sliced her foot. Stopping to nurse it, she wished once again for her forgotten shoes.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mellie looked around. She could not see the branch anywhere.

“Do not call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.” The branch peeked out from around one of the gigantic trees. “And please, try to keep up. We need to reach the gateway.”

Mellie limped up to him. “Sorry, sir…I mean…umm, what should I call you then?”

“Oh, well, we did skip that. Did we not? Yes, all right, an introduction then.” The branch man seemed to enjoy formal etiquette for he gave an elaborate wave and bowed. “My name is Regnans, family of Myrtaceae, born member of the F.A.I.R.I.E.S., Britannia Wing, rank of Master Nymph Dryad.”

“Nice to meet you, Reg…Reg?” Mellie chewed on the inside of her mouth. Never good at remembering names, she knew she would offend him with her lack of manners.

Sure enough, the dryad raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Regnans.” He gave a hurt sniff, then drolly sneered. “If you find that a difficult name, you should meet the rest of my family, all seven-hundred thirty-four of them.”

“Sorry, I just…well, it is a lot to remember. It’s a nice name, though. My name is Maryellen Goodwin of Bret Harte Middle School, San Jose, California. But everyone calls me Mellie.” She stuck out her hand, intending to shake. Regnans stared at her.

“That is a strange curtsy. However, I guess ’twill do. We must get moving now. The shadows abound, you know.” Regnans made an about face and marched off faster than before.

Another hour passed, and still they strode along the forest floor. Mellie’s feet were now cut, blistered, and bleeding. She kept up as best she could with Regnans’s long stride. Whenever she tried to stop, he would pull her on with that invisible force of his.

Stupid, pompous, magical Star Wars freak.

She whimpered as she limped. Darkness and mist now covered the woods. As she was about to plead for a break, Regnans stopped. Except for her heavy gulps of air, all seemed quiet.

Regnans stiffened even more than usual. Nothing on him moved, apart from his eyes, which darted around quickly.

“All is safe, we may proceed.” He held up a twiggy finger to his woody mouth. “Please do not speak, and try not to breathe so abominably loud.”

Mellie nodded with a disgusted frown. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She tried to calm her breathing, even though her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled. Her blisters had popped by now and oozed wetness.

Regnans moved again, yet this time he took slow, deliberate steps, all the while scanning his surroundings. He walked up to a massive redwood tree and stroked its bark.

A breeze stirred up, rattling the leaves, sounding almost like spoken words. Mellie thought herself crazy again. However, the longer she stood there, the more she sensed that it really was the tree’s language, as if she had never listened to trees properly before. It said, “If you love, you will say the one true love that leads the way.”

Regnans whispered in a leaf rustling voice, “Ah-gaw-pay.”

A loud grumbling sound, as if someone awakened after a long sleep, shook the grove. The redwood tree opened two eyes, each the size of Mellie’s head, and blinked. A great fissure erupted below the eyes in the shape of a crescent, and redish-brown wooden teeth emerged. A long, knobby branch pushed its way out above the mouth and inhaled deeply.

The tree chuckled. Instead of the whispering leaves, a low, rumbling utterance of human speech came from the redwood tree. “Regnans? What brings you to my neck of the woods?” He blinked again. “And who is this? A new recruit? A human? A Chosen?”

Mellie knew she looked silly, standing there with her mouth in an ‘O’ shape, but she couldn’t move. This was simply impossible. There is no such thing as fairies!

“Yes, yes. Please open the gate, we must not dawdle here…they may be watching.” Regnans looked agitated.

A deep laugh resounded from the redwood. “Oh, Regnans. There are none who watch here.”

Regnans mumbled something about hamadryads and their pride, then proclaimed in a slightly louder voice to the tree, “We must be sober, be vigilant, because the shadow walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom it may devour.”

The hamadryad looked chagrined. “You speak true, dryad. Forgive me for acting like an arrogant seedling.” He glanced at Mellie, and with a lowered voice asked, “And what is your name, little human?”

Mellie managed to squeak out, “Mellie Goodwin.”

“Ah, ’tis always nice to have a Good Wind.” The hamadryad laughed heartily.

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely tete-a-tete,” Regnans said, “but would you please open the gate? I left Westside completely unguarded.”

An annoyed creak came from the base of the redwood, followed by a sigh. “Yes, Regnans. Agape you said, and agape it is. Go with the light, my friends.” The large, joyous eyes closed, and the hamadryad whispered in his leaf rustling voice, “Until we meet again, Good Wind.” His face disappeared, and his roots lifted and pulled apart, exposing a tunnel within his trunk.

Regnans grabbed Mellie’s hand with his rough, wooden one, and pulled her inside the opening. The tree closed itself abruptly and left them in total darkness.

Regnans cleared his throat and said, “Let there be light.”

A burst of dazzling brightness sparkled from the tunnel’s wall. Mellie glanced around and noticed a long, winding stairwell leading down into the ground.

“Shall we, then?” Not waiting for a reply, Regnans started down the steps.

Available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

BarnesandNoble.com coupons

2011-12-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

For those of you shopping online for Xmas gifts, here are a few online coupons to share with you. There are two, one for if you are a member of Barnes and Noble and one if you are not:

Barnes&Noble Member Coupon! Save an Extra 25% Off - Use Coupon Code F7P4K8P at Checkout!

Barnes&Noble Non-Member Coupon! Save an Extra 20% Off - Use Coupon Code T3N9N3L at Checkout!

Protection for Hire releases today! Excerpt

2011-11-30T23:07:00.000-08:00

Captain’s Log, Stardate 12.01.2011

Protection for Hire officially releases today! Here's the back cover blurb:

Tessa Lancaster's skills first earned her a position as an enforcer in her Uncle Teruo's Japanese Mafia gang. Then they landed her in prison for a crime she didn't commit. Now, three months after her release, Tessa's abilities have gained her a job as bodyguard for wealthy socialite Elizabeth St. Amant and her three-year-old son.

But there's a problem or two ... or three .... There's Elizabeth's abusive husband whose relentless pursuit goes deeper than mere vengeance. There's Uncle Teruo, who doesn't understand why Tessa's new faith as a Christian prevents her from returning to the yakuza. And then there's Elizabeth's lawyer, Charles Britton, who Tessa doesn't know is the one who ensured that she did maximum time behind bars. Now Tessa and Charles must work together in order to protect their client, while new truths emerge and circumstances spiral to a deadly fever pitch.

Factor in both Tessa's and Charles's families and you've got some wild dynamics--and an action-packed, romantic read as Tessa and Charles discover the reality of being made new in Christ.

Camy here: I hope you all will enjoy it! If your library doesn't have it, ask them to buy it!

Here's the excerpt of the first couple chapters!

PROLOGUE

Tessa Lancaster’s rather freakish paranoia was what almost got her in trouble. Her automatic reaction as she exited her uncle’s club was to scan the dark streets. Seven cars, two on this side of the street and five on the other. Hard to tell if anyone sat inside them, but she didn’t catch shadowy movement. A homeless man huddled in a doorway of a shop a few doors down, the same man she remembered seeing when she entered the club.

Her cousin, Ichiro, saw her movements and laughed. “Like somebody’s going to jump you right outside Uncle Teruo’s club? Nobody’s that stupid.”

“They may not know who owns the club. It doesn’t exactly have ‘Japanese mafia’ in neon letters over the door.”

“Everyone knows it belongs to Uncle Teruo.” Itchy’s arrogance was about as extreme as Tessa’s paranoia.

A stiff breeze from the San Francisco Bay cut through her black leather jacket, and she curled her body tight as they headed toward his car, parked a block down the street.

They walked past the homeless man. Even though she remembered seeing him an hour ago, she still cast a furtive glance at him through lowered eyelashes. His clothes were worn and dirty, and his body was coated with mud, but in streaks — as if he’d slathered it on himself. His hair was dirty, but maybe not quite as oily as it would be for someone who hadn’t washed in weeks. And as she drew closer, she realized he also didn’t smell ripe enough.

Her muscles bunched just as the homeless man jumped at them.

She reacted faster than Itchy, so she couldn’t be sure who the man meant to attack first. She stepped directly in his path and captured his arm in an armbar.

However, instead of the counter-move she expected from an assassin, he yelped like a dog. “Ow! I’m sorry, it was just a joke!”

“What do you mean, a joke?” She didn’t immediately release him.

“My dormmates ... a stupid bet ... how much I could get panhandling as a homeless person in one night . . .”

A college prank? Tessa thrust him away with disgust.

“He was only going to ask you for money?” Itchy smirked as they walked away, leaving the man moaning and clutching his tender arm. “Your paranoia is getting psychotic, cuz. You could have killed him.”

Maybe he was right. She’d been working for Uncle Teruo for seven years, since she was sixteen, and seven years was a long time to be always on the alert, to be expecting attacks from her uncle’s enemies and her own.

Uncle Teruo had never given her orders to kill anyone, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She could take down a 250-pound man and knock him out with a rear-naked choke in less than thirty seconds, but she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to take a killshot or snap a man’s neck.

She rubbed her forehead. She realized that she was tired of all this. And she could see that her lifestyle and the danger in it was going to make her seriously crazy.

She had Itchy’s car keys since she hadn’t drunk anything tonight. She fumbled for the remote in her pocket when movement from a shadowy building made her spine stiffen. Itchy saw it a few seconds after she did and pulled his gun. She did the same with hers.

A scuffed sound came from the alley between a nail salon and Chinese restaurant, both of them dark with their windows glinting in the dim street lights like glowing orange eyes. Itchy raised the gun.

“Tessa,” came a reedy voice.

She recognized it, although she almost didn’t because her cousin Fred usually had a snarling, sneering tone when he said her name. She holstered her gun. “Itchy, it’s Fred.”

Itchy hastily stowed his gun, not wanting to get in trouble by accidentally shooting the son of the Japanese mafia boss.

Tessa approached the alley carefully, because even though she knew it was Fred, she didn’t like the darkness shrouding him or the strange thinness of his voice. “Fred?” She paused, allowing her eyesight to become accustomed to the darkness before moving any closer.

“I’m here.” He sounded tired. “You have to help me.”

She listened, and caught the sound of movement in the distance. Footsteps. Maybe boots. Men’s voices. Then she heard something she had never heard before—Fred sobbing. Alarm shot through her and she walked quickly toward him. “Fred, what’s wrong?” The acrid smell of garbage burned her nostrils as she passed a dumpster.

He seemed to materialize in front of her, his face a pale moon, but she could see dark splotches across his chin and cheeks, like black paint had splashed at him. This close to him, she could detect a sharp metallic scent that filtered its way past the smell of garbage.

“She’s dead,” Fred moaned, his eyes becoming crumpled lines in his face. “I killed her.”

“Who’s dead?” This wouldn’t be the first dead body she’d had to dispose of, although most of the time, it was for her uncle, Fred’s father, not for Fred himself.

“Laura.”

It took a second for her to realize why the name was familiar. Fred’s girlfriend. That’s right, Laura Starling lived in a loft apartment in this area.

“What happened?” Itchy asked.

“We got into a fight. And I got so mad. And the next thing I know, she’s dead and there’s this in my hand.” Fred held up his right hand, holding a bloody steak knife. He glanced behind them. “Where’s your car? We have to get away.”

“It’s fine,” Tessa told him. “You’ll be fine. We’ll get rid of the knife — ”

“The police are after me.”

“What?” Itchy cast frantic glances around them.

“A neighbor called them when we were fighting. I ran.”

“Did they see you?” Itchy asked. Tessa already knew they had. The booted footsteps were

sounding closer, probably coming from the narrow street that ran behind these buildings. They were pursuing Fred.

They only had a few minutes.

They could take Fred in the car and go, but Fred’s fingerprints were all over Laura’s apartment, and the police would come to question him right away. How likely was it that he hadn’t been seen running away by a neighbor? Maybe the police would lie and tell him someone saw him, just to get him to confess. Regardless, Fred would crack like a crystal glass. He just wasn’t strong.

Not like Tessa. The only way to save Fred was to deflect suspicion away from him.

Did she really want to save Fred? No. But she loved her uncle, and she’d do it for him, because he loved his only son.

“Give me the knife.” She spotted a gallon container of bleach against the wall of the restaurant and nabbed it. It had maybe a half cup left, but that was enough.

She slid off her jacket and pulled off her black long-sleeved shirt, shivering in her sports bra. Tessa used the shirt to wipe the knife down, then cleaned it again with bleach. Luckily, the steak knife was one of those fancy modern knives that had been forged from one piece rather than having a tang and handle. She hoped she could compromise the blood so any of Fred’s blood wouldn’t show up on a DNA swab.

She tossed the bloody shirt to Itchy along with his car keys. “Take Fred and go. Put him in the backseat and make him lie down so no one can see him — knock him out if you have to.”

“Hey,” Fred protested weakly.

Tessa slid her jacket back on and gave Itchy her gun. “Tell Uncle Teruo. Make sure he has your car cleaned so there’s no blood, and give him the bloody shirt to burn.” She didn’t trust Itchy to do a thorough enough job of it.

“What are you . . .” Itchy’s eyes were incredulous as he stared at her. “What are you going to do?”

“What I have to.” She tossed the knife in the dumpster. It would have her fingerprints on it and it would take them a few minutes to find it. The footsteps were coming closer. “Go, hurry!”

Itchy dragged Fred with him. Luckily he was smart enough to drive sedately away rather than burning rubber and attracting attention.

Within a few minutes, she heard the footsteps at the other end of the alley. “Stop!” someone called to her.

She broke into a run.

A cruiser pulled up in front of the alley, lights whirling. She hesitated, then tried to run around the car.

Someone rammed into her from behind, slamming her into the asphalt, scraping her cheek and smearing motor oil on her face.

As they cuffed her, the full realization of what she was doing finally hit her.

She was going to prison for a murder she didn’t commit.

CHAPTER ONE

The young woman was as out of place here as a Ferrari in a used car lot. The first thing Tessa Lancaster noticed about the mother watching the kids in the game of Simon Says were her expensive shoes, gold and pearl colored heels with a dark gold rose over the peek-a-boo toe, which sank into the grass of the tiny backyard.

The second thing Tessa noticed about her was the gigantic black eye swelling the entire left side of her face.

She must be new at the San Francisco domestic violence shelter, because when she noticed Tessa looking at her, she smiled instead of turning away with a nervous glance.

With shoes like that, she didn’t quite look like she belonged. Then again, the shelter was for any abused woman needing a place to stay, and who said rich women didn’t get knocked around the same as prostitutes or waitresses?

Tessa raised her voice above the boisterous throng of children. “Simon Says . . . jump on one foot while patting your head and rubbing your tummy and turning in a circle!” Tessa bounced around in front of them, her hair flying out of its ponytail and hitting her in the face, while the kids giggled and screamed and twirled in circles. They loved her. They didn’t care who she’d been or what she’d done. They only cared that she would play with them for her entire volunteer shift at the shelter.

“Snack time!” Evangeline, one of the shelter volunteers and one of Tessa’s only friends, called to the children from the doorway behind Tessa which led back into the main building. Like a gigantic blob, the kids raced into the shelter from the building’s tiny backyard, still screaming, and some still whirling around from the Simon Says game.

One tow-headed boy ran toward the woman with the expensive shoes, clasping her around her knees and laughing up at her. She smiled as she reached down to pick him up, but he squirmed to be let go. He scurried after the other kids.

“He hasn’t laughed in so long,” she said wistfully as Tessa walked up to her. Her accent was like maple syrup. Southern. She could have been Scarlett O’Hara in the flesh—flashing eyes, graceful hands, svelte figure.

Tessa squelched a sigh of envy. “What’s his name?”

“Daniel.”

The sight of the woman’s black, yellow, and purple mark in the distinct shape of a fist made a dark, growling blaze burn in Tessa’s gut. She tried to keep her voice light. “He’s made friends quickly. One of the little girls was already flirting with him.”

“He’s just like his fa . . .” Her smile faded as her voice caught on the word.

The boy’s father? “Is he the one who gave you that shiner?” The words burst out of Tessa’s mouth before she could think to temper them.

Oh, no. She looked away from the woman’s shocked face and breathed in deep through her nose, trying to calm her temper.

The one thing she’d battled the most since giving her life to Jesus three years ago, and it still rose like a gladiator in her soul. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very sensitive of me.”

A beat of silence. Then Tessa asked, “So, where are you from?”

“I grew up in Louisiana, but I’ve been in San Francisco for five years. Daniel was born here.”

“Oh. What do you, uh, do?”

The woman gave Tessa a small smile. “I can shop like nobody’s business.”

Tessa laughed. It seemed like that’s what she wanted her to do. But someone affluent like this . . . “How’d you find the shelter?” Wings Shelter wasn’t exactly in the Presidio area of San Francisco.

Tears gathered like jewels on her long, dark lashes. “I was at the San Carlos Motel, but we had to leave.”

She didn’t have to say it, but Tessa knew her story, the same story as many other women here. She’d probably left her home and checked into a hotel under a false name, but the man who abused her found them there.

“A man on the street saw us. He led us to the shelter.”

Wow, how likely was that? God really had led this woman here. An otherworldly stirring in Tessa’s heart made her suddenly feel both small and huge at the same time.

“Tessa!” Evangeline called to her from the shelter doorway. “I know your shift is over, but Mina wants to see you.”

Ooh, good news? She couldn’t think of any other reason the shelter’s employment coordinator would want to talk to her. “It was nice chatting with you.”

“I better make sure Daniel doesn’t get into trouble.” The woman smiled at Tessa and then headed into the shelter.

She didn’t even know the woman’s name. But it didn’t matter — the other women here would eventually tell her who Tessa was—or specifically, who her uncle was—and then the woman would delicately avoid Tessa the next time she saw her.

The thought made her feel like a thin glass ornament. She should be used to it — now that she’d been out of prison for three months, women still feared her just as they had seven years ago when she’d been an enforcer for her mob boss uncle and her dangerous reputation on the streets had been slightly exaggerated.

Now they feared her because they weren’t quite sure what she was doing here at Wings.

Tessa took the stairs of the old Victorian house two at a time, each step punctuated by a creak. The second floor landing opened up into a long narrow hallway, and she remembered to skid to a stop and knock on the office door before entering.

Tessa had to wiggle between two of the three desks crammed in the small office — once a bedroom — to plop herself in front of Mina’s desk. “You wanted to see me?”

Mina’s light brown eyes clued her in—not the joyful, we- found-you-a-job look, but a sad, these-employers-are-idiots look.

“Oh.” Tessa sagged a bit in the narrow folding chair. “What happened?”

“Well, I’ve been the one taking calls from employers because you put the shelter down as a reference.”

Tessa wasn’t supposed to know that. She straightened at the information. Why would Mina break the rules by telling her?

“There’s a, um . . . theme to the questions they ask.”

“Theme?”

“They almost all want to know if you’re the Tessa Lancaster. The niece of Teruo Ota. The head of the San Francisco yakuza.”

“Seriously?” Tessa closed her eyes, leaned forward, and bonked her forehead on Mina’s desk a few times. She just couldn’t get away from her past with the yakuza, the Japanese mafia. Would she ever be able to?

She suddenly sat up again. “They’re not journalists, are they?”

“No, although I had a few of those. I always check the caller name and company with the list you give us each week of where you’ve applied for jobs. If the person isn’t on the list, I tell them to go away.”

Whew. The last thing she needed was some rabid dog reporter with grandiose dreams of using Tessa to somehow take down the entire San Francisco Japanese mafia. Or worse, some gossip mag wanting the scoop on why one of the yakuza’s unofficial strong-arms was now volunteering at a battered women’s shelter and applying for a janitor position at Target.

Tessa bit her lip. “You, uh . . . tell them the truth?”

Mina’s eyebrows raised. “Of course I do. Well . . .” Her eyes slipped away from Tessa’s gaze. “I’ll admit after the third one of the day, I’m always tempted to tell them you’re Amish.”

Tessa giggled, then sighed. “I wouldn’t want you to lie. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I have to take the consequences.”

“It’s just unfair, because you really have changed, but they don’t believe it.”

“No, it’s more like they don’t want to get involved.” Tessa had known it for a few weeks now, but hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. She seemed to have acquired a highly developed ostrich mentality lately. “They don’t know why I’m applying for these minimum wage jobs, if I have an ulterior motive or if I’ve had a falling out with my uncle. They’re not stupid — they’re not going to hire someone who might cause problems for them, and they’re not going to hire me if it’s going to make my uncle mad.”

Mina pitched her voice low and leaned in to ask, “What exactly did you do for your uncle? You didn’t . . . kill anyone, did you?”

“No, never. Aunty Kayoko saw to that.”

“Who?”

“My Aunt Kayoko. Uncle Teruo’s wife.” More of a mother to her than her own mother. An ache blossomed under her breastbone, and she rubbed at it. “She protected me. She dissuaded Uncle from giving me any job that crossed some invisible line she had in her head. She was closer to me than my own mother, in some ways.”

“Was?”

“She died last year.” And Tessa had cried in her cell all day the day of her funeral, wanting to go but not allowed to. If Tessa had been released a year early, she’d have been able to say goodbye.

Mina cleared her throat. “So, you roughed people up?”

“I did whatever my uncle asked me to do.” Tessa looked down at her hands. “It’s probably best I not talk about it.”

“Oh, of course. I was just thinking ...” Mina flipped through a stack of file folders on her desk, then grabbed one and skimmed through the pages. “You can ... basically take care of yourself, right?”

“Uh . . . yeah. I studied Muay Thai from when I was in grade school, and I also studied Brazilian jiu-jitsu, tae kwan do, and a little Capoeira.” And basic no-holds-barred street fighting too, with a reputation among her cousins and her uncle’s kobuns for having a streak of creative ruthlessness.

Mina’s eyes widened at the list, but they also shone with excitement. “So how about a bouncer?”

Tessa wasn’t sure what to think about that. “You really think someone would hire me as a bouncer?”

Mina made a face at Tessa’s job applications folder. “They obviously won’t hire you as a janitor, a burger flipper, a cashier, or a stock boy. Why not a bouncer?”

Why not? “I guess . . . although I don’t know if I’d be comfortable working for a particularly shady nightclub. I’ve known the girls who work there, and sometimes it’s only a step above slavery.”

“It might be a step toward doing bodyguard work.” Mina was on a roll. “You’d be perfect for that. Your own private company, you can pick and choose what clients you’ll take, and you can more than take care of yourself.”

Wow. That would be really cool. “Yeah. Okay, got any leads on bouncer jobs?”

“Uh ... no.”

“Oh, right. Battered woman not at the top of the bouncer qualifications list. I’ll look online.” Tessa rose and held out her hand to Mina. “Thanks for the idea.”

“I’m sorry about those other jobs. I thought for sure that Fat Burger would hire you, but . . .”

Yeah, but was she really surprised? Aside from the fact she was an ex-convict, being an ex-yakuza didn’t place her high on anybody’s hiring priorities.

She walked down the stairs much slower than she’d gone up, and she headed to the quaint living room on the first floor, situated near the back of the house. A fire might be lit in the antique fireplace, and she loved the crackling sound and the smell. As she entered the room, she spotted the Southern woman’s glossy dark head next to a couple other women at the shelter. They all glanced at her with identical Oh-my-gosh-there-she-is-stop- talking-about-her expressions.

Tessa looked away, just in case they could see the sting in her heart reflected in her eyes. She didn’t want to be feared anymore. She wanted to have friends who didn’t know how to shoot an automatic weapon or boost a car. She wanted somewhere she belonged ... but where would that be? She was drifting in between the world of the yakuza and the world of normal, and she wasn’t in either one. She didn’t want to belong to the yakuza world, but she was starting to think she’d never belong to the normal world either.

A stampede of footsteps. Tessa expected to see a rampaging gang of suspiciously quiet kindergartners come to attack their favorite playmate. Instead, the woman’s perky head popped up in front of her.

“Tessa? Hi, I didn’t introduce myself earlier, I’m Elizabeth St. Amant.”

Tessa took the smooth, manicured hand. “Uh, hi.” She glanced at the women Elizabeth had been talking to, and they had alarmed looks in their eyes.

“Oh, don’t mind those cats,” Elizabeth said. “They thought they were warning me off of you, but as soon as they talked about your unsavory past, I just knew you were perfect.”

“Excuse me?”

“Even though they don’t believe you’ve changed, why, as soon as I saw you with those children, I knew that you’d done a 180 like a flapjack on a griddle.”

Flapjacks? Elizabeth had a way of talkingreallyfastanddraaaawlingatthesaaaametiiiiime that made it hard for Tessa to follow her. “What exactly did they tell you?” Tessa asked carefully.

Elizabeth actually started ticking them off on her fingers. “Let’s see. First, you used to do some nasty things for your uncle, who’s some sort of head for the yuck ... yak ...”

“Yakuza. Japanese mafia.”

“Second, you’ve been in prison for murder.”

“Manslaughter,” Tessa automatically corrected. Not that it made that much difference, since she hadn’t done it in the first place.

“Third, the only reason you’re volunteering at this shelter is because Evangeline, who used to be your cellmate, stayed here a few months ago because of an abusive boyfriend, but then she started volunteering here, and she vouched for you when you wanted to volunteer here too.”

The problem was that some of the women here didn’t trust Tessa because she wasn’t really one of them. Tessa had never been abused, had never been a mother. In fact, because of her background, she had never been afraid for her own life.

“Fourth, you’ve been going to the church here at Wings. And after hearing that, and seeing you with my Daniel, I knew you must be trying to turn your life around. You’re exactly the kind of person I need.”

“What do you need?” The woman didn’t seem too loco, so Tessa wouldn’t mind helping her. She guessed.

“My husband is trying to kill me,” Elizabeth announced, “so I want to hire you as my bodyguard.”

CHAPTER TWO

Heaven must smell like homemade ramen noodle soup. Tessa stood in the doorway of the Japanese restaurant and breathed deep, closing her eyes and picking out Jerry’s signature spices in his ramen broth. She was drooling and she didn’t care.

Well, it had been seven loooooooooooong years. Considering she’d eaten Jerry’s ramen once a week up until then, she ought to be excused an excessive Pavlovian reaction. Since she’d gotten out of prison, she’d moved into Mom’s house and began looking for a job, so she hadn’t had time to come here to get her fix.

“Can I help you?”

The young, perky voice interrupted her olfactory cloud of ecstasy and made Tessa open her eyes.

The restaurant hostess, a young woman with long, glossy black hair, stood in front of the wooden hostess podium just inside the restaurant’s glass doors. She had a plastic smile and her eyes were just a little wary of the crazy lady smelling the restaurant. Tessa realized she knew her—Karissa Hoshiwara, one of Jerry’s granddaughters. Of course she wouldn’t remember Tessa, she’d only been a high school freshman when it all happened.

“I’m a friend of Jerry’s. Is it okay if I go in back to see him?” The politeness sounded stiff on Tessa’s tongue, but after so many years, she didn’t really have the right to barge into Jerry’s over-heated kingdom unannounced.

“Oh.” Karissa’s smile lost its edge, as if being her grandfather’s friend explained all sorts of you-ought-to-be-in-therapy behavior. “Sure, go ahead.”

As Tessa turned to head back to the kitchen, Karissa suddenly asked, “Do I know you?”

Tessa turned to meet curious eyes. Innocent. My eyes were never that innocent.

No, she had to remember that she was a new creation in Christ! With copious exclamation points! She had to act like it! “Yeah, actually, your mom is friends with my mom.”

“Oh.” Karissa’s brow wrinkled faintly, marring the perfect skin of a young twenty-something. “What’s your name?”

“Tessa Lancaster.” She couldn’t help the tension in the back of her neck, waiting for the reaction.

Karissa’s dark eyes blinked. Then widened. And then she smiled. “Oh! You’re that Tessa.”

She’d provoked a lot of reactions in her life, but never one like this. “Excuse me?”

“I saw your picture from that old newspaper clipping.”

So did everyone. Still didn’t explain the one-step-below- rock-star glow in the girl’s eyes. Tessa wasn’t sure what to say, so she smiled weakly. She probably looked like a sick pig.

“Evangeline showed me the clipping,” Karissa added.

“Evangeline?” The name made Tessa’s smile widen. “How do you know her?”

“I, uh . . . I met her at Wings.” Karissa’s cheeks were faintly pink.

“You went to Wings?” Karissa didn’t look old enough to be married, let alone at a domestic violence shelter.

“I used to live with my boyfriend,” Karissa confessed. “He started getting rough with me, and we lived nearby the shelter, so I went there one night. Evangeline was volunteering that night. The shelter asked me about my family, and when Evangeline found out my Grandpa Jerry worked for the Otas’ restaurant, she told me about you.”

“She was my cellmate for three years,” Tessa said. “Oh. I liked her. But I haven’t seen her in a few months.”

“You moved out of your boyfriend’s apartment, right?” Tessa hated that she sounded like a mother but she’d seen too many horrible stories at Wings.

Karissa nodded. “I’m living with a girlfriend in an apartment near San Francisco J-town.”

“You drive from San Francisco to San Jose every day to work?”

“Oh, no. I’m only here today to help Grandpa Jerry out. He’s short-staffed today.”

“That’s nice of you, to give up your Saturday to help him out.”

Her eyes flickered away. “I didn’t have anything else planned.”

Tessa recognized that look, and the meaning behind Karissa’s words. Many of the women at Wings had lost touch with their friends during their abusive relationships, but in trying to regain their normal lives, they battled loneliness and the struggle of making new friends. She wondered if Karissa was the same way.

“Lots of the women staying at Wings could use someone to chat with,” Tessa said. “Uh . . . if you came to church at Wings with me and Evangeline one Sunday, you could meet them, maybe ... be a friendly face.” And maybe Karissa wouldn’t be as lonely herself. Evangeline had helped Tessa find the church at Wings soon after being released, but this was the first chance she’d had to invite someone else.

Karissa looked uncertain.

“You don’t have to,” Tessa said. “But in case you wanted to. You could see Evangeline again.”

“I . . . I think I’d like that.” She looked like she even meant it.

“Call me and I’ll pick you up. This is my mom’s home phone number,” she added with a pained sigh. No job, no cell phone. Mom’s cell phone was on one of Tessa’s aunts’ plans and Tessa didn’t want to utilize yakuza cell phone minutes.

A harsh voice gave a short bark of laughter. “Still living with your mom, Tessa?”

Rita, one of the waitresses, approached them with two steaming bowls of ramen. Rita had always been jealous because Tessa’s close relationship with her uncle caused her to receive a kind of respect not typically given to women in the world of the yakuza. In contrast, Rita, the sister of one of the older yakuza members, had only received this waitressing job at Jerry’s restaurant. “It’s been what, four or five months? Still haven’t moved out yet?” Rita managed to say the innocuous line with a sneer in her voice.

Tessa reached out to oh-so-accidentally knock those bowls into Rita’s . . .

No. Tessa drew her hand back, blinking to clear her head. She had to control her temper better. She wasn’t that person anymore.

“Get back to work, Karissa,” Rita hissed, with a significant glance over Tessa’s shoulder. A couple had entered the restaurant while Karissa chatted with Tessa, they now stood waiting patiently just inside the glass doors. Tessa hadn’t even noticed.

Karissa gave her a small smile and turned to greet the new-comers. Rita wove through the tables to deliver her ramen bowls.

As Tessa headed through the main dining area toward the kitchen at the back, passing patrons in teakwood chairs, her heart started tap dancing. She’d met a new friend. Invited her to church. And in a few minutes, Jerry would crush her in a ginger-scented embrace, then sit her down with a bowl of ramen the size of a wok, stuffed with vegetables and his homemade noodles.

“Coming through!” Rita’s voice sounded almost at her shoulder.

Tessa jerked in surprise, and her elbow connected with something hard. Then the sound of a shattering clay bowl sliced through the buzz of restaurant patrons, and she felt a lash of pain against her ankles.

“Yow!” She grabbed her stinging leg and tried not to hop on her other one as she spied steaming liquid streaming through the grout in the floor tiles. Knowing her luck, she’d twist her knee and do a double back flip landing square on her behind. She side-stepped the river of noodles.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Rita hissed.

“I’m sorry.”

“You did that on purpose.”

Tessa’s temper snapped. “What is your problem? I have better things to do than waste calories making your life miserable.” Tessa’s raised voice sounded abnormally loud in the small

restaurant. Rita’s face paled. It was the same fearful look Tessa had seen

when fellow prisoners found out who she was and what she had done for her uncle. Rita’s reaction made Tessa realize her reputation as a bully hadn’t changed, even though she wasn’t working for her uncle anymore.

And that thought made her anger die away. Because she had changed. She wasn’t a bully anymore. And she needed to act like it.

“Let me help you clean up,” she said.

The normal restaurant noises rose again, although some patrons gave her sidelong looks. Tessa found a mop in the broom closet near the restrooms at the back of the dining area and started cleaning up the spilled ramen broth. Rita bent to pick up the clay bowl pieces, head down, but casting occasional glances her way — filled with fear.

It hurt.

“Got a new job so soon, Tessa?” The taunting voice shot adrenaline down Tessa’s spine and she snapped to attention. She whirled around to face her cousin Fred, Uncle Teruo’s son, striding through the restaurant like he owned it.

She had expected Fred to at least be obligated to come see her or talk to her in the three months she’d been out, yet this was the first he’d shown his face to her, and it looked like it was entirely by accident.

Fred had always hated her for being stronger, faster, and smarter than him. Then one night she discovered him panicked because he’d murdered his girlfriend. Because she knew her uncle would want her to, she’d taken the bloody knife and shouldered the blame for Fred’s crime.

Now her cousin owed her, but rather than gratitude, it made his hatred slice even deeper than before. That hatred glared out of his eyes as he stalked toward her.

Fred had always unfairly lashed out at her with his nasty temper, but Tessa had never let him get away with it. She wasn’t about to let him get away with it now.

She’d never been so grateful for her Caucasian father’s tall genes as she straightened and stared down at Fred’s beady eyes. He stopped a few feet from her, probably because he’d have to crick his neck to glare at her and that would just be embarrassing for him.

“Dealing with garbage suits you.” Fred’s lip curled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not after your day job.” Tessa smiled.

Her comment went over his head. “I don’t clean up messes.”

“No, I clean yours up for you.”

His neck reddened.  To think she’d gone to prison for this moldy tomato.

No, she hadn’t gone to prison for him. She’d gone to prison for his father.

She flashed him a smile. “Fred, do you have a point to make, for once in your life, or are you just here contaminating the air?”

She caught a few gasps from the quiet restaurant that had stopped to witness their tense conversation. She realized that because of what she’d done for him, she could freely insult this

rat dropping whereas others could not.

“You can’t speak to me that way,” he spat at her.

“I just did, you squashed slug.” And Fred knew that if he

touched her, she’d use his head to clean up the spilled ramen instead of the mop in her hand.

He sputtered. Fred didn’t have many brain cells devoted to quick comebacks. “You ex-convict.”

“What’s wrong, Freddy-weddy? If you’re going to insult the ex-convict, you better be prepared to take what you dish out.”

“Tessa, leave him alone.”

A commanding voice filled the restaurant even though he hadn’t raised his voice above its normal growl.

Rita and the other waiter scurried away, and patrons suddenly turned back to their meals, although the volume was barely half what it had been before. Subtly, the air became denser, as if blanketed by an invisible fog.

Not a fog. The presence of the man walking into his restaurant — one of several he owned — was more charged than a mere fog.

“Uncle Teruo.” Tessa stood her ground as he approached her, aware of Fred scuttling out of his father’s way like a cockroach. She dropped her eyes and bowed at the waist in a sign of respect.

He paused, acknowledging her greeting, then suddenly his large square palms were cupping her face, rough against her skin but tender in their touch, raising her gaze to meet his. His eyes, half-shadowed by eyelids puffy with age and responsibility, gleamed with the familiar tenderness that was like water to her parched soul. He shook her face gently, playfully, then drew her to him in a brief embrace. “How are you, Tessa?”

“I’m fine, Uncle,” she spoke into his suit jacket, breathing the familiar scent of his favorite brand of cigar. He had hugged her like this the day she’d been released, and the smell brought back that feeling of being free, of being home. Her fingers curled briefly on his back, then he straightened and stepped away.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked her.

Now those were the words she wanted to hear. “Nope.” There was that drool again, right on cue.

He turned her by the shoulders and pushed her ahead of him toward the kitchen, where Jerry was still blissfully unaware of the almost-fight between the niece and son of the San Francisco yakuza boss.

***

Tessa had thought Uncle Teruo’s arrival was something along the lines of a rescue from a fate worse than death, but now she wasn’t so sure. She felt a bit like she’d jumped from a wok into hibachi coals.

She’d gotten her hug from Jerry — today, more garlic-scented than ginger-scented—and her massive bowl of ramen, which was thankfully very garlic-scented.

Eating in Jerry’s office with Uncle Teruo sitting across the desk from her . . . not such a happy place.

Normally she loved talking with Uncle Teruo. Except not when he asked things like, “How are you feeling?”

Read: Up for anything more strenuous? Like something that involves beating the stuffing out of somebody?

“I’m doing fantastic now that I have this.” She indicated her bowl, peering through the steam at the floating bean sprouts. She wanted to say grace, but somehow saying grace in front of her sociopathic cellmates had been easier than saying grace in front of her Buddhist, gangster uncle.

“You’re still staying with your mom?”

Read: So I know where to find you if I want you to do something for me, especially anything involving breaking fingers.

Tessa nodded at the corner of a gigantic cube of tofu peeking out of her soup. “Until I can get a job and move out.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Maybe Uncle would get the hint . . .

That would be a no.

“What kind of job are you looking for?”

Read: I’m delighted you’re willing to return to the workplace, because I have the perfect job for you.

Inspiration struck for how to neatly avoid the question. “Uncle, hang on a second. I need to say grace.” She jerked her head down.

DearLordThankyouforthisfoodAmen.

“Grace? What grace? Who’s grace?” His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows lowered over his eyes.

Read: You don’t tell your uncle to “hang on.”

“I needed to pray before I could eat.” Tessa picked up her chopstick and the boat-shaped spoon. She took a magical sip of broth, ignoring the stinging heat, rolling the salty, savory goodness on her tongue before letting it slide down her throat, warming as it went down. She didn’t need crack — she had Jerry’s ramen.

“Are you done eating? I need to discuss things with you.”

Tessa froze with the noodles on her chopstick only inches from her mouth. She sighed and let them plop back into the soup. So much for the hoped-for casual chat, non-related to the work she’d done for him before getting arrested.

Uncle reached over and took her hand. “I want to say again, thank you for what you did.”

It took her a second to realize he was referring to Fred, to inserting herself under suspicion for his son’s crime seven years ago. Despite his humble words, the cool, dry skin of his palm lay heavy over her knuckles. “You’re welcome, Uncle,” she replied.

He released her and leaned back in Jerry’s chair. “I can give you a job.”

From anyone else, it would have been a generous, innocent offering. From Uncle Teruo, it carried the weight of a royal statement and deep undercurrents. “Uncle, I already explained this to you.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “You’re just worried. You’re too smart to get caught again.”

As opposed to Fred, who was stupid enough to have been wandering around with the bloody knife in his hand when Tessa found him that night. Fred would have folded under police questioning and led to trouble for Uncle if he’d actually been arrested.

“And I would not ask any more favors from you,” Uncle continued.

If she’d been eating, she would have snorted ramen noodles. That was a loaded promise. Uncle might not actually voice any requests for Tessa to take the heat for someone’s crime again, but the situation and Japanese sense of duty would compel her to offer to do it or be held in disfavor by the old-fashioned oyabun.

She wasn’t sure how to put this delicately, so she plunged full-steam ahead. “Uncle, I told you in my letters from prison and when I first saw you after I got out. I am a Christian now, and I’m trying to learn to love people, not break their kneecaps.”

His frown looked suspiciously like a pout. “I never asked you to break kneecaps.”

She rolled her eyes. “Unnnncleeeee ...” Her exasperation drew the word out into six syllables. “You know what I mean.”

He lifted a forefinger as a thought came to him. “Your cousin Ichiro became a ‘Christian,’ too, but he still works for me.”

Tessa rolled her eyes. “Itchy’s girlfriend grew up Episcopalian and has no idea what he does, so he went to church with her so he could get into her pants.”

He glowered at her. “Are you saying you’re going to church so you can . . .” His mouth worked silently while red stained his cheeks. “. . . with some boy?”

Tessa choked. “What? No.” This was not going the way she’d hoped. “I go to church because I’ve become a different person.” She’d been tempted to say better person, but the way her luck was going, Uncle would think she was insulting him and order a hit on her. Or just send Fred to poison her air space.

An indulgent smile hovered around his stern mouth. “This is new for you. Don’t be so hasty to make a complete life change until you know this is who you want to be.”

Three years as a Christian wasn’t long enough? Then again, she’d had only a few months as a Christian outside the prison walls, so maybe he was justified in thinking it might be a temporary thing.

Except it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t, with a knowledge deep in her gut, a knowledge deeper than the secret places of her heart. A knowledge that gave her both peace and strength to say, “Uncle, I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Be reasonable. What kind of job can you get?”

She mutinously glared at her cooled bowl of ramen. “I got my college degree in prison.” Psychology. It had fascinated her because she’d spent so much of her life reading the emotions and thoughts of the people she talked to on behalf of her uncle. She wasn’t exactly proud of what she could do—knowing when people were lying, what they were feeling, being able to manipulate their emotions—but she wanted to use that skill for helping people rather than making or collecting money for the yakuza.

Uncle Teruo’s face gentled. “You know that I believe you can do well at anything you set your mind toward, but with only a Bachelor’s in Psychology, there aren’t many jobs available. Plus . . .” He sighed. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that there aren’t many people who would hire an ex-convict, especially for any type of psychology job.”

She had known that even when studying for her degree. She just hadn’t really wanted to admit it to herself because her studies had been so fascinating and she hadn’t wanted to switch to a different degree program.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he said. “You haven’t had any job offers, have you?”

Telling her to stop being stubborn did what it usually did — made her completely pigheaded. “I have had offers. I just chose not to take them.”

“Oh? What?”

“A woman offered me a job as a bodyguard.”

“Paying how much?”

“Er . . . we didn’t discuss it.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . her assets are still being held by her husband, whom she ran away from because he was using her as a punching bag.”

“So she couldn’t pay you?” he said slowly. Uncle’s face had that expression that wondered where his niece’s brains had suddenly dribbled to.

“She said she’d pay me as soon as she got her money back. She called some family friend who was going to get her a really good lawyer.”

“I see.” He stared at her for a moment, eyebrows raised, mouth a thin line. “And you turned down this incredibly lucrative business deal because . . . ?”

She stared down at her soup bowl. “She has a three-year-old son. And I wasn’t sure about the kind of trouble I’d attract, considering what I used to do.”

“Your ruthlessness is what makes you an Ota,” he said proudly. “But it does collect some enemies.”

Only her uncle would praise her for her ability to cause physical pain.

Tessa had been sorely tempted to take Elizabeth up on her offer, especially after talking with Mina about her own bodyguard business, but she realized that it wasn’t fair to Elizabeth to saddle her with an even more dangerous person than her fist- flying husband. Tessa would rather try to find a legitimate job first and prove to the world that she was no longer working for her uncle. Once Tessa was off people’s radar, then she could protect her clients without bringing even more danger to them.

The old Tessa wouldn’t have cared who she put in harm’s way, but the new Tessa hopefully thought about other people more than she used to.

“And this is the only job offer you have?” Uncle Teruo asked. He settled back in his chair, the very picture of an uncle indulging his niece’s pipe dreams.

“I’m interviewing at OWA tomorrow,” she said.

“Didn’t you already apply to OWA?”

“Yes.” Twenty-two times. “So?”

“This is for another salesperson position?”

“Uh, no. Janitor.”

His brow darkened. “My niece is not a janitor.”

She was when even McDonald’s wouldn’t hire her. Maybe they thought she’d kill someone by flipping a burger in their eye. “It’s a foot in the door,” she said. “From there, I can get promoted. Outdoors and Wilderness Adventures is my favorite store.” Just the name made her want to smile.

He sighed heavily and opened his mouth to protest, but she said softly, “I really want this job, Uncle.” I really want to go legitimate.

He surprised her by reaching across to grasp her chin between his square fingers. “I miss having you around,” he said.

Tessa stilled. Uncle Teruo and his wife, Aunt Kayoko, had always given her more affection than Tessa’s own selfish mother and irritable sister. With Aunt Kayoko gone, Teruo was her family. She may not want to do illegal things anymore, but she couldn’t deny his hold on her heart. She knew that as long as she had him, she’d never feel alone.

“Uncle.” She swallowed. She hated denying him. “Please understand.”

“I do.” He sighed heavily. “I do. And I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you lunch.” He gestured to the soggy noodles in front of her. “Eat. I don’t want to be accused of starving my niece.”

He stood with stately grace. On his way to the office door, he paused as if suddenly remembering something. “You said you’re still staying with your mother?”

“Yes.” The tightness of her voice gave her away.

Uncle Teruo found that vastly amusing. He chuckled as he turned the door handle, he chuckled as he exited the office, and he was still chuckling as he turned in the doorway to lean into the office to tell her, “Six more months.”

“What?”

“You’ll come back to me begging for a job so that you can move out, because I know my sister. You won’t be able to live with Ayumi for longer than six more painful months. Have fun!” He shut the door with a soft click.

© 2011 Camy Tang

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I finished NaNoWriMo 2011!

2011-11-27T02:42:00.001-08:00

Comfort reading food

2011-11-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

(I also posted this over at Goodreads.com in case you wanted to join the discussion there.)

So here's a random question that occurred to me, so I thought I'd put it out there for you guys:

When you read, do you have "comfort food" you go for? Especially when you have a really good read?

I was thinking about this and realized that I have definite habits when it comes to my eating and reading.

I love enjoying tea with my reading, usually English style tea with milk and honey, but sometimes Japanese green tea (genmaicha, specifically).

I also love eating Sensible Portions Garden Veggie Straws while I read. In fact, I have a bag open right now! I get them from Costco and they're slightly lower in fat than potato chips, plus they're light and crispy. I used to like eating potato chips, but they tend to be too greasy after a while, whereas Veggie Straws are a bit lighter.

I also love reading while eating ramen or any type of soup, really. I set my book in front of my plate and read while eating. I know it's terrible to do that but when I have so many solitary meals, I've come to really look forward to my reading and eating ramen in the middle of the day. It used to be harder with paperback books, and I would use a book weight to keep the book open. But now I use my Nook and turning pages is just a touch to the screen.

I will especially turn to one of these three if the book I'm reading is REALLY REALLY GOOD! It's as if I want to milk maximum enjoyment from my time, so I combine a great story with food I love.

So do you indulge in comfort food while reading? What do you tend to do?

And for those of you already forming your Christmas wish lists:

Deep Fried Collard chips

2011-11-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.14.2011

I made collard chips yesterday, but it was because of the French fries.

I seriously love French fries. I go into withdrawal if I don’t have them once every two to three weeks or so. Captain Caffeine will actually go out and buy them for me when I start climbing up the walls.

(Incidentally, our favorites are from Yiassoo’s Greek restaurant, which for some reason has an awesome fryer and great fries, and also Kirk’s Steakburgers because their steak fries ROCK!)

We’ve gotten a lot of potatoes lately in our organic co-op, so I decided to make French fries. I got out my Fry Daddy and whipped up several batches a few times this past week.

I got so fry happy that I decided to try deep fried kale chips, which turned out absolutely completely AWESOME!!! Unfortunately I didn’t take pictures.

So then I thought I’d try collard greens and see how that tasted, and they turned out great too! They’re a bit more “green” tasting than the kale--the kale chips actually tasted a little sweet, maybe from caramelization. But the collard chips were just as crispy and tasty as the kale chips. Plus I had two huge bunches of collards and was thrilled to find a new way of eating them.

Deep Fried Collard Chips

1 bunch collard greens (One bunch of chopped collards (maybe 4 or 5 packed cups) yielded a large colander full of chips.)
Fry Daddy
Canola oil
Salt
Metal splatter screen
Metal deep frying strainer

Pour oil into the Fry Daddy up to the fill line on the inside and plug it in. Wait 15 minutes for it to heat up.

Wash collards and remove ribs. Pat dry as well as you can. Cut into about 2-inch squares.

Once those collards hit the hot oil, the water is going to make the oil boil and make a lot of noise and mess, so I put a metal splatter screen over my Fry Daddy. I load a metal deep frying strainer with chopped collards, then quickly lift up the splatter screen, dump the collards in the Fry Daddy and replace the splatter screen as fast as possible. The first time it happens, the boiling oil sounds massively scary, but you’re okay as long as you have the splatter screen on top.

Let it fry for about 1 minute.

Remove the collards into a metal colander set into a metal bowl to catch the dripping oil. Wait a little while for the chips to drip before sprinkling with salt, tossing with the metal strainer, and then moving the chips to a new bowl.

I wanted to know approximate nutritional value and guessed that kale/collard chips compare (oil-wise) to potato chips. One ounce of potato chips has 9.8 grams of fat, and since potatoes by themselves have no fat, I think it’s safe to guess that the fat is all from the frying. 9.8 grams of fat equates to 0.7 tablespoon of oil per ounce of potato chips.

Going by the potassium and carb levels, one ounce of potato chips equates to approximately 0.6 cup of raw potatoes.

So when I was adding the collard chips into my SparkPeople nutrition diary, I added 0.6 cup collards plus 0.7 tablespoon oil for every ounce of collard chips I ate, and I think it’s close enough.

Two ounces of collard chips ended up being approximately 190 calories, 3 grams of carbohydrates, 20 grams of fat, and 1 gram of protein.

Here is a collander of fried collard chips.

I removed the stems and ribs of the collard greens by folding them in half and then whacking the ribs off.

Here's my set up: Fry Daddy with the splatter screen over it, and next to it a metal colander seated in a metal bowl so the chips could drain. I also have a metal deep frying strainer in the colander for adding and removing the collards from the oil.

A close up of the draining collard chips.

A collard chip. It's very crispy.

And of course, Snickers was waiting with bated breath for droppage to occur.

What Kind of Reader Are You?

2011-11-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.10.2011

This is a post by Maureen Lang and it's hilarious but also totally true!

http://christiansread.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/what-kind-of-reader-are-you-posted-by-maureen-lang/

Over the years I’ve belonged to or visited a number of book clubs, which taught me there are many different reader styles. After posing this topic to my voracious-reader daughter, I decided to define the ones we’ve either been or encountered and list them here in no particular order. See if you can identify with any . . . or some . . .

Camy here: I think I'm several different types of readers, but I can relate to almost all of them. What type(s) are you?

Giving Kindle Books

2011-11-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

Captain’s Log, Stardate 11.09.2011

I’m over at the ChristiansRead blog with a question about Kindle/ebooks and used books and lending books!

http://christiansread.wordpress.com/2011/11/08/giving-kindle-books/

Join in the discussion!

Excerpt - Lakeside Reunion by Lisa Jordan

2011-11-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Lakeside Reunion
by
Lisa Jordan

Bed-and-breakfast owner Lindsey Porter prays she won't run into Stephen Chase when she returns to Shelby Lake. Five years ago, the cop jilted her to marry another woman, and Lindsey fled town. But no sooner does she hit city limits than Stephen pulls her over for a broken taillight. Despite the past, he's still able to stir up Lindsey's old feelings for him. Now a widower and single dad, Stephen recognizes a second chance when he sees one. And he'll do anything to make Lindsey trust in God and take a risk for love—again.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Any moment now, Lindsey could put the car in Drive, touch the gas pedal, drive past the green-etched Welcome to Shelby Lake sign and return to her past. Another hundred feet and she would be back.

Visitors traveled to the northwestern Pennsylvania lake-front community to get away. She escaped to put her life back together.

Center Street unfurled like black satin ribbon under a canopy of evergreens and multicolored maples and oaks that would take her right down memory lane. Past the elementary school where Mom taught kindergarten. Past Aunt Claire's sewing shop. Past Mrs. Lawson's pink-sided house with the plastic yard goose she dressed each holiday. Past the church where Lindsey almost said "I do."

Mom, why did you have to fall down the stairs?

Lindsey gripped the steering wheel, pressing her forehead against the powder-blue fuzzy cover. Maybe banging her head against it would knock some sense into her brain. She'd made promises that never, ever, not in a thousand years would she return to Shelby Lake.

But promises didn't account for widowed mothers who might slip on a dirty sock on the stairs to the laundry room.

Next to her, on the seat of her friend's borrowed Taurus, her cell phone chimed. She read the display. Perfect—Granddad checking in. He probably expected her to hedge at the city limits, weighing the pros and cons.

Like for the past half hour.

She answered the call. "I'm on my way, really."

"No doubt in my mind, sweetness. Your mama's been taken to X-ray. She's asking for that quilt—you know, the one with all those circles—off the recliner near the davenport. Could you pick it up on your way?" Granddad's voice betrayed an edge of stress—playing family watchdog for the past five years whittled any visible panic from his voice. "Can you hurry?"

"Yes…sure. I'll be there in about twenty minutes or so." She ended the conversation and clenched the phone.

Quilt with circles, Granddad had said. The wedding ring quilt on the recliner near the couch. Dad's recliner. Closing her eyes, she could picture him sitting there—feet crossed at the ankles, hands tucked behind his head. An ache pinched her chest. But she would do it. For Mom.

She imagined her mother, fragile, her eyes wide with pain, maybe even fear as she lay puddled at the bottom of the stairs, or trying to drag her broken body toward a phone. If Lindsey hadn't swept the Shelby Lake dust off her feet, she might have been there. Might have heard her cry out. Or rather, might have been the one carrying the laundry downstairs.

She glanced at the sign again and released a loud sigh. Okay, so the town had fewer than five thousand people. Entering city limits didn't guarantee she'd see him. Or his son. Or run smack into the humiliation of being left at the altar.

It felt that way. Come on, who calls off a wedding a week before the big day?

Still. No one really lived down being jilted for another woman. Especially when they married within a month of her broken engagement. She couldn't stand the looks of pity that would follow her like a stray pup.

Can you hurry?

She'd grab the quilt, pop into the hospital to check on Mom, make sure someone from the church signed up to serve meals and then head back to her small country inn in Maple Valley.

Where she belonged.

In, out, fast, simple, and with any luck she wouldn't bump into the man who had left her heart in pieces, scattered across Shelby Lake.

Clouds resembling curdled milk smudged the morning horizon. Raindrops pinged her windshield in a lazy-Sunday-afternoon manner. A sliver of sunlight sliced through the tree limbs, over the rooftops of the houses lined up like first graders, beckoning her, calling her to come closer.

If she didn't do it now, she'd end up putting her car in Reverse and making the two-hour return trip to Maple Valley without looking back. But she couldn't disappoint Mom. Not this time.

She shifted into Drive and checked for traffic. None, of course. She had just coasted over the county line into Shelby Lake when she heard the blip of a siren.

What—?

A cruiser pulled up behind her.

Seriously? She was barely moving, let alone speeding.

Putting the car into Park, Lindsey dragged her fingers through her hair and rested her elbow against the door.

Maybe the officer would be one of the older guys. One of Dad's buddies.

Please, God.

She used to have the entire force on her Christmas card list, but, life had taken a detour the morning her father had been shot during a routine traffic stop and died a couple of hours later. And a girl had a right to close the door on a chapter of her life and start over, right?

The door to the cruiser opened. Lindsey squinted in the rearview mirror to see if she recognized the officer. With his head turned, she saw only dark hair cut above his collar. He paused to talk into his radio.

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Come on. Come on."

He approached the car. She leaned over to scrounge through napkins and ketchup packets in the glove compartment for the vehicle registration and insurance card. Of course her car—a silver convertible that she would have preferred driving for this foray into her past—sat in the shop, getting the brakes replaced.

A girl should have at least a month's notice before she returned to her former life—lose those extra five pounds, get her hair cut, a decent manicure and definitely get her hard-earned sporty wheels detailed.

Still, Rita's ancient beater had saved her hide. And again, it wasn't as if she'd run into anyone she knew.

A rap on the driver's window sent her heart skidding. Lindsey cranked the window open with one hand while trying to free her driver's license out of its plastic holder with the other. A rain-scented breeze frisked her cheek.

"What's the matter, Officer?" Eyes glued on her wallet, she tried, oh, how she tried, to keep the annoyance from her voice. "I was barely moving."

"Ma'am, did you know your left taillight is out?"

Oh. She'd turned her lights on during the rainstorm. Busted. "The car's not mine. Belongs to a friend."

"I need to see your driver's license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance, please."

For the first time, she heard, really heard, the voice. Deep, with threads of humor around the edges, and the finest sense of control. A man of patience, of honor.

She closed her eyes. Really, God?

He was so not on her side.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, just a minute." Stephen. Or maybe Officer Stephen Chase. She ground her teeth, focusing on the fake pine-tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

"Stephen." His name slid out as a strangled whisper. Then, because she had to, she hazarded a look. And yes, God certainly knew how to spear her in the heart, because if possible, Stephen had only become more handsome.

Apparently that's what marriage and fatherhood did to a man.

Clearly five years wasn't enough to get over those blueberry-colored eyes, that dark, wavy, run-her-hands-through-it hair, the devastating cleft in his chin. His smile belonged in an ad for men's cologne. And still managed to send her heart into a tailspin.

Now, he just roamed about in her dreams, in the hours between waking and sleeping when she had no defenses.

Lindsey squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. Just to make sure. Nope, he hadn't been a figment of her imagination.

Stephen's eyes had widened even as his mouth dropped open. Good. She shouldn't be the only one squirming here.

Unfortunately, he recovered more quickly. "Lindsey Porter. It's been what? At least five years?"

"Something like that." Five years, two months and three days, if someone bothered to count.

"This is not your vehicle." He stood with hands on his lean hips and feet shoulder-width apart.

"I believe I mentioned that." She refrained from adding

"Captain Obvious." No need for sarcasm. He was only doing his job.

Because, you know, apprehending hardened taillight-defying criminals would certainly solve the world's problems. Or find her father's killer.

"Mine's in the shop. Borrowed this from my assistant manager."

He nodded and then crossed his arms over his chest. The stretched navy fabric of his uniform emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. She averted her eyes.

ABBA came on the radio, belting out "Take a Chance on Me."

Lindsey flicked off the radio. So not going to happen.

"I should probably give your friend a ticket. It's dangerous to drive around without taillights—especially in weather like this. You just missed a downpour that came through here. What if the cars behind you couldn't see you slowing down or turning?"

"What cars? And no, I didn't miss it—drove through it, thank you. Without an accident, even. Imagine that."

He stared at her, and she seemed to see the words linger outside of her body, as if she wasn't sure where they came from. In the wake of her sarcasm she wanted to slink into her seat, maybe climb under it.

His cheery demeanor vanished. "I'm serious."

She blew out a breath, staring at her whitened knuckles clenching the steering wheel. Schooled her voice. "Sorry. Look, I know. I'll be sure to let Rita know, okay? Write me a ticket or whatever, but please hurry. I have to go. It's an emergency."

Suddenly she needed her mother.

"If you were in such a hurry, why did you idle near the sign for the last thirty minutes?"

"You were watching me?" She fought to keep the squeak out of her voice. She didn't expect any spectators while she psyched herself up to cross the county line. Should have known better.

"Someone called in suspicious activity. I had to check it out." He frowned, but the hard set of his jaw relaxed. "What kind of emergency?"

Blinking back sudden, crazy tears, Lindsey forced herself to hold Stephen's gaze. "Mom. She fell down the stairs and broke her leg."

Stephen relaxed his stance, rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and softened his tone. "Linds, I'm sorry. That's tough. How can I help?"

How could he help? How about making sure she didn't run into him the first twenty-four hours she was in town? How about picking up the pieces of her broken heart, pasting them back together? How about telling her that he'd been wrong for choosing Bethany over her?

No, she didn't want that. Not anymore, at least.

"Let me go so I can get to the hospital." And out of Shelby Lake as fast as possible.

He stepped back, nodding. She waited a moment for a "nice to see you" or even "want to get a cup of coffee?" But it didn't come.

It would never come.

Because some things simply couldn't be fixed.

Stephen jammed himself behind the wheel of the cruiser. Thunking his head against the headrest, he groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face.

The life he put back together piece by piece during the past five years scattered like Ty's bucket of Legos with a single glimpse of her.

Seeing Lindsey stole his breath. He expected a middleaged woman driving the late '80s blue Ford Taurus. Not his former fiancée.

Wow. She looked amazing. Time had only done her favors. Her hair still looked like the sunrise over the lake, and how he longed to touch it. Weave it through his fingers. It was shorter, although he liked it above her shoulders. Made her look less like a teenager, more like a woman. A woman who hated him. He needed to keep that fact in the center of his thoughts.

The police band chattered in the background, reminding him to radio dispatch and let them know he was back in service. But he tuned it out for a minute. He needed to regroup—force his hands to stop shaking and bring his thudding heart under control. A cold sweat slicked his face. He lowered the window. The crisp breeze fanned his clammy skin.

His cell phone vibrated against his hip. He released it from the belt holster and glanced at the display. His sister.

He flipped it open. "Hey, Mel. What's up?"

"Stephen, why are you answering your phone? You're on duty."

"Uh, you called me?"

"An eye for detail, as always."

"Mel…"

"Okay, okay. Listen, I didn't expect to talk to you. I mean, I called, but I figured I'd get your voice mail. Nate and I are grilling tonight. With friends. Why don't you and Ty join us?"

"Which friends? It's supposed to rain tonight."

"The patio is covered. Bring a sweatshirt. Oliver and Amy are coming. And, well, Ginger, a new girl in our morning Bible study who could use someone to show her around."

"Isn't there a church rule that says pastors' wives are forbidden to torture their brothers with their not-so-subtle matchmaking schemes?"

"Hey, I'm not doing anything of the sort."

"Leave the matchmaking to the Tea Grannies, Mel." He referred to the group of five ladies in his church who felt it was their God-gifted mission to make sure the singles in the church were paired up—whether they wanted to be or not.

"I just thought…well, it's been almost a year."

"Forget it. Not. Interested." Knowing she was only trying to help, he softened his tone so he didn't sound so much like a jerk. "Thanks, anyway. I need to get back to work."

"Well, stop by and grab something to eat."

"Maybe." He hesitated, not sure if he should say anything yet, but she'd find out soon enough. "Hey, Mel. Uh, Lindsey's back in town."

"What? When? How do you know?"

"Someone called in a lurker down by the welcome sign. Had to check it out. Turned out to be Lindsey. Apparently Grace Porter fell and broke her leg."

"You've seen her. Oh, Stephen…I'm so…How are you doing? I mean, seeing her must have been…wow, like a total shock or something."

"That would be the understatement of three lifetimes. Listen, I really have to go. Call Ma, will you? I'm sure she'll want to know about Grace."

"Yeah, sure. As soon as Nate's done with his sermon prep, we'll head to the hospital to check on Grace. Maybe I can catch Lindsey. Call me later if, you know, you want to talk or anything."

Stephen snapped the phone shut and dropped it on the seat beside him.

Life couldn't be easy, could it?

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Lisa is holding a scavenger hunt and lakeside photo contest to promote her Lakeside Reunion release. Plus, blog commenters on the blog hop will be put in a drawing for fun prizes—breakfast basket, Love Inspired Authors basket, autographed copies of Lakeside Reunion. Visit her Lakeside Reunion Contest page for more information.

The token for this blog is a cup of tea.

Protection for Hire available as an ebook galley on NetGalley!

2011-11-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Captain’s Log, Stardate 11.02.2011

For those of you who don’t mind reading ebooks, an ebook galley copy of my December release, Protection for Hire, is up on NetGalley!

NetGalley is free to join, and once you do you can request to read Protection for Hire. You can read it on your computer, Nook, Kindle, and I think Kobo readers, too.

I hope you enjoy Protection for Hire! Please post a review on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, Christianbook.com, and Goodreads.com!