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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!

 

 

 

 

After working several years as research chemist, Paula Wiseman was blessed with the opportunity to stay home with her children and follow the writer’s path. Her bestselling Covenant of Trust Series, including Contingency, Indemnity and Precedent was recognized by Indie Excellence Awards, a Readers Favorite Gold, and Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and featured on Lifetime Television. When she isn’t working on new projects, Paula blogs on matters of life and faith at www.paulawiseman.com.
Visit the author’s website.

Doug Bolling lost his wife of twenty years just as their stormy marriage was beginning to thrive, and he bitterly blames God. He tries to reconnect with his son, but it seems Mark is only interested if the relationship comes wrapped in religion. Mark claims he’s just following God when he moves his family, including Doug’s grandsons, further away, first to pastor, then to attend seminary. With frustrated resignation, Doug turns his attention to building a new life and a new home for himself and interior designer, Cassandra Grayson. The conflict erupts as Mark is preparing to leave for the mission field in Kenya. He delivers an ultimatum, cutting off all contact between his kids and their grandfather. God may have ripped away his wife and his son, but Doug draws the line at his grandchildren. Mark’s attempt to force him to choose between the woman he loves and the grandkids he adores, drives Doug to one fateful desperate act, even if it means destroying his relationship with his son.

 

Product Details:

List Price: $15.99

Paperback: 390 pages

Publisher: Mindstir Media (July 12, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0985365099

ISBN-13: 978-0985365097

ISLAND BREEZES

This book has a collection of dysfunctional families.  These people love each other, but don’t really have a clue as to how to show that love.

They try to reach out to one another, but don’t really know how to go about doing it.  Eventually they get tired out by the process.

Even as they go about building new lives for themselves, there’s a lack of peace and comfort.  Can one really build a close relationship when separated by continents and oceans?

this is a good read as you watch the struggles play out.  The ending may surprise you.  Be prepared to wait anxiously for the next installment.  You’ll get a little teaser at the end.  Decisions have been made and I don’t really want to wait to find out what’s going to happen.

 
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Thursday, July 29

Doug Bolling clutched the small bag of cookies in his left hand. His right hand rested on the door handle to his wife’s hospital room. No matter how many times he’d done this, it never got any easier.

He took a deep breath, pushed the door open slowly, and stepped inside. Images flickering across the screen of the muted television gave the room its only light. Judy’s eyes fluttered open as he got closer, and she gave him her best smile. “Hey, Babe,” he whispered, and leaned down to kiss her, wishing her cheeks were still full with the almost babyish roundness they used to have.

“You just missed the doctor.” She pulled at the bedrails and managed to prop herself up.

“There was a line at Schnuck’s.” He held the bag up for her to see.

“What’d you bring?” She stretched her arm forward, revealing her narrow wrists. Would she have enough strength to hold the bag?

“Those cookies. The white chocolate and macadamia nut ones.”

“Bless your heart.”

She labored to open the bag, and he fought the urge to do it for her.

She inhaled deeply. “They smell wonderful. I can’t wait to have one.”

“Why can’t you have one now?”

“I’m not hungry yet. I’d rather be hungry.”

“You want me to set them on the table?”

“No, I want them close.” She held out her hand, and he cradled it in his. “Almost as close as I want you.”

“So what’d the doctor say?”

Her smiled faded and she hesitated. Not good. “He’s sending me home, Doug.”

Home. Not “home” home. Home to die. “There’s not anything—?”

She shook her head. “He suggested some, uh, some hospice care providers.”

“How, how much—” He swallowed and tried again. “How much time?”

Her gentle smile returned. “He’s too slippery to give me anything definite. Christmas is probably, I mean, Christmas was his best-case estimate. He said I should think in terms of weeks . . . not months. I’m sorry.”

The grief in her eyes tore at him most of all. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I hate for you to have to go through this.”

“Me? Don’t worry about me. I’m a tough guy.”

“The toughest,” she said, and he felt the slightest squeeze. “I have a request.” She raised her eyes to his. “I want to be the one to tell Mark.”

He nodded. She’d do it better than he would anyway. He hooked his boot around the leg of the bedside chair and dragged it closer without ever letting go of her hand. Home. Hospice. Christmas. They knew it was close. But hearing it, having a doctor pronounce that . . .”Are you afraid?” He hoped she’d say yes, because he was terrified.

“No. I don’t have any pain, really.”

“I mean to die.” He regretted the words as soon as he heard himself say them. He shifted in the chair. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he mumbled.

“It won’t be as frightening if we talk about it.”

Which meant she knew he was terrified, so she would pretend she was, too. “But you’re not scared.”

“You remember when you asked me to marry you?”

“Like it was yesterday. I think it was just yesterday.”

“Seems like it. My parents were so worried. All they could see was this punk who barely graduated high school.”

“They still see that.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand again. “They never heard you say that you’d take care of me, and that you’d never, ever leave me.” She twisted and pulled herself up a little straighter. “I know this makes no sense to you, but God’s made those same promises to me, so I’m not afraid. I trusted you. I trust Him.”

He dropped his head and hoped she couldn’t see his jaw clench in the low light. The God she trusted was a fairy tale, a happy story to help her sleep better at night. A real God, a good God wouldn’t kill a wife and mother in the prime of her life.

“I see that line of discussion is a dead end.”

He smiled at the spark of attitude. “I’m glad your, uh, your faith helps you.”

“I wish it helped you.”

“It does. When I see you optimistic and brave and—” He had to look away again. If he didn’t shut up, he’d lose it in front of her. “So where’s that doctor? I need to get you out of here.”

*******

For Mark Bolling, three-thirty was the best part of the day, and his favorite thing about working for Bolling Developers. He didn’t hate construction work exactly, even though he missed the air conditioning at his grandfather’s car dealership. His dad was rarely on-site and the guys were okay to work with. He liked being able to see progress when he left every day.

His mother smiled with quiet approval any time he mentioned working for his dad. That was the main reason he was doing it. Plus, it was her idea. Right after she got sick last summer, she suggested—no, insisted—he ask his dad for a job. His father said, “So help me, if you pull an attitude and embarrass me, you’ll wish you were shoveling horse barns for a living. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

“You need work boots. Pack your own lunch and be ready to leave by six-thirty in the morning.”

That was his orientation talk.

The first two days she was in the hospital this time around, it looked like this was her last trip, but she rallied once more. He planned to grab a quick shower then spend the evening there with her.

His father’s truck was in the driveway. That meant his parents were home—both of them. They’d sent her home. Great!

The stillness in the house sucked that optimism right out of him. He walked as carefully and quietly as his clunky, steel-toed boots would allow, checking the living room and the kitchen. Outside? He peeked out the back door and saw his dad fussing with the charcoal grill.

Charcoal. The guy was a million-dollar-a-year homebuilder, but he was too cheap for a gas grill. Not only that, they still lived in the same three-bedroom place he built the first year Bolling Developers was in business, and he still drove the pick-up truck he bought that year.

Mark slipped off his boots and left them by the back door, then he took the stairs two at a time, doubly anxious to talk to his mother. He heard the television. Hopefully that meant she was awake. He knocked gently as he pushed the door open. “Mom?”

“Mark? Is it that late already?” Her voice was soft, but her eyes shone. She reached for the remote and clicked off the television set. “Come and sit with me and tell me about your day.”

“I’d rather hear about yours.” He eased himself down onto the edge of the bed.

“Oh, it was about what I expected.” She tugged at the sleeve of her warm-up jacket, pulling it toward her wrist. The sicker she got, the more athletic her preferred attire became. She thought the bulky clothes hid things better. She was mistaken.

Her eyes fluttered, hardly daring to rest on his. “I shouldn’t have to go back.”

“No more treatments?” he asked, knowing exactly what that meant.

She shook her head. “The doctor said . . . well . . . his primary concern from here on out . . . is that I’m comfortable.”

Here on out. The death sentence. The air in the room thickened until it was like trying to breathe syrup. Hot, smothering syrup.

She put a hand on his knee and winked with an impish grin. “I can have all the morphine I want.”

He had to smile at her. “How did . . . ?” Mark swallowed hard and wiped his eyes. “How’s Dad?”

Her smile faded. “That’s what hurts me. Watching him.” She smoothed the comforter. “He’s so lost. He needs you more than he will ever admit, more than he understands even.”

His father didn’t need anyone, least of all him. “Excuse my cynicism.”

She took his hand and spoke with urgency. “I want you to remember this when I—” She shook her head gently. “Your dad, he carries everything inside, and he’s going to need someone he can vent to. Someone who can take it.”

“You mean someone to yell at?”

“Yell at, yell to. It’s all the same to him.”

“Then I’ve been there for him for years.”

“I’m not explaining this right,” she said. “There’s much more to your dad than the blustering guy in the hardhat. Give him a chance. Be patient and he’ll come around. Promise me you will.”

“Have you given him this speech?” he asked, carefully avoiding the promise.

“Not yet. He’s on my schedule.” She smiled. “If only I could have a few more years with him.” She blinked away her own tears. “He just needs someone who will love him.”

She wanted, expected, him to be the one—a worshipful son to take the place of the smitten wife. He was in so much trouble.

*******

Doug sat at the kitchen table sorting through the latest stack of bills. Doctor, doctor, hospital, ambulance, radiology. What a mess. He wrote check after check, stuffed them in the envelopes, and dropped the keep this portion in the box at his feet. He didn’t have time for this. He should be in there with Judy. Christmas. Christmas was only five months away. He couldn’t be ready in five months.

If she didn’t eat any more than she did today, he didn’t see how she could last that long. She used to have this metabolism most people would give anything to have. She could eat whatever she wanted, and still keep a cheerleader’s figure. He teased her about out-eating him.

She was never what anyone would call beautiful. Judy was cute. Petite and youthful, she never seemed to age. She’d never let herself get old, she said. Terminal cancer took care of that for her.

Mark strode into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cabinet. “She’s asleep.” The teenager got a two-liter bottle from the refrigerator and it hissed loudly when he twisted off the cap. “You want a Coke or something?”

“No.” Doug laid down his pen and pushed his chair back from the table. He’d dreaded this conversation all day, especially the part where he’d ask the center of the universe to relinquish his position. “Listen, I think you need to sit out this semester coming up.”

“Why?” Mark gulped the Coke, then set the glass on the counter, clinking it against the sink.

“Really? I have to explain this to you? Your mother is dying, Mark. It’ll be a miracle if she lives past Christmas. Don’t you think you belong here with her instead of some frat house somewhere?”

“I’m not even gonna respond to that.”

Doug had seen the same condescending sneer on Judy’s face more times than he cared to remember.

“Mom specifically said not to drop out of school. She told me to go on with my life.”

“I bet she did,” Doug muttered.

“Fine! You want me to stay home? I’ll stay.”

“Oh no. I’m not taking the blame for bullying you into dropping out of college.”

“You bully me into everything else.”

“And Mommy always rescues you, doesn’t she?”

“Again, I’m not going to respond. You’re just ranting at me, and I’ve learned not to try to reason with you when you’re like this.”

“I’m unreasonable?”

“Right now, yes.”

Doug jerked himself out of the chair and stood inches away from his son. The boy, the man now, straightened himself until he stood half a head taller than Doug, with a look of annoyed indifference he inherited directly from Judy’s father.

Then Doug stopped himself. He waved his hand and stepped back. Mark couldn’t understand, and he didn’t have the strength or the words to explain it.

“Go ahead and say it, Dad.”

This time it wasn’t a challenge. Mark was inviting him, the way Judy did. Maybe the long talks with his mother were paying off. Maybe he was listening.

“Just . . . you better pray to that God of yours that you never have to stand by and watch your wife . . . watch her go through something like this.”

“He’s your God, too.”

“I have no God.”

“That’s your problem.”

*******

Tuesday, August 3

“What do you think you’re doing?” Doug leaned against the kitchen doorframe, his arms crossed against his chest as he watched his wife rummage through the kitchen cabinets.

“Making your dinner.” Judy hugged a skillet close to her body.

“You have no business—” He gently took the skillet from her hand and set it on the counter.

She huffed like an angry teenager. “Will you please, please, let me do as much as I can for as long as I can?”

“But you shouldn’t be wasting your energy—”

“It’s not wasting it if I’m doing what I enjoy.”

“You enjoy making my dinner? Since when?”

She pulled the skillet toward the stovetop. “All right, all right. There have been times when making dinner was not my favorite thing.”

“Like the first nineteen years of our marriage,” Doug teased.

“Get out the spaghetti, smart aleck.”

“That’s more like it.” He handed her the box of pasta and watched her brown the ground beef. He wasn’t joking, though. She had begrudged everything she did for him until she got sick.

“You know, this reminds me of the time we were at Disney World and Mickey or Goofy or somebody sat down beside Mark and begged for his spaghetti.” She smiled as she stirred. “He wouldn’t walk close to the characters any more after that. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“Oh, sure you do. Mark was about . . . five . . .”

“Judy, I wasn’t there. You and your parents took Mark. I couldn’t get away.”

“Or wouldn’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

She sighed with a heavy sadness. “Why did we treat each other that way for so long?”

“We were young. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

“I was selfish, Doug.” She struggled to pull a heavy pot from the cabinet, so he steadied it for her. “I married you because it infuriated my father.” She slid the pot into the sink and turned the water on. “You deserved a woman who loved you for you.”

“I have one.”

“But I’m not gonna be around to finish the job.” She turned off the faucet and held out a hand. He slipped in beside her and put an arm around her waist. She was so thin now. “Can you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For being such a horrible wife.”

“That’s crazy.” He dropped his hand and stepped away. “You were, I mean, are, you are a perfect wife.”

“Now who’s crazy.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and he smiled. “I know better.”

“At least we had the last couple of years when things were good. Some people don’t have that.”

“It has been good, hasn’t it?”

He nodded and lifted the pot from the sink, then set it on the stove for her. “I think we both learned what was really important.”

“I learned what love was. I couldn’t give you what I didn’t have.”

Doug braced himself. He recognized the set-up for another Christianity commercial from her.

She wrinkled her brow at him. “All right. I won’t say anything else.”

“No, say it. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid between us.”

She faced him and spoke with urgency. “You’re a good man, Doug. You’ve made your own way. You work hard, and you have great integrity. I love all those things about you.”

He smiled, trying to diffuse the heaviness in the moment. “Tell me more.”

“Those things aren’t going to be good enough. The only thing, the only thing that scares me is an eternity without you. Mark finally came around, and I pray every day you will, too . . . and I pray I’ll get to see it.”

He saw the tears in her eyes, and guilt washed over him. Why couldn’t he simply say he believed whatever she wanted him to, make her happy, let her have peace these last few months?

Because he couldn’t lie to her.

“Babe, here’s how it looks to me. God . . . I don’t trust Him. He could fix all this and He won’t. He’s holding out.”

“But He’s not like that!”

“Not to you.”

“Let me find somebody who can explain things better than I can—”

“I don’t want to talk about it with somebody else. I only talk about it with you because—”

“Because I’m dying. You’re patronizing me.”

“I’m not patronizing you. I’m trying to be supportive.” He sighed deeply at the hurt in her eyes. “Just save your religion talk for Mark.”

“You hate that, too.”

“I don’t. ” He turned his back to her, paced away, and took a deep breath. If she saw his eyes, she’d know he was lying.

“You resent every minute I spend with him.”

It was a soft declaration, not an accusation, but she still knew how to cut into his very soul. He faced her again. “Can we compromise on this?”

“Can we?” The light in her eyes faded, and her hair seemed to gray before his eyes. She’d spent all her energy on him.

“Talk about your religion, your faith. Tell me all about it, but I don’t want to hear how much I need it. No hard sells, no sob stories, nothing.”

“And you won’t give Mark a hard time?”

“Mark and I will be fine.”

*******

Wednesday, September 22

Mark met his father at the top of the stairs outside his mother’s room, and to his utter surprise, his dad held out a hand. Mark shook it as grieving fear took hold of him. “Is she . . . ?”

“They said it was a matter of days now.” His father glanced back toward the door. “She’s on a lot of medication. She’s kind of in and out.”

Mark nodded. “You tell her I was coming?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t want me to call you. Afraid your schoolwork would suffer.”

As if he had anything more important to do.

“I’m gonna grab her a glass of water and throw a load of her things in the laundry. Did you get the mail on your way in?”

“It’s on the table.”

“Thanks.” His dad stepped around him and headed down the stairs.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“We’ll get through this.”

His father shook his head and shuffled into the kitchen.

Mark pushed the bedroom door open, and his breath caught when he saw his mother, ashen-faced and motionless, propped up against a pillow. “Mom?”

“Mark? It’s not Friday, is it?”

“No, it’s Wednesday.”

“Your dad doesn’t listen.” She managed a smile.

“I’m glad he called me.”

She reached for his hand. “Your dad, he reads my Bible to me. I wish you could hear him.” Her eyelids drooped until they were only half open. “It’s the most beautiful thing. Mark.” She let out a dreamy sigh. “Would you let him read at your wedding?”

“My wedding?”

“You’re still dating the preacher’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You love her?”

“I do.”

“See, you’re already practiced up on the ‘I do.’” She smiled again and rolled her eyes to look at him. “Don’t wait, Mark. Don’t wait until you’re older . . . or you’re more settled . . . or you have more money. There are no guarantees.”

“Mom, it’s a little—”

She managed another smile. “Your dad doesn’t know about her, does he?”

“It’s not like I’m trying to keep it a secret. It just never seemed like the right time to bring it up.”

“Practice then. Tell me about her. Tell me what you love about her.” She settled back against her pillow, her eyes drooping shut again.

“Um, well . . . She’s, uh, she’s pretty, of course, and smart. She listens to me.”

His mother nodded slightly. “Mmmm. You need that. Men need that. They need someone who believes in them . . . then they can do anything.”

“Did you believe in Dad?”

“Not like I should have. Look what’s he’s accomplished in spite of it. What if I’d been what he needed? What could he have done?” She reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. Her fingers were soft and cool. “With, uh, tell me her name again.”

“Julie. Julie Hammell.”

“With Julie behind you, there’ll be no stopping you. I wish I could have met her. I’m sure she’s wonderful.”

Mark smiled and nodded. “She is.” Julie Hammell was his ticket to respectability, acceptance, and purpose, and it didn’t hurt that she was crazy about him. “Does Dad know you want him to read?”

“He promised me today.”

“You pick out the passage?”

“First John, chapter four. Where it talks about love, God’s love for us. He read it today.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “‘There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out all fear.’ It was beautiful. He has a beautiful voice . . . and he read it slow so he didn’t stumble.”

“Are you getting tired? I should let you rest.”

“No, stay. I have one for you too.”

“Something to read at my wedding?”

“No, a promise. I want you to make me a promise.” She squeezed his hand weakly again. “Promise me you won’t give up on him. Promise you’ll make sure your dad becomes a believer.”

“Mom, I can’t. He has to make that decision.”

“You have to tell him. You have to. It’s like in Ezekiel. You’re the watchman. If you don’t tell him . . . if he dies in his sins, Mark, we’re accountable. Maybe not responsible, but . . . Please tell me you won’t let that happen. I have nightmares—”

“I won’t, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” How could he not promise?

She relaxed against her pillow, apparently exhausted, and guilt closed off his throat. He couldn’t make his dad become a believer. He’d just lied to his mother on her deathbed.

“Talk to me,” she said without opening her eyes. “I love hearing you. I’m listening.”

Mark talked about his classes, his homework, the drive home, whatever he could think of, but the promise hung in the back of his mind. I’ll take care of it. How?

The more he talked, the more each word came with a keen awareness of every breath she took. If she passed without his father there at her side . . . God help them all.

*******

Friday, September 24

Doug rubbed his eyes and shifted in his chair. In the pale early morning light he squinted, trying to make sure Judy was still breathing. Finally, he reached his hand to her chest. It rose and fell in a slow, shallow rhythm. That reassurance was costly. Now he was afraid to pull his hand away for fear he’d miss the last one.

Ellen and Russell Carson had passed the night with him here, hovering over their only daughter. Of course they belonged here, had a right and a need to be here, but Doug hated it. When Ellen slipped out to get a quick shower, at least Russ left to make coffee, giving Doug these precious few moments alone with Judy.

“You’ve never answered anything I’ve ever asked,” he whispered. “But . . . I’ll do . . . anything. Or take me instead . . . Just . . . Don’t . . . You can fix this. I read those stories to her, I know what You can do . . . I need her. Take anything else of mine . . . Just not—”

Judy drew in two quick breaths and opened her eyes. “Doug?”

“I’m right here.” He slipped his hand around hers. “Right here.”

“I love you.” She labored to draw the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Mark . . . ?”

“He’s down the hall. He’ll be right here.”

“Were Mom and Dad . . . ?”

He nodded. “Your mom’s down in our bathroom getting a shower and your dad’s making a pot of coffee. They’ve been here the whole time.”

She closed her eyes. “You need . . . that.”

“Need what? Coffee?” he asked, daring to tease her in this moment.

She blinked slowly in place of a smile. “I heard . . . you pray.”

He felt himself flush with the shame of desperation. “I don’t think it did any good.”

“I pray . . . for you . . . and Mark. You need . . .”

You, he wanted to say. I need you, Judy.

“You need someone . . . someone who deserves to have you.” She squeezed his hand. “You . . . I love you. We will meet again. I have that peace.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can let go. You’ll . . .” Her hand relaxed, and everything inside Doug Bolling died.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

Robbie Cheuvront is the worship/associate pastor and an elder of The Journey Church in Lebanon, TN, and cofounder of C&R Ministries with Erik Reed. He is also a songwriter and formerly tour with BNA recording artists, Lonestar who is best known for their crossover smash, “Amazed”, which was #1 on Billboard Magazine’s Hot 100. The band also won 1999 ACM’s Single of the Year” for “Amazed” as well as ACM’s Song of the Year award. Robbie is married to Tiffany and has two children, Cason and Hadyn, and is currently pursuing a theology degree.

Visit the author’s website.

Erik Reed is the lead pastor and an elder of The Journey Church in Lebanon, TN. He graduated from Western Kentucky University with a BA in Religion Studies. He also graduated with his MDiv from Southern Seminary. Erik is married to Katrina, with two children, Kaleb and Kaleigh.

 

When former black ops specialist turned CIA operative Jonathan Keene is summoned to the White House, he’s not sure what to expect. And neither does FBI agent Megan Taylor. Together they learn they’ll be working with a former military chaplain Boz Hamilton to track down a man claiming to bear a message from God about the imminent downfall of the United States. As the three of them traverse the country and the globe in search of the Prophet, they’re led deeper down a path of deception and dead ends. Suddenly they’re called to join a battle against an enemy no one saw coming. As the US is pushed into a situation it hasn’t seen since its inception, a conflict awaits that will test the foundations of the country…and force Keene to face a past and faith he’d rather leave buried. Can Keene—and America—survive?

 

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99

Paperback: 320 pages

Publisher: Barbour Books (September 1, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1616267690

ISBN-13: 978-1616267698

ISLAND BREEZES

Interesting title.  What on earth is that supposed to mean?  That was my thought before I started reading this book.  Don’t worry.  You’ll figure it out as you read.

Three unlikely people are pulled together (thrown together) by the White House to track down a man who is claiming to have a message from God.  It’s not easy.  They end up all across the States and even in foreign countries trying to get to this man.

Unexplainable things are happening.  Is this guy really a prophet?  What is happening to America?

This is an action packed, suspense filled book.  The scary part is the fact that one begins to wonder if this really could happen.

There’s a teaser for the follow-up novel, The 13:Stand, at the end of the book.  Just a few pages that make me eager to read it.

These two authors are talented.  Don’t miss them.

 
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

This was it. In a matter of minutes, his life would change. Everyone’s life

would change.

He rehearsed his lines, though he knew them by heart. There would be

no teleprompter. There would be no script. There would only be him. And

the camera, of course. And the person who would receive this message.

A small television sat off to the side, monitoring the feed. He could see

his image staring back at him. He watched as the second hand ticked off

the final seconds. Tick. Tick. And then it was time.

The red light above the lens flicked on. With the remote in his hand,

he zoomed in and watched the monitor. This was it. No turning back.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath and let it out

again. His heart was pounding through his chest. He opened his eyes and

set his jaw firm. And then he began.

“Good evening, Mr. President. I am the Prophet. And I have been

commanded to give you a message.”
Prologue

H i d a l g o C o u n t y S h e r i f f ’ s D e p a r t m e n t

E d i n b u r g , Te x a s , J u l y 2 , 2 0 2 5 ; 1 0 : 3 0 a . m .
Becky Sayers looked at the discolored, flat-screen plasma TV and silently

cursed her boss. “You’d think in this world of technology, we could find a

TV that wasn’t made before I was born,” she mumbled to no one. “I mean,

this thing’s not even in 3-D.” A rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond was

playing—the one in which Raymond fakes going to the doctor so he can

play golf. She’d seen it at least four times, but it was one of her favorites.
She pushed back from her desk and stretched her legs. The switchboard

had been quiet most of the afternoon. A few drunk-and-disorderlies and a

domestic dispute. The holiday weekend usually meant a boring few days

at the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department. But even though Hidalgo

County seemed like half a world away from Washington, DC, the impact of

the last two weeks’ events were being felt. It seemed that everyone was waiting

to see what would happen next.
The green light flashed on her board. She placed the earpiece in

her ear and said, “Thank you for calling the Hidalgo County Sheriff ’s

Department. This is Becky. . . .”
The caller made her complaint and hung up abruptly. Her neighbors

were setting off illegal fireworks; could a deputy come by and take care of it?

All of south Texas had experienced a horrible drought these last few months.

The governor had issued a decree, suspending all fireworks throughout the

entire state. Residents weren’t happy, but they understood. Brushfires this

time of year were common and could lead to damage in the billions of dollars.
Becky keyed her microphone. “Roy, this is Becky. I need you to go out

to Ms. Dobson’s farm, out on Highway 83. Neighbor kids are shootin’ off

sparklers or something.”

She waited for the grumpy complaint that was sure to come. Roy

hated dealing with neighborly disputes. He always tried to pawn them off

on one of the other deputies.

Nothing.

“Roy, this is Becky—come in.”

Nothing.

“Roy! I ain’t playing! Pick up that radio or else!”

Still nothing.

She switched over to another channel. She couldn’t figure why one

of her deputies would switch channels, but she was starting to get a little

worried. Roy was dependable, if nothing else. He’d never not answered a

call while he was out in the field.

“Roy, this is Becky. You change channels on me to try and get some

R and R?”

Nothing.

Now she was getting worried. She switched the channel back. “Clay,

this is dispatch. Check in—over.”

Nothing.

“Marcus, check in—over.”

Nothing.

She walked down the hall and found her boss, told him what was

going on, and waited for a response. He told her not to worry. It was probably

just weather related. “Probably a sunspot or something, messin’ with

the radios,” he said. “Try again in a few minutes.”

Back at her desk, she waited, watching the end of the show. As the

credits rolled she picked up her microphone. After five minutes of going

through the motions again, she decided this was no sunspot.

She grabbed the phone and called the Cameron County Sheriff ’s

office—the next county over. She told them what was going on and asked

if they were having any trouble. Gina, the dispatcher over there, said none

of her deputies had checked in or returned back to HQ either.

Becky hung up and called Star, Zapata, and Webb Counties. All three

reported the same goings-on. At that point, she dismissed paranoia and

called the state police. She was told that they, too, had a few officers who

weren’t responding, but all of the state police vehicles were equipped with

GPS and were being located as they spoke. The young man at state police

HQ offered to send a few officers her way to check on her deputies as well.

She thanked him and told him where her deputies were last known to be.
July 4, 2025; 12:00 p.m.

Becky stood in front of her fourth TV camera in the last hour and told

her story again. This time it was Fox. NBC and CBS had already been by.
The mysterious disappearance of her deputies two days ago was making

national news. Several sheriff ’s deputies, border patrol agents, and state

and local police officers had all turned up dead, all across the border towns

in Texas. Over the last two days, New Mexico and Arizona had reported

similar tragedies.

Becky was one of the first to discover the disappearances across the

border, therefore she was a hot commodity with the news anchors.

The pretty, blond reporter smiled and nodded as Becky told her story.

She opened her mouth—Becky figured she was about to ask another

question—and then slapped her hand over her left earbud. Her smiled

faded and gave way to a look of disbelief, shock, then horror. Tears filled

her eyes and her face turned ashen. Her arm dropped to her side, taking

the microphone with it.

“What’s wrong?” Becky had never seen a television personality act like

this.

The reporter turned to her, eyes wide. She moved her mouth but

nothing came out.

Becky grabbed the woman by her shoulders and shook her. “Hey,

what’s wrong?”

The reporter looked at Becky blankly and said, “Bomb. . . They’re all

dead.” Her knees gave out, and she slumped to the hard, dry ground.

Becky ran back inside to the flat-screen TV.
Hidalgo County, Texas

July 4, 2025; 11:30 a.m.

Jonathan Keene pulled his car off the road onto the dirt path, according

to the directions he’d been given. After a mile, he came to the fork in the

road. Up ahead, on the left, there stood the house.

He parked the car, got out, and surveyed the area. Nothing. No sign

of anyone. The house was a typical single-family home. It needed a coat

of paint, and the railing on the front porch had seen better days. The lawn

was unkempt, but a somewhat new-looking satellite dish sat mounted on

the corner of the roof.

Walking into the house, he noticed the reflection of light coming

from the hillside off to his left. He waited ten minutes. Then, as per his

instructions, he left through the back door and walked slowly up the hill

toward the reflection.

Once at the top, he got to his knees, placed his hands behind his head,

and interlocked his fingers. This was the unsettling part. Out in the open.

No cover. The sun blazing in his eyes. The wind blowing dust everywhere.

It was hard to see anything past twenty feet. He did feel better, though,

knowing that strapped to his back, under his loose shirt, was his Glock

9mm. It lay inches from his fingertips.

After nothing for five minutes, he heard the faint hum of motorcycle

engines. Within seconds he was surrounded by a half dozen, armed

Mexicans. One, covered with tattoos and a scar across his left cheek,

moved toward him. According to the description he’d been given, this was

his informant.

“Hola,” the young man said. “Welcome to Mexico.”

Though the walk uphill had been a short one, Keene knew that in

doing so, he’d illegally crossed the invisible border into the gangbanger’s

country.

“Gracias.” Keene shifted uncomfortably and squinted upward. “You

must be Hector.”

“Do I need to search you?”

“Not unless you want to find the nine mil I got strapped to my back,”

Keene said.

Hector laughed. “Stand up.”

“So what’s so important that you need to talk to the CIA?”

“Follow me.” Hector began walking down the hill toward the house.

Keene followed the men back into the house, thankful to be back on

sovereign US soil.

“I know what happened to those sheriff ’s deputies,” Hector said.

“Yeah, so. Call the police.”

“Nah, CIA, la policía don’t want none of this.”

“None of what?”

“That’s a nice watch. Where was that made? China?”

“Yeah,” Keene said. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Lots of stuff in your country made by China.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Funny thing. In the last two months, I been seeing lots of Chinese

people ’round here.”

“Maybe they like the food.”

“Maybe,” Hector answered. “But these Chinese been coming in

droves. In big military trucks. From down south.”

“Interesting.” Keene gave this some thought.

“You want to know what’s really interesting?”

Keene shrugged.

“These Chinese, they got guns.”

“So?”

“And tanks. And airplanes.”

“What?”

“You heard me. They got an army down here. They been bringing it

up here to the border for the last two months.”

“Impossible. We would’ve known about it,” Keene said. This guy was

unnerving him.

“You wanna know what happened to your cops? About three hundred

Chinese foot soldiers, with automatic weapons, crossed your border and

took them out. I got boys all up and down the border saying they see it,

man. Now, I don’t know what’s up with a hundred thousand Chinese

being in my—”

“What did you say? How many?”

“From what I hear, about a hundred thousand.”

Keene’s jaw went slack. There was no way a hundred thousand Chinese

soldiers were living across the border without the United States knowing

about it. Something was wrong.

“You look like you seen a ghost.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why now? Why not two months ago?”

“ ’Cause two months ago, I couldn’ta cared less. You Americans don’t

know what goes on down here. You come to your vacation spots and get

treated like kings. Then you go back home and don’t care what happens

to the rest of us. Well, guess what? These Chinese start showing up and

doing nice things for our communities. Nobody says anything ’cause they

like it. Then, without warning, they start taking over. And our policía don’t

care. They getting paid off. Next thing I know, I start seeing guns, tanks,

and fighter planes. And then they come into town and line up five men

and shoot them in the head. They say, anyone talks or tries to do anything,

they kill the whole town.”

“This is—this is ridiculous!” Keene said. “I don’t know what your

game is, but this isn’t funny. You could get into a lot of trouble—”

“I ain’t playin’!” Hector shouted angrily. “They kill my little brother,

man! And something bad is about to happen! I’m telling you as a favor.”

He hung his head and wiped his eyes. “I don’t know why your government

don’t know about this, CIA, but I’m telling you. Someone had to mess up

big to miss this.”

Keene stood there dumbfounded. There was no way this could be

true. An entire army couldn’t march on the United States’ border and not

be detected. He had to call Jennings. He reached for his phone and felt the

buzz against his leg. He looked at the display. Funny, he thought.

“I was just getting ready to call you,” he spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Get back here immediately,” his boss, Kevin Jennings, ordered.

“Yeah, about that,” Keene said, “I think I need to stay here awhile.

I need to check something out.”

“No, you need to get back here immediately. Turn on the TV.”

“What’s happened?”

“Just do it!” came the reply.

Keene pushed past the group of men and pushed the button on the

television sitting on a makeshift stand. It only took a few moments for him

and the others to see what was happening.

Every channel had interrupted programming, now covering the

breaking news. Plumes of black smoke rose into the sky from devastated

buildings. Bridges and highways melted into a pile of searing red metal.

Ash and debris covered the entire landscape. Cars were turned over and

blown to bits. Then the camera changed. A new city. Same result. Then

another. Then another. Finally the images ended. The cameras returned

to the news station. A disheveled-looking man in blue jeans and a sweater

sat in front of the camera. He opened his mouth and said the words that

would change the course of history.

“Ladies and gentlemen, less than ten minutes ago, the entire West

Coast of the United States of America was attacked. It appears to be a

nuclear strike. Every major city from San Diego to Seattle. The death toll

has to be in the millions. . . .”

Chapter 1

Two Weeks Earlier

The man sat in front of the small camera, rehearsing what he was about to

say. Behind him, the wall was dotted with computer monitors, all displaying

different news websites, with the screens zoomed in showing today’s

date. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his cheek as he bit into his

lower lip, trying to calm himself. He was moments away from doing something

that couldn’t be undone.

He’d wrestled with himself the last three days, knowing what would

happen if he didn’t do as he was instructed. He’d cried out in desperation,

begging that he wouldn’t have to be the one. He’d even tried to bargain his

way out of it. But it was no use. This would be done. If not him then someone

else. But no. It was his charge. Given to him with explicit instructions.

He would be obedient and do as he was instructed.

The clock on the wall ticked down the seconds as he stared into

the camera. This was it. In a matter of minutes, his life would change.

Everyone’s life would change.

He rehearsed his lines, though he knew them by heart. There would be

no teleprompter. There would be no script. There would only be him. And

the camera, of course. And the person who would receive this message.

A small television sat off to the side, monitoring the feed. He could

see his image staring back at him. He watched as the second hand ticked

off the final seconds. Tick. Tick. And then it was time.

The red light above the lens flicked on. With the remote in his hand,

he zoomed in and watched the monitor. This was it. No turning back.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath and let it out

again. His heart was pounding through his chest. He opened his eyes and

set his jaw firm. And then he began.

“Good evening, Mr. President. I am the Prophet. And I have been

commanded to give you a message.”
Chapter 2

The sun had begun to set over Washington, DC, as the streets bustled

with the commuters going home from work. Slivering rays of light pierced

their way through the buildings, making way for the cool early summer

breeze that wound its way off the Potomac and into the city streets. Soon

the breeze would give way to the hot midsummer. Soon you would be able

to see, as well as feel, the heat wafting up from the pavement, making DC

inhabitants wistful for the pleasantries of June.

The president was just a few minutes away from giving his highly anticipated

speech on health-care reform. Rarely did a president call together both

chambers of Congress for the purpose of an address to the nation outside of

the State of the Union address. But since President Calvin Grant had taken

office, it had been one of his major priorities to put an end to all of the

infighting with the health-care industry once and for all. This speech was

to be the exclamation point at the end of a three-year, grueling bipartisan

reform effort. Though it was no secret that the president had been working

on the new policy, details of it were. The only thing that had been leaked

so far had been the fact that President Grant had successfully achieved what

none of his three predecessors could, a comprehensive bill with regulation

that all parties agreed upon. Outside of that, not even a hint of what was

to come had been available, which had every news anchor and pundit both

frustrated and in anticipation.

The news anchors outside the Capitol seemed to be in deep conversation

with their cameras, floating their ideas and predictions of what was to

come. And then, as if being led by a conductor, they all nodded in unison,

each to his respective camera, signifying the president’s speech was about

to begin.

Inside the chamber of the House of Representatives, significant leaders,

from both parties, lined the aisleway, hoping to get a photo opportunity

with President Grant as he passed by. The room, as was typical for this

sort of event, was a cacophony of noise as everyone continued conversations

and settled in. Finally the outer doors to the House chamber swung

open, and the sergeant at arms entered. Immediately the room quieted, as

if someone flipped a switch. Then came the announcement.

“Mr. Speaker, the president of the United States!”

As was traditional, the room was again flooded with noise as the members

of the Senate and House, along with everyone else in attendance,

stood and applauded as the president slowly made his way to the floor of

the chamber, shaking hands, signing autographs, and posing for pictures

along the way. Finally, with the business of being sociable behind him,

President Grant held his hands up to quiet the almost eight-minute opening

ovation.

Only a few moments later and the speech was in full swing, and the

president had wasted no time in commanding the attention of the entire

nation. So far, the speech had lived up to its expectations. With the news

of his wife being diagnosed with cancer only a few weeks earlier, he was

expected to deliver a stunning blow to the health-care reformers. And with

the content of the speech being perhaps the closest-kept secret in all of

Washington, the entire room, as well as the rest of the country waited

on bated breath to hear what the president had to say. That and the fact

that President Grant was thought of as perhaps one of the most beloved

presidents in recent history, it was a sure bet that this address would go on

record as being one of the most viewed events in all of television history,

not just presidential history.

Homes all across the country were tuning in to hear what the president

would say. Ratings were already pouring in from all over the country.

Indeed, this was already a record-setting event. Within the first ten minutes,

the reports were already surpassing the collective quarterly ratings.

President Calvin Grant had the nation waiting on bated breath for his

next thought.

The speech was just over forty-five minutes when, just as promised,

President Grant landed his final blow. The news was simple. He had already

been working with members of Congress and had the support needed to

change the health-care system. His plan would strip away the potential for

many of the frivolous lawsuits that plagued the industry. New law was being

introduced to allow Americans unprecedented access to good health insurance.

And there were major stipulations being put on the insurance companies,

regulating how they underwrote policies and collected revenue. No

longer would there be massive abuses, deterioration of services, and rising

costs. The message was simple. There was about to be a complete overhaul

of the American medical system. An overhaul that would eliminate the

government-run policies of previous administrations and give the medical

field back to the private sector, but with some “seat belts,” as President Grant

liked to call it.

The speech ended in thunderous applause. And though there had

been some lines drawn previously in the speech between parties, the final

five minutes brought both sides of the chamber to their feet in rousing

cheers.

After the speech, President Grant made his way through the chamber,

once again pausing for photos and signing autographs. He tried to be as

pleasant as he could, but there were bigger things on his mind right now.

Tess, his wife, was at home, lying in bed. He wanted nothing more than to

get home and see how she felt.

After another fifteen minutes of meet-and-greet obligations, he finally

excused himself, reminding everyone where he really needed to be right

now. He asked the Secret Service agent in charge of his detail to make

ready the motorcade. He wanted to leave in the next few minutes.

The drive back to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was quiet. He waved to

the guard as the car passed through the security entrance. Once inside, he

headed straight upstairs to the private residence.

Tess was lying in bed and greeted him with a huge smile.

“You were amazing, Calvin. I’m so proud of you.”

“Nah,” he brushed it off. “Just a bunch of no-good politicians trying

to make things worse is all we are!”

“I wish I could’ve been there.”

“Me, too, Tess,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He took

her hand in his and kissed it gently. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” he said, standing back up. “Besides, I’m going

to go surf the net and see all the good stuff they’re saying about me!” He

winked.

Tess smiled back at him and said, “Don’t stay up too late. You need

your rest.”

“Look who’s talking.”

He left her to sleep and stepped into his private office. He sat down and

turned on the monitor to wake up the computer. In just a few moments,

the desktop came alive. He opened a browser window and typed in his

search. Already, there were over twenty-five thousand results for his speech.

He was looking down the list when he heard a ding. His private e-mail.

He assumed it was one of his staff, congratulating him on a successful

speech. He decided to check it because, well, he thought at least one

positive response would be nice before he started sifting through all the

negative ones.

Opening the mail server he saw the new message. There was no

subject. There was no return address. He didn’t think much of it, so he

double-clicked the icon and watched it open. It was a video. And it definitely

wasn’t from one of his staff. But he was afraid that he knew who this

was. And what this was about. He had heard from this man before. Just

not like this. How did you get into my private e-mail? he thought. He stared

at the still image of the man on the screen. Should he call for Agent Green?

Should he just step away from the computer and not touch anything? No,

he decided. He wanted to see it. He pushed Play.

The man sat still on a stool and stared into the camera. A bead of sweat

rolled down his forehead and clung to the top of the bandana that covered

every inch of his face below the eyes. He wore a plain, long-sleeved, white

T-shirt and blue jeans. His shoes were everyday work boots. All in all, a

very nondescript, average-looking man—with the exception of the face, of

course. Behind him stood a white wall with what appeared to be computer

monitors with websites showing today’s date.

A few seconds, which might as well have been hours, passed as the

strange man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he opened his eyes

again, he began to speak.

“Good evening, Mr. President. I am the Prophet. And I have been

commanded to give you a message.”

The man swallowed hard and then continued, “I am a servant of the

Lord Most High. And I have been instructed to warn you. Since the days

of our forefathers, the United States has become a prosperous nation,

strong in her defenses. She has done great moral things in the name of

peace and freedom. She has been an open door for those who are in search

of something greater. And she has brought stability to the world.”

The man blinked hard and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“But,” he continued, “‘I have this against you,’ says the Lord. ‘That

you have abandoned the love you had at first.’

“Therefore, thus says the Lord, ‘Behold, the day of the Lord comes,

cruel, with wrath and fierce anger, to make the land a desolation and to

destroy its sinners from it. For the stars of the heavens and their constellations

will not give their light; the sun will be dark at its rising, and the

moon will not shed its light. I will punish the world for its evil, and the

wicked for their iniquity; I will put an end to the pomp of the arrogant,

and lay low the pompous pride of the ruthless. I will make people more

rare than fine gold, and mankind than the gold of Ophir. Therefore I will

make the heavens tremble, and the earth will be shaken out of its place, at

the wrath of the Lord of hosts in the day of his fierce anger. Behold, my

anger and my wrath will be poured out on this place, upon man and beast,

upon the trees of the field and the fruit of the ground; it will burn and not

be quenched.’

“Yet fourteen days, and the United States shall be overthrown!”

Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?””

So they took away the stone.  And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. 

I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.”

When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth.  Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

John 11:40-44

Christmas Roses

 

By Amanda Cabot

Amanda Cabot invites readers to cozy up with a romantic, heartwarming tale of the greatest gift of all–love.

Celia Anderson doesn’t need anything for Christmas except a few more boarders, which are hard to come by in this small mining town. She certainly doesn’t have a husband on her Christmas wish list. But when a wandering carpenter finds lodging at her boarding house, she admits that she might remarry if she found the right man–the kind of man who would bring her roses for Christmas. It would take a miracle to get roses during a harsh Wyoming winter. But Christmas, after all, is the time for miracles . . .

ISLAND BREEZES

Celia wants roses for Christmas. In the dead of winter. In Wyoming. In a small town with a population of 150. In 1882.

That would be the only way she knows a man really loves her for herself instead of just needing a cook or someone to mother his children.

Mark, a traveling carpenter wants his own miracle. He’s trying to track down his runaway father.

Life is not the same after they meet, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that all of life’s wishes will come true.

But don’t rule out anything at Christmas.

***A special thank you to Donna Hausler for providing a review copy.***

Amanda Cabot is an accomplished author under various pen names and a popular speaker. The author of Paper Roses, Scattered Petals, Tomorrow’s Garden, and Summer of Promise, she is also a charter member of Romance Writers of America, the cofounder of its New Jersey chapter, a member of the ACFW, and an avid traveler. She lives in Wyoming.

Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, offers practical books that bring the Christian faith to everyday life.? They publish resources from a variety of well-known brands and authors, including their partnership with MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) and Hungry Planet.

Available September 2012 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group

President Abraham Lincoln’s 1863 Thanksgiving Proclamation.

The year that is drawing toward its close has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added which are of so extraordinary a nature that they can not fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever-watchful providence of Almighty God.

In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign states to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere, except in the theater of military conflict, while that theater has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union.

Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defense have not arrested the plow, the shuttle, or the ship; the ax has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well as the iron and coal as of our precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege, and the battlefield, and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom.

No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.

It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently, and gratefully acknowledged, as with one heart and one voice, by the whole American people. I do therefore invite my fellow-citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next as a day of thanksgiving and praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the heavens.

And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners, or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the imposition of the Almighty hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it, as soon as may be consistent with the divine purpose, to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility, and union.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Dellosso, writing also under the pen name Michael King, is the author of numerous novels of suspense, including Darkness Follows, Darlington Woods, and Scream. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and is a popular conference and workshop teacher. He earned his BA degree from Messiah College and his MBS from Master’s International School of Divinity. He lives in Hanover, PA, with his wife and daughters. Mike is also a survivor of colon cancer, diagnosed in 2008.

Visit the author’s website.

Set in the beautiful horse country of northern Virginia, A Thousand Sleepless Nights is about a family torn apart by neglect and hurt and brought together again by a most-unlikely force.

 

 

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99

Paperback: 304 pages

Publisher: Realms (October 16, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1616388358

ISBN-13: 978-1616388355

 

ISLAND BREEZES

This is a story about families being ripped apart and brought back together.

This is a four-stories-in-one kind of book.  Maybe even five stories are here.  Every family member has a story which goes to make the whole.

And in the end, the thing that tore the family apart brought them together again.

Tissue Alert!  Don’t let that box of tissues out of your reach while reading this book.

I really enjoyed this book and am eager to read Mr. King’s next one.  To bad it’s not scheduled to be out until winter 2014.  Do you think that you could write a little faster?  Please, Mr. King.

 
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

But Nena’s dream had long ago been shattered. Gathering her legs under her, she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders and took a long slow sip of her tea, letting the mug linger at her mouth so the steam could warm her face.

As a child she used to sit here with her father and watch the sun rise, listening to the sounds of the ranch stirring. The smell of cut grass and her dad’s coffee, the sounds of Spanish chatter and horses nickering for their morning meal, the hum of truck engines and men shouting . . . it had all been so familiar, so com- forting. There was a sense of peace here, of purpose and right- ness that she had come to rely on.

But now the place was a ghost town. The pastures were over- grown, the stables empty. The hands had moved on long ago, finding work and fulfillment elsewhere. The black willows, once the landmark of the St. Claire ranch, had aged without care. Some had died and been cut down; others were in desperate need of pruning. And the ranch house, once so noble and pris- tine, the signature of the success of Jack St. Claire, had fallen into disrepair. Porch paint peeled like an old sunburn, one of

the steps needed a new board, and the wisteria had long ago stopped blooming.

Jim did his best to keep up with the place, but it was just too much work for one man. Nena took another sip of tea and listened to the silence. There had been no sunrise this morning; the sky was heavy with dark gray, furrowed rain clouds. A storm was on the way, and in her bones Nena felt it would be much more than just a meteorological event.

The bleeding had started three weeks ago. At first it was spotty, nothing too alarming. But as the days passed it increased, until finally an appointment was scheduled, a colonoscopy performed, a tumor found. Now Nena could do nothing but await the results of the biopsy. Nothing but sit here haunted by regrets, sipping her tea, reminiscing about the better days the ranch had seen.

The sound of tires rolling on dirt broke the morning silence, and Nena saw an SUV making its way down the lane. She knew immediately who it was—Dr. Les Van Zante—and called for Jim to join her on the porch.

Les had never made a house call before. Of course, she told herself, maybe it wasn’t a house call. Maybe he was just stop- ping by to say good morning and tell them he hadn’t gotten the results yet, so she should stop fretting and breathe easy. He’d been their family doctor for well over thirty years; more than just a physician, he’d been a friend. But the lump in her throat and the chill that crept over her skin told her this was more than a cordial visit.

Jim emerged, coffee mug in hand, hair still disheveled, face unshaven. “What’s the matter?”

Nena nodded toward the vehicle halfway up the lane. Jim sipped his coffee and said, “Les.”

“Why do I feel like an innocent defendant about to receive a guilty verdict?” Nena said.

Jim rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t do that, Nena. You don’t know why he’s here.”

The SUV stopped in front of the house, the engine shut off, and the door opened. Les stepped out and closed the door behind him. He nodded. “Jim, Nena.”

Nena noticed the absence of a “good morning.” Clearly it wasn’t a good morning.

“Morning, Les,” Jim said.

As Les made his way up the steps, avoiding the rotting sec- tion of the first board, he neither smiled nor frowned. His face was as stone-still as any world-class poker champ. He shook Jim’s hand then Nena’s.

The knot in Nena’s throat tightened, preventing her from swallowing, but her mouth had gone so dry there was nothing to swallow anyway.

“No ‘good morning’?” she said.

Les was a tall, handsome man, with a long face and sharp nose framed by a thick crop of woolly white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His deep-set eyes were such a light shade of blue they almost appeared to be gray. Creases outlined his eyes and mouth, and deep frown lines appeared when he was in thought. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Nena, Jim, we received the biopsy results.” He scanned the land around the house as if searching for a way out of deliv- ering the news.

Nena tilted her head to one side. “And?”

Les rubbed his nose, ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Nena. You have colon cancer.”

The last two words that registered before everything blurred were “colon cancer.”

Les kept talking, but Nena heard little of it, just bits and pieces, like scattered raindrops that occasionally land on your nose, catching your attention. She heard “MRI” and “ultra- sound,” “surgery,” and “chemotherapy.” But they were just isolated words, foreign almost. Her ears picked up the sound of them, but to her brain they made no sense.

She looked at Jim, her husband, the man who had fought for her all those years ago and risked his life and won. The man who had never left her side because he’d promised he never would. His eyes were glassy and distant. He nodded in time to what Les said, but he too appeared to be in some other place, a place where couples grew old together and enjoyed reasonably good health, where they traveled and spent lazy afternoons walking outside or sitting on the front porch, where they spoiled their grandchildren. A place where people weren’t blindsided by cancer. He held her hand, but she didn’t feel it. Her body was numb, paralyzed. She wanted to get up and run off the porch, find a safe place in the stables, but she couldn’t. It was as if she were glued fast to the seat of the wicker chair.

Memories came clanging into her head, just images really, her father sitting atop Warlord, his prized Arabian. Her mother hanging laundry as her hair blew in the breeze and a smile crinkled her eyes. Her three children, running, laughing. Rocking her baby girl, her youngest daughter, and singing her a lullaby—Baby, my sweet, don’t you cry. Baby, my sweet, don’t you fear. Mommy will take care of you, I’m here. Her children, grand- children . . . how long had it been since she’d seen them?

As these thoughts drifted in and out, that word, that awful word clamored like an old noisy cowbell. She hated that word. It had taken her father and her grandfather, the only man she genuinely admired (except for Jim, of course). The word itself sounded like a sentence, like Les was not really telling her “You have colon cancer” but “You’re going to die.”

The porch began to spin then, slowly at first, in a perfect circle, then faster and faster and off-center. Her head suddenly felt as light as helium, and she thought she would vomit.

“Nena, honey, are you okay?”

Jim held her with both arms. She’d slipped from the chair. Had she fainted?

Somewhere in the distance, in the pasture behind the house, she heard a horse whinny. Or was it only her mind playing tricks, hearkening back to a time of simplicity and innocence?

“That’s enough for now,” Les said. He too was near her, his hand on her shoulder. “Nena, we’re going to fight this thing. We’re going to throw everything at it.”

Jim helped her to her feet, but her legs were weak, and the porch undulated beneath her.

“We’ll set things up for the MRI, CAT scan, and surgeon,” Les said. “Someone will call you with the appointment times.” He bent forward and looked Nena right in the eyes. “Nena, are you sure you’re okay? We can bring you into the office and check things out right now.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m fine. I just need to get back in the chair, have some tea.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine. Jim can help me.”

But could he? Could he help her this time? It was cancer, after all, the same cancer that had taken her father and grand- father. A monster that had tasted blood, and not just anyone’s blood, but her family blood.

She drew in a deep breath, but the air was so heavy with moisture and the promise of rain she had a difficult time filling her lungs. Les said his good-byes and left, promising to call later and see how she was doing.

When the SUV had disappeared down the lane, Jim stroked Nena’s hair and said, “Nena, it’ll be all right.” His other hand rested on hers, but she still couldn’t feel it. It would be all right. How did he know? He didn’t. That was the plain truth. Those were the words everyone said, the words everyone would say to her. It’ll be all right.

Jim said, “Did you hear what Les said?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Her throat felt like it was the size of a straw.

“He’s going to set you up for tests to see if it’s spread to any other organs. Then we’ll see a surgeon and talk about getting it out of you.”

It. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word: cancer. “The surgeon will set us up with the oncologist,” Jim said. “And then what?”

“Radiation, chemo.”

“More tests, prodding, poking, cutting.”

“Probably. But I’ll be right next to you the whole time. We’ll beat it, Nena. We will.”

“Maybe it’s not that bad,” she said. “Maybe it’ll just be a matter of cutting out the tumor and being done with it.”

The words sounded so hopeless, like someone lying there with a compound fracture, bone jutting through the skin, leg cocked at a sickening angle, saying maybe it was just a sprain.

Jim looked out over the ranch, his eyes so distant and worried.

“Maybe.”

Jesus said to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life.  Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live,

and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.  Do you believe this?”

She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

John 11:25-27

The Breath of Dawn 

By Kristen Heitzmann

Corporate turnaround specialist Morgan Spencer, dubbed the “success guru,” has a Midas touch in business. But losing his wife sent him to the brink, and his two-year-old daughter, Livie, is all he’s living for–until they encounter a woman whose trouble just might draw him out of his own.

Four years ago Quinn Reilly did the right thing. Now the man her testimony put in jail is getting out. Though she has put up barriers to protect herself and those around her, she has come to care for the Spencer family, especially the winsome Livie and her mercurial father. Unwilling to put them at risk when the threats begin, she requests something she hopes the super-successful Morgan might be able to deliver.

Fixing problems is what Morgan does best, but his counterproposal takes them in a direction neither is equipped to handle. Determined to confront the past, will they survive to build a future?

ISLAND BREEZES

Romance, suspense and mystery. A touch of murder, madness and revenge. This book is full of it and more.

We’re seeing both a dysfunctional family as well as a healthy family. Is it at all possible for them to merge in some manner?

Quinn is ready to run, and Morgan does all he can to prevent that. He comes up with a wild and wacky solution, but it’s not without pitfalls.

You’re probably going to need a few tissues before you make it through this book.

The Breath of Dawn doesn’t appear to be the beginning of a series, but I wish it were. These are characters my heart doesn’t want to leave behind. There’s certainly enough people in these two families to make a series.

***A special thank you to litfuse for providing a review copy.***

Kristen Heitzmann is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels, including Freefall, Halos, A Rush of Wings, and the Christy Award winner Secrets. She and her husband, Jim, and their family live in Colorado Springs, Colorado, where she serves as worship leader in their church. Visit Kristen’s Web site at www.kristenheitzmann.com

Kristen Heitzmann is celebrating The Breath of Dawn by giving away one of the new Paperwhite Kindles and hosting a fun Author Chat Party on Facebook. (11/27)

One fortunate winner will receive:

• A Kindle Paperwhite
• The Breath of Dawn by Kristen Heitzmann

Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends on November 26th. Winner will be announced at the “The Breath of Dawn” Author Chat Facebook Party on 11/27. Connect with Kristen, get a sneak peek of her next book, try your hand at the trivia contest, and chat with readers just like you. There will also be gift certificates, books and a Book Club Prize Pack to be won (10 copies for your book club or small group)!

So grab your copy of The Breath of Dawn and join Kristen on the evening of the November 27th for a chance to connect with Kristen and make some new friends. (If you haven’t read the book – don’t let that stop you from coming!)

Don’t miss a moment of the fun, RSVP today. Tell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTER and increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on the 27th!

0It 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!

 

 

 

 

Born and raised in western Michigan, Sharlene MacLaren attended Spring Arbor University. After graduating, she traveled, then married one of her childhood friends, and together they raised two ldaughters. Now happily retired after teaching elementary school for over 30 years, “Shar” enjoys reading, singing in the church choir, traveling, and spending time with her husband, children, and grandchildren—and, of course, writing. Her novels include Through Every Storm, Long Journey Home; the Little Hickman Creek series, the acclaimed historical trilogy, The Daughters of Jacob Kane, and the first two books in her latest series, River of Hope: Livvie’s Song and Ellie’s Haven.
Visit the author’s website.

The River of Hope Series, set in the 1920’s, continues with the story of Sofia Rogers who is pregnant, unmarried, and guarding a secret. Nobody in Wabash, Indiana seems to know her real story and Sofia isn’t about to share it. She’d rather bear the shame than face the threat of consequences. When Eli Trent, the new doctor in town, gets involved, trouble escalates in the form of thievery, arson, and death threats. Nevertheless, Eli remains determined to break down the wall of silence behind which Sofia hides her secret. He is out to convince her she is not alone and to help her come to the realization that trusting him—and God—is the only thing that makes sense.

Product Details:

List Price: $10.99

Paperback: 432 pages

Publisher: Whitaker House (October 1, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 160374214X

ISBN-13: 978-1603742146

ISLAND BREEZES

Sofia won’t tell anyone her secret, because of her fear for her brother’s safety.  Instead, she just continues to be the talk of the town.  Being an unwed mother in a small town during 1930 could do that.

She’s spent years raising her young brother after their parents died.  She’s barely been able to scrape by and she has no clue as to how they’ll be able to make it after the baby is born.

Enter the handsome new doctor in town.  He wants to sweep her off her feet, but her barriers along with her fears won’t allow that.

Will young Doc Trent give up or persevere?  Will the two of them find the answers they seek while their very lives are in danger?

The suspense will keep you reading late into the night if you don’t start this book early in the day.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER: