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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!

and the book:

Finding Jeena

Kregel Publications (March 8, 2010)

***Special thanks to Cat Hoort of Kregel Publications for sending me a review copy.***

Miralee Ferrell and her husband, Allen, live in a rural community in Washington. She developed an interest in writing in high school and took honors English courses in college, but put writing on the backburner for the next thirty years while raising a family and helping her husband with their growing business. A year and a half ago, she returned to the pen, writing a number of short stories and The Other Daughter.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (March 8, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825426456
ISBN-13: 978-0825426452

ISLAND BREEZES

She had to fall.  Hard.  Those were the thoughts running through my mind as I read the first six chapters of this book.

Well, does she fall?  Read it and know all.  Sorry.  I know that’s lame, but I just couldn’t resist.

When and how will you find Jeena?  She’ll drag you through most every emotion. 

Take my hand.  Let’s go find her.  Grab that box of tissues over there.  You’ll need them.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

She refused to let fear or insecurity take control. Fear couldn’t hurt her—only men could do that. And Sean loved her.

No way would she believe the rumor she’d heard from Connie, the biggest gossip in her small group of friends. Sean couldn’t be seeing someone else. He was close to proposing; she’d sensed it more than once. Jeena shook her head, trying to dislodge the disquieting thoughts. He’d have a good explanation.

Her confidence level soared after applying makeup and slipping into the dress. It had cost her two days’ salary, but it was worth every cent. Hugging her in all the right places, the dark red silk accented her long black hair and green eyes. Working out at the club kept her figure where she wanted it.

Sean’s car flashed past Jeena’s window and halted in front of her small condo. Jeena ran a hand over her trim hips. She’d be thirty later this year, and her body still looked like that of a twenty-year-old—she’d maintain it if she had to work out every day.

The doorbell chimed, but this time Jeena didn’t rush to answer. Sean Matthews needn’t think her life revolved around his arrival, even if it did. Playing a little hard to get might work in her favor.

The bell chimed a second time, and Jeena imagined its tone changed to one of impatience. Better not overdo it. She opened the door and stepped back into the glow of the entry light to give him the full effect.

A small frown turned down the corners of Sean’s mouth, giving a serious aspect to his rugged face. His tapping toe stilled, but his lowered brows didn’t lift until he stepped across the threshold.

The smile Jeena expected didn’t appear. Apprehension flickered through her mind. “Something wrong, Sean?” She touched his arm.

He ran his fingers through his dark blond hair, giving a slightly rumpled look to a man who prided himself on his appearance. “Our reservation is in fifteen minutes. We’re going to be late.”

He hadn’t seemed to notice the gown or the accentuated curves. “I had a bit of a struggle zipping up this dress.”

“You might need a jacket. That looks a little skimpy for a chilly evening.”

The small wisp of fear grew, fanned by the coolness of his impatience.

“Skimpy? That’s it?” She stepped back, folding her arms.

He shot a quick, cool look at the dress. “You look great. Is it new?”

She pursed her lips. Something was up. “Yes, it’s new.” She swung toward the closet. “Fine. I’ll get a jacket.” She yanked open the door and pulled a black cape off the rack. Great start to our evening.

He helped her into his silver Lexus, then slipped into his seat and turned the key. “You really do look stunning.” Sean paused. “It’s been a crazy day, and I’ve had a lot on my mind.” He gave her a soft smile before turning his attention back to the road.

They pulled out into the street and headed through the residential area toward the edge of town. Silhouetted against the skyline, tall fir trees flanked the elegant homes along the way. Kids still played in front yards, and a couple of eager homeowners mowed their yards. Jeena sighed. She missed having a yard and flowerbeds. The new townhouse she’d put a deposit on boasted a small backyard and window boxes in the front, so she could indulge her gardening hobby on her days off.

She sank deeper in the seat and released a small breath. Peaceful silence enveloped her as the quiet car snaked around the curves and the sun glinted off the nearby Columbia River. Sean loved her. Losing sight of that was foolish. Sure, he’d neglected to kiss her when he’d arrived, but she understood the stress generated by work. His job as a financial consultant to a large corporation in Portland often kept him distracted.

Connie was being catty and nothing more.

Jeena gave a low laugh. “You had me worried. I thought aliens had taken over your body when you didn’t react to this dress.”

He pulled away from a stop sign and glanced in his mirror, then reached over and took her hand. “Never fear. If aliens attempt a takeover, I’ll shoot ’em dead.” His quick smile flashed. “Hungry?”

“Very.” She’d been foolish to listen to Connie. An hour earlier, she couldn’t have eaten a thing, but now she was ravenous.

Sean had chosen a small, rather exclusive restaurant, a rarity in River City, Oregon. They could have driven an hour up I-84 to Portland, but the recent growth of tourism in the Columbia River Gorge had birthed new hot spots, popular with locals and tourists alike.

They were seated by a window that afforded a breathtaking view of the river, and Jeena could see the colorful sails of windsurfers kiting along in the evening breeze, the soft glow of the late April sunset bronzing the multi-colored sails. Candles glowed against the damask tablecloth, giving off a subtle air of luxury. Strains of low music added to the ambiance, creating a soothing background for the trickle of diners still drifting in.

Sean had requested a quiet spot in the corner, giving a sense of privacy that still allowed a good view. While he ordered, Jeena glanced around the room, wondering if any of their friends might be here tonight. No familiar faces appeared within her line of sight. Good. She wanted this evening to be theirs alone. Maybe they could sort out the nasty rumor starting to circulate and kill it before it morphed into something worse.

Sean leaned back in his seat and sighed, stretching his legs out from under the heavy brocade cloth.

“Long day?” Jeena reached across to stroke the side of his face. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t wrap his long fingers around hers as she’d expected. A small alarm went off in the back of her mind.

He gave a small shake of his head, dislodging her hand. “Not really. It feels good to sit across the table from a beautiful woman, instead of looking at bored businessmen all day.”

She sat back in her chair and relaxed. “Something going on at work that’s bothering you?”

“Very little. How about you? When does your lease start on the new townhouse?”

“In ten days, so I’m boxing everything up now. I’ve got my final interview a week from Monday with Browning and Thayer.”

“It’s too bad it’s only a temporary job, but with your expertise in design, they can’t go wrong contracting you.” He straightened in his chair and leaned toward her, an affectionate smile flickering across his lips.

She flashed him a grateful look. “Thanks. I hope they feel the same. But being a private contractor has its advantages, and the project is big—it should last at least a year.”

The waiter arrived, placing steaming plates of fragrant pasta in front of them and gathering the empty salad dishes. A few minutes passed in comfortable silence, and Jeena’s misgivings evaporated in the relaxed intimacy.

Candlelight cast a warm light across Sean’s face, accentuating his masculine good looks. Jeena smiled and settled deeper into her chair. “So tell me about your family. Last time we talked, you were concerned about your mom living alone, now that your dad’s gone. How’s she doing?”

“Great, from what I gather when I have time to call.” He wound the last strand of pasta onto his fork and took a bite, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m sorry—I see a client I need to speak to. I’ll only be a minute. Do you mind?” He nodded across the room to a silver-haired man sitting with an elegantly dressed woman.

“Not at all.” She smiled, then watched him make his way through the tables.

She’d first spotted him at a party a little over a year ago. Tall, mid-thirties, dressed in an Italian three-piece suit, and built like a model, he stood out in the crowd of older businessmen. An air of sophistication clung to him, enhanced by vivid blue eyes set in a deeply tanned face. A striking blonde who’d had too much to drink was hanging on his arm. He looked slightly disgusted and appeared to be searching for an escape.

Setting aside her drink, Jeena strolled across the room, knowing she’d captured his attention even before she approached.

She extended her hand and smiled when he held it longer than necessary. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Jeena Gregory, a friend of our hostess.”

“Sean Matthews. This is . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” His bored gaze turned to the blonde.

The woman released her grip on his arm and glared at Jeena. “Angie.”

Sean cocked his head toward the woman. “Right. Sorry. This is Angie.”

Angie’s lips turned down in a pout. “I’m getting something to drink. I’ll find someone more interesting to take me home.” Angie flounced across the room without looking back.

Sean’s blue eyes shone with something more than amusement. “I didn’t bring her, but she’s had too much to drink and must have forgotten. She latched onto me when I arrived. Thanks for the rescue.”

Jeena spent the rest of the evening in his company—and many evenings after that. Within a few weeks, she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man. Intelligent, witty, generous, and advancing up the corporate ladder at a fast pace, he possessed much that she found attractive.

Sean, however, remained an enigma. While engaging and attentive, he had yet to commit to a permanent relationship. Jeena sensed his frustration at her adamant refusal to move in together. She enjoyed the party life and didn’t judge others for their lifestyle choices, but she drew the line at moving in with a man before marriage. She deserved more. Besides, too many of her crowd had gone that direction, and she’d seen disaster strike more than once.

“Jeena? I’m sorry I took so long. I hope you weren’t bored.” Sean’s deep voice woke her from the memories.

She brushed the hair from her eyes. “Not at all. Just remembering our first meeting.”

“Ah, yes. The party.”

Jeena tried to suppress a smile but failed. “And poor Angie.”

Sean laughed outright. “Poor Angie, nothing. That woman clung like a leech with no encouragement from me. You came along just in time.”

She leaned toward him and stroked the back of his hand. “Did I?”

He slowly pulled back, and the smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Her heart rate accelerated.

He cleared his throat and picked up a napkin. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Tell. Not ask. Jeena leaned back and crossed her arms. “Yes?”

“I’ve been offered a new job. It means a huge increase in pay and could lead to a partnership.”

“That sounds wonderful. I didn’t realize you were looking.”

“I didn’t mention it until I knew something would come of it. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Why would I care?” Her palms grew clammy, but she refused to give in to fear.

His lips set in a firm line; then he took a deep breath and plunged forward. “It’s taking me out of the States. A large construction conglomerate wants me in the Middle East.”

A small shiver of fear traveled up her back. “But that’s dangerous. Tell me you’re not going to take it.”

“I’ve said yes. I’ll be living in Kuwait and going across the border occasionally, and then only to areas that are deemed safe. I leave in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” she whispered. “What about us?”

He shifted in his chair and looked at his hands, then raised his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jeena.”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? You’re not asking me to come with you or wait? How long will you be gone?” She tried to keep the pain out of her voice, but her words rose in tone and volume.

An irritated look flashed across his face. The small, secluded spot he’d chosen closed in around her. No longer did the flickering candles on the table give off an aura of romance—instead, they gleamed with an ominous light.

“I’ll be gone at least a year, maybe two. You didn’t want to live with me here in the States, so I didn’t think you’d be willing to move to Kuwait.” Sean leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze.

She’d probably hold onto him if she gave in, but something inside protested. Her parents’ marriage had been lousy, no doubt about that. But her mother had saved herself for the man she married and had often urged Jeena to do the same. Besides, Grammie would be be horrified if Jeena made that decision. A deep love for both her mother and grandmother had prompted Jeena to walk the same path.

“But if we were married . . .” She could have bitten off her tongue for letting the words slip.

Sean’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I have no desire to get married.”

“So all of this has been what . . . a game? You aren’t in love with me? Never have been?”

He shrugged. “I think a lot of you. But marriage isn’t part of my plan. I thought we’d have a good time. Frankly, I hung around hoping you’d change your mind.”

“You knew how I felt about living together. It’s not something I’m comfortable with.”

Sean smirked. “You told me your dad was a religious Jekyll and Hyde and you had no use for God. I never expected you’d stick with your decision and be such a prude.”

His words brought the chaos in her mind to a halt. An icy calm washed over her. “Prude. I see. So, who is she?”

His face flamed red, then faded to a dirty white. “Who?”

She rose quickly, her chair sliding into the waiter who was walking behind her. Pride stiffened her spine and held her head high. “I nailed that one. Never mind. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together, and my prudish life will be better off without you.”

She slipped around the table and started to walk past him, but he reached out and grasped her wrist. “Jeena. Don’t be that way. I’ll drive you home. I’m sorry.”

Shaking off his hand, she stepped out of his reach and lowered her voice, conscious of the curious looks from the tables nearby. “I’ll get a taxi. Have a great life, Sean.”

Somehow she managed to exit the restaurant without calling more attention to herself. Humiliation at making a scene while leaving the table forced her to increase her pace and not look back. The poor waiter—she’d nearly bowled him over while rushing from the table. But no way could she allow Sean to see her cry. She needed to get home and face this. The tears would come later, and no telling when they’d stop.

Men. Anger bubbled inside, momentarily pushing aside the sting of tears. Her father had proven men couldn’t be trusted—he hadn’t loved her, either. Why had she forgotten? Never again would a man suck her in with promises and lies. From now on, her career would come first. She’d show them all. The only person in the world who mattered was her grandmother. She’d neglected her recently, but tomorrow was a new day. Grammie would be happy to see her, and Sean was no longer important.

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!

and the book:

An Unwilling Warrior

Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***

Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has been writing stories and poems since she was a little girl and has published articles and devotionals as well as 31 novels and novellas. In addition to her writing, Andrea is a certified Christian life coach and speaks at writers’ conferences and for women’s groups. She has taught workshops at such conferences as: Write-To-Publish; American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW); Oregon Christian Writers Conference; Mount Hermon Writers Conference and many local writers conferences. Another of Andrea’s accomplishments is co-founder of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) organization. For many years she served on both its Advisory Board and as its CEO.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $10.99
Paperback: 291 pages
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599799855
ISBN-13: 978-1599799858

ISLAND BREEZES

Being a New Orleans socialite isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.  At least, not for Valerie.  Especially during the Civil War.  And an arranged marriage.

Will Valerie escape this marriage and the heartache that goes with a father that doesn’t want her around.

Will she have to jump into a marriage of convenience to escape a marriage with a man who terrifies her?  Will heartache follow her as she escapes to the frontier? 

All I’m going to tell you is that I’m eagerly waiting the second book in this series.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Raindrops splattered against the garden’s cobblestone

walkway, forming puddles in low-lying areas.

Above, the heavens seemed to mourn in tearful shades of gray.

Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, Valerie Fontaine realized

she’d forgotten the dreariness of the season. She’d been back

in New Orleans only a week, arriving Christmas Eve, but now

she questioned her decision to leave Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s

Finishing School for Young Ladies, a year-round boarding school

in Virginia where she’d studied for the last sixteen months. She

let out a long, slow sigh. Life here at home was—well, worse than

the weather.

Closing the shutters, she stepped away and hugged her knitted

shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She strolled from the

solarium to the parlor, steeling herself against her father’s continuing

tirade. But at least they were talking now. He hadn’t said more

than six words to her since she’d been home. “You should have

stayed at school.” She had thought Father would be glad to see

her, given that it was their first Christmas without Mama.

But such wasn’t the case. Instead of spending the holiday with

her, he’d been at his gentlemen’s club almost continuously. His

actions hurt Valerie deeply. Nevertheless, he was the only family

she had left now.

“You should have stayed at school,” Edward Fontaine muttered

as he poured himself another scotch. His third.

“Yes, so you’ve stated. But isn’t it obvious why I came home?

I’m grieving, and I need the love and support of my father.” She

gave him a once-over, from the tip of his polished shoes to his

shiny, straight black hair. “And it might not seem like it, but I

think you need me too.”

“Need you? I should say not!” He teetered slightly but caught

her reaction. “And don’t roll those pretty blue eyes at me either.”

Valerie turned toward the roaring hearth so he wouldn’t see

her exasperated expression.

Holding out her hands, she warmed them by the fire. Although

temperatures registered well above the freezing mark, the cold and

dampness had a way of seeping into her bones. She shivered.

“I told you, ma fille, your efforts, as you call them, aren’t

needed.”

She flicked him a glance. “I think perhaps they are.” She

sensed her father mourned Mama’s death too. However, drowning

himself in scotch would hardly help, and he’d lose his good

standing in society if anyone found out about his . . . weakness.

Did neighbors and friends already know?

“Bah!”

Valerie turned to watch as he seated himself in a floralpatterned,

Louis XV wingback chair.

“You were to stay in Virginia and complete your education.”

Father gave a derisive snort. “I doubt Miss Hollingsworth will

give me a refund on your tuition.”

Valerie placed her hands on her hips. “How can you value

money over my well-being?”

“This is not a question of one or the other. These are

ous times . . . there are plans that you know nothing of . . . ”

“What plans?” Curious, Valerie tipped her head.

Silence.

“Father?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw a flicker of something

in his eyes—regret perhaps? Then his face hardened. “My plans

were for you to stay in school and marry a young man from an

established family.”

Valerie groaned. Running her hands down the wide skirt of

her black dress, she gathered the muslin in clenched fists of frustration.

How could she make him understand? She simply had

to follow her heart and come home. Otherwise, she surely would

have stayed at Miss Hollingsworth’s, as many students did. On

most holidays, like this one, time constraints restricted travel.

School let out the Friday before Christmas and began next week,

on the sixth of January. However, Valerie didn’t plan on returning,

and her reasons to leave boarding school ran deep.

She lifted her fingertips to her temples as a headache formed.

“Father, school proved too much for me after Mama’s untimely

death. I tried to make it, stayed all last summer, but after the war

broke out I had to come home.”

“Silly girl. You risked your life traveling through that part of

the country. Did you think I wanted to bury a daughter too?”

“No, of course not. But I thought you would have wanted to

see me at Christmastime.”

He didn’t comment on her remark. “So, what am I going to do

with you? I can’t very well send you back. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not as if I need a nanny.” Indignation pulsed through

Valerie’s veins. “I’m almost nineteen, and I can take care of

myself—and manage the household for you too.”

“I manage my own household.”

Hardly! she quipped inwardly. Thankfully for him, Adalia,

their precious and loyal maid, had seen to almost everything

since Mama died.

But Valerie wouldn’t tell her father that. She’d learned neither

retorts nor reasoning did much good when he’d been imbibing—

which was frequently of late.

She watched as he swallowed the dark golden liquid, emptying

the crystal tumbler in his hand. He made a sorrowful sight, to

be sure. And yet Valerie knew her father was an honorable man,

a capable man who owned and operated a large business. Her

grandfather had started Fontaine Shipping when he had come

from France. Father grew up near the docks and learned everything

about ships and cargo, importing and exporting, and then

he took over the business after he had finished his education at

Harvard. Grandpapa had been so proud. And now Father secured

his importance among the international shipping community as

well as in New Orleans’s society.

Or at least that’s the way she had remembered him.

“I see I’ll have to marry you off myself.”

“Oh, Father, I’ll marry when I’m good and ready. Right now I

can’t think of a single man I’m even remotely interested in.”

“And what of James Ladden?” Father asked

“James is . . . a friend. That’s all.” Valerie moved to the

burgundy-colored settee. Gathering her black hoop skirts, she sat

down. Her fingers played across the rose-patterned, embroidered

armrest. Her father’s gaze seemed troubled. She shifted. “Perhaps

I should ask Chastean to bring you some coffee.”

He gave her a blank look, as though she’d spoken in a foreign

tongue.

“Our cook . . . will bring you some coffee.”

He held up his empty scotch glass and said, “I’m fine with this.”

Valerie sighed when he rose to pour another drink. His fourth.

How she wished she could hide that scotch bottle!

“We’re having a houseguest tonight,” he said.

“What?” Her jaw slacked at the surprising news.

“You heard me.” He eyed the amber potion glistening in his

glass. “A houseguest.”

“Who is it?”

He lifted his slim shoulders and wagged his dark head. “Last

name’s McCabe. Don’t know his first. He’s the son of an acquaintance.”

He looked her way. “I extended the invitation before I

knew you would burst in from school unannounced.”

Valerie chose to ignore the slight. “Where did you meet him,

or rather, his father?”

Father’s gaze met hers. His brown bloodshot eyes watered

slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as if he were

struggling to contain his emotions. “I met him,” he continued in

a pinched voice, “just after your mother passed away.”

Valerie swallowed an anguished lump of her own. He’d so

rarely spoken of Mama since her death.

Her mind drifted back to that terrible day she’d received the

news. She’d been at school, getting ready to paint with the other

girls when a telegram had been delivered. The weighty sorrow

that descended then returned now as she recalled the words:

Your mother took ill with a fever on 23 June 1861 and

has died. You have our sympathies and our prayers. The

telegram was signed Mrs. Vincent Dupont, the doctor’s wife.

Upon returning home, Valerie learned that a tropical storm

had detained the family physician when her mother had taken

ill. He hadn’t been able to reach Mama in time to help her.

Valerie had never gotten a chance to say good-bye or even

attend Mama’s funeral.

“I miss her too.” Valerie whispered the admission, hoping this

time it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

But Father drained his glass and poured another. Number five.

“Our guest will be arriving sometime tonight. I’ll be out. I’ve

left instructions with Adalia.”

“You won’t be here to greet him?” Valerie swiped away an

errant tear and squared her shoulders.

“Not tonight.” He suddenly hollered for his coat, hat, and

walking stick.

“Where are you going?” Stunned, Valerie strode toward him.

“The club. For supper.”

“Again? But I had so hoped you’d come to the Donahues’

tonight and celebrate the coming of the New Year with me.”

“You should know right now, ma fille, that hope is a useless word

in the English vocabulary. All of mine died with your mother.”

Valerie’s breath caught at the admission, tears obscuring her

vision as the portly British maid, who’d been part of the family

ever since Valerie could recall, entered the room carrying Father’s

belongings. He donned his winter coat.

“I hadn’t planned to stay home to entertain a houseguest.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He moved into the foyer and adjusted

his black top hat. “Adalia will show him to his room, and you

can go to your party.”

“But—” He swung open the front door and disappeared, closing it

behind him before Valerie could speak again. All she could do

was stand there, stunned.

At last she exhaled, her lower lip extended so the puff of air

soared upward and wafted over the strands on her forehead. “Oh,

this is a fine mess.” She folded her arms.

“You needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the gentleman’s room.”

“I know you will.” Valerie smiled at the good-natured woman.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dearie. But here now—” Adalia bustled

across the room and slipped one arm around Valerie’s shoulders.

“Don’t look so glum.”

“I can’t help it.” Valerie’s bottom lip quivered as she peered

into the maid’s bright green eyes. “My father has no room in his

life for me, Adalia. I’m a burden to him.” She paused. “Maybe I

always have been, but I never noticed because of Mama.”

Adalia patted her shoulder.

When the moment passed, Valerie straightened. “Well, Father

said I can go to the party. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Go. I’ll take care of Mr. McCabe. Now you’d best be getting

yourself ready.”

Valerie gazed down at her dark skirts. “And another thing. I’m

tired of this dreary mourning garb. It’s been six months.”

“That it has, and you’ve fulfilled your societal obligations and

behaved as any good daughter would.” Holding her by the shoulders,

she turned Valerie so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t think

I’m out of place to say that y’ mother’d want each of us to go on

with our living. So go and have fun tonight. As for y’ father’s guest,

he can occupy himself in the library. Plenty o’ books in there.”

Valerie sighed, remembering some of Father’s former houseguests.

“He’s probably some eccentric old geezer who’ll just want

to read and go to sleep anyway.”

Adalia snorted. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’ve

seen our share of those over the years, now haven’t we?”

“Yes.” A smile crept across Valerie’s face. “We certainly have

at that.”

****

Beneath the bright glow from her bedroom’s wall sconces, Valerie

studied her reflection. She selected a sapphire-blue silk gown

with satin trim around its off-the-shoulder neckline. The flouncy

creation matched the color of her eyes and complemented her

pale complexion. Adalia had expertly swept up Valerie’s dark

brown hair into a becoming chignon, although several tendrils

rebelliously escaped and curled around her face.

“Pretty as a princess, y’ are. Just like y’ mother.” Adalia stood

back to admire her. “You look just like her.”

“Thank you.” Valerie took the compliment as high praise. “But

do you think I seem a bit pale?” She pinched her cheeks until

they turned a rosy pink.

“Not anymore.” Adalia placed her hands on her hips. Valerie

smiled, then chuckled. Adalia turned and folded an article of

clothing on Valerie’s four-poster bed. “Now, you be sure to catch

the latest gossip, dearie. Chastean and I are dependin’ on you.”

Valerie whirled from the full-length mirror in a swish of silk.

“Why, Adalia, I don’t listen to gossip.”

“’Tis such a pity. We’ll be needin’ something to talk about

while we stir our soap.”

“Mama’s soap.” Valerie’s grin faded as wistfulness set in. She’d

almost forgotten how she and Mama used to create the specially

scented soaps from garden herbs and the essential oils that Father

had shipped in from around the world. The practice had started

with a church bazaar for which Mama had to bring something

she’d made, something unique.

She called her little square bars “Psalm 55 Soap” after her

favorite passage of Scripture. Mama gave them to friends or

left them near the basin in the guest room with a handwritten

portion of that psalm. Feeling a sudden deep determination to

hang on to the memory, Valerie decided to somehow keep her

mother’s custom alive.

“We’ll make a new batch soon,” she said.

“Good, ’cause we’re down to the last few bars of the lavender

rose.”One of Valerie’s favorites. “They’re from the last batch Mama

made?”

Adalia replied with a remorseful bob of her gray-blonde head.

That weighty sorrow descended again. Valerie’s shoulders

sagged.

Several long, reverent seconds ticked by, and finally Adalia

picked up where she’d left off. “I’m particularly interested in

hearing if Mrs. Field’s wayward daughter married that sailor she

ran away with.” She fidgeted with Valerie’s dress. “So listen up.”

“I’ll do no such thing. Besides, James told me yesterday that

Nora Mae married the man in a private ceremony.”

“Y’ don’t say!”

Valerie turned to her. “I shouldn’t have even repeated that,

except there’s nothing wrong with saying a wedding took place,

right?”

“Right.”

Valerie narrowed her gaze. Maybe she had succumbed to

gossiping after all.

“Now you’d best get downstairs.” Adalia wisely changed the

subject. “Mr. Ladden’ll be here soon, and you know how impatient

that one gets if he has to wait even a minute.”

“You go on down. I’ll be there in a bit.” Valerie wanted to

check her reflection one last time.

“Don’t tarry.”

“I won’t.”

The maid left, and Valerie checked her reflection once more. It

felt good to shed those black mourning clothes. She thought of all

her friends she hadn’t seen in the almost year and a half since she’d

been away at Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s. They’d always been such

fun-loving girls. Valerie smiled, thinking about how they used to

laugh together with chatter of balls and beaus and fashion.

Would it be the same when they saw each other again tonight?

Sadness spilled over her when she thought things might have

changed. She felt so removed from those subjects now. They

seemed trite, considering her present circumstances. She’d

never imagined her life without Mama. But here her future lay,

stretched out before her in grim uncertainty.

Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee . . .

Valerie smiled as part of Mama’s favorite psalm waltzed across

her mind. Drawing in a deep breath, she plucked her satin shawl

from where it lay on her canopy bed. She pulled it around her

bare shoulders, admiring its ivory softness, and fixed her mind

on the gala. She’d laugh and dance, and maybe some semblance

of joy would return to her life.

Leaving her bedroom, Valerie made her way down the stairs to

the parlor. As it happened, she turned out to be the one who did

the waiting. It seemed forever before she heard James’s carriage

pull up in front of the house.

At long last he entered the foyer, looking dapper in his overcoat

with its fur-trimmed collar. He shed it and handed the garment,

along with his hat, to Adalia. Valerie noted his foggy-gray dress

coat, waistcoat, and matching trousers. The flame-red curls on

his head, usually unruly, were combed neatly back.

“Why, James Ladden, don’t you look handsome!” She held out

her hand in greeting, and he took it at once.

“Thank you, honey. I’ll have you know this suit is cut from the

best cloth money can buy.”

“It’s quite . . . nice.” Valerie felt a bit wounded that he didn’t

remark on her gown or the style of her hair.

Instead James puffed out his chest and smiled. “We have some

time before we have to go.” He ambled across the parlor’s large

Persian carpet. “Perhaps a drink to warm the blood would be

appropriate.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll call for Adalia.” She flicked a glance at him,

hoping he didn’t imbibe like Father. This was, after all, their first

public outing together. A moment later she decided to serve hot

cider in spite of the fact he hinted at something stronger.

She looked at him again. James had been a childhood friend,

an auburn-headed prankster who annoyed her by putting twigs in

her braided hair and calling her names. He threw slimy, creepycrawly

creatures at her and laughed when she screamed in terror.

But then James matured into a dashing young man, and when

he discovered that she’d come home from school, he offered to

escort her to every social event in New Orleans beginning this

New Year’s Eve. She’d accepted because . . . well, it was a kind offer,

and James seemed to have transformed into a gentleman.

“Is your father home?”

“No, he chose to ring in the New Year at the club.”

“He won’t be at the Donahues’, then?”

Valerie shook her head.

“I had hoped to speak with him tonight about an important

subject.” His frown turned to a smile. “You.”

“Me?”

“I have courtship on my mind.”

His news surprised her. “I thought we were just friends, James.”

“We are. But the way you look tonight makes me wish we were

more.”

So he’d noticed. That was something anyway. However, his

backhanded flattering didn’t change her feelings for him. But

unwilling to hurt him, she chose her words with care. “I am fond

of you. It’s just—”

“Y’ father’s houseguest just arrived.” Adalia poked her head into

the room. “What would you like me to do with him, dearie?”

Valerie grimaced. “Oh, yes . . . ” She’d almost forgotten about

the man. “Show him in.” Looking back at James, she said, “Excuse

me for a few minutes.”

“What’s this?” He stepped forward, frowning his displeasure.

“What houseguest?”

“Forgive me. My father only told me at the last minute.” She

moved toward the door. “I must see to him. It won’t take too

long.”

Putting on her best hostess’s smile, Valerie strolled into the

foyer in time to see a tall but shadowy figure of a man coming

down the hallway. He must have entered through the back way.

Over his shoulder he carried a large satchel and, in the opposite

hand, a valise. As he neared, she saw that he was soaked to the

skin. Rain dripped from the wide brim hat.

“Good evening.” He set his burdens down with a thunk onto

the tiled floor. “Name’s Benjamin McCabe.”

“Valerie Fontaine.” She held out her hand to him. He took

it politely, and Valerie felt how cold he was. He also appeared

young, in his midtwenties. Hardly the old codger she and Adalia

had envisioned.

“Miss Fontaine, I must say you look . . . lovely this evening.” He

spoke in a velvet baritone, and yet Valerie heard a hint of a twang

in his voice.

“Why, thank you.” It had been more of a compliment than

what she’d received from James.

He shifted his stance. “The liveryman is seeing to my wagon.”

He gave a backward nod. “I trust it will be safe in the stables.

Most of my equipment—”

“Your wagon will be just fine,” Valerie assured him. “Willie is

a very capable attendant.”

An awkward moment passed as Valerie tried to get a better

view of the man standing there in the dim, candlelit entryway.

“I apologize for dripping rain on your floor.” Mr. McCabe

glanced down at the puddle forming beneath him. “That last

downpour caught me.”

“Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.”

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

“I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.”

-Abraham Lincoln

“My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her.”

-George Washington

 My child, be attentive to my wisdom; incline your ear to my understanding, so that you may hold on to prudence, and your lips may guard knowledge.

For the lips of a loose woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil; but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edge sword.

Her feet go down to death; her steps follow the path to Sheol.

She does not keep straight to the paths of life; her ways wander, and she does not know it.

And now, my child, listen to me, and do not depart from the words of my mouth.

Keep your way far from her, and do not go near the door of her house; or you will give your honor to others, and your years to the merciless, and strangers will take their fill of your wealth, and your labors will go to the house of an alien; and at the end of your life you will groan, when your flesh and body are consumed, and you say, “Oh, how I hated discipline, and my heart despised reproof!

I did not listen to the voice of my teachers or incline my ear to my instructors.

Now I am at the point of utter ruin in the public assembly.”

Proverbs 5:1-14

Get ready for a double dose of wedding frenzy!

Bella couldn’t be happier that two of her long-feuding relatives have finally admitted their love for one another and are getting married. Their forties-style wedding is sure to be a night to remember. But when the Rossi house begins to fill up with family from Italy–and an old mobster from New Jersey–life starts to get complicated. Will a friend from the past drive the happy couple apart once more? And will Bella ever have time to think of her own rapidly approaching wedding amid the chaos?

Full of humor, plenty of Italian passion, and a bit of Texas gumption, It Had to Be You will have you laughing out loud and wiping a tear from your eye.

***Special thanks to Donna Hausler of Revell Books for sending me a review copy.***

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  My child, do not let these escape from your sight; keep sound wisdom and prudence,

and they will be life for your soul and adornment for your neck.

Then you will walk on your way securely and your foot will not stumble.

If you sit down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet.

Do not be afraid of sudden panic, or of the storm that strikes the wicked;

for the Lord will be your confidence and will keep your foot from being caught.

Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it.

Do not say to your neighbor, “Go, and come again, tomorrow I will give it” — when you have it with you.

Do not plan harm against your neighbor who lives trustingly beside you.

Do not quarrel with anyone without cause when no harm has been done to you.

Do not envy the violent and do not choose any of their ways;

for the perverse are an abomination to the Lord, but the upright are in his confidence.

The Lord’s curse is on the house of the wicked, but he blesses the abode of the righteous.

Toward the scorners he is scornful, but to the humble he shows favor.

The wise will inherit honor, but stubborn fools, disgrace.

Proverbs 3:21-35

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!

and the book:

Sing: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

David C. Cook; New edition (April 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings – Senior Media Specialist – The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***

Lisa T. Bergren is an author who offers a wide array of reading opportunities ranging from children’s books (God Gave Us Love and God Found Us You) and women’s nonfiction (Life on Planet Mom), to suspense-filled intrigue (The Gifted Trilogy) and historical drama. With more than thirty titles among her published works and a deep faith that has weathered dramatic career and personal challenges, Bergren is excited to add the Homeward Trilogy to her resume as she follows God’s direction in her writing career. Bergren lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado, with her husband Tim (a graphic design artist and musician) and their three children.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (April 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434767078
ISBN-13: 978-1434767073

ISLAND BREEZES

March 15, 1887 – That day was a turning point in the lives of the three St Clair siblings.

All three had much to loose as well as much to gain.  Paris, Rio, Colorado.  Very different places.  Very different people.

This is mostly Moira’s story, but we are not allowed to stray very far from Nic and Odessa.

This is the middle book of a trilogy, but presents as a good stand alone read.  Yet, it does make me long to read the first and impatiently await the third.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Paris

Surely she hadn’t heard him right. Moira stared with disbelief at the ledger the bank manager turned toward her. “What do you mean I cannot withdraw this much? I have thousands of francs here.”

“You did, Mademoiselle. Until this morning, when Monsieur Foster came and extracted all but the last thousand.”

“Max? Mr. Max Foster came and withdrew these funds?”

“Oui. It was his biggest withdrawal yet. But as you know, he has full access to your bank account. He makes withdrawals all the time. I assumed this was no, as you say … different.”

“Different?” The word emerged from her mouth in a high-pitched squeak. She swallowed hard and looked above that final ledger entry–10,000 francs–to other withdrawals. A thousand. Fifteen hundred. Sometimes twice a week. Her mind raced. Max, her manager of almost three years, paid her servants, the landlord. He paid for the groceries delivered each day. The oilman for the oil that filled her lamps. It took money, a lot of money to pay for all those things. But this much?

“Mademoiselle,” the bank manager said carefully, peering over tiny spectacles at her, “has something transpired here that causes you alarm?”

“Non, non,” she said, gathering herself. “Monsieur Foster and I merely need to converse. I am certain there is good reason for him to withdraw funds today. I simply have forgotten. Forgive me, Monsieur. My run at the Opera Comiqué has left me a bit … weary.”

“I understand,” he said, rising with her. “And may I say that your performance has been unparalleled in this city for some time? Paris is fortunate to have you, Mademoiselle St. Clair.”

“You are too kind,” she said. “Bon jour.” “Bon jour,” he said with a nod. But his dark eyes still held the same concern that flooded Moira’s heart.

Max Foster would be at Madame Toissette’s tea later today–she would speak with him then. But before he took a sip of her fine Earl Gray, he would explain to Moira where her money had gone.

Colorado

15 March 1887

Hoarfrost covers every branch and every bit of every tree within sight. It is beautiful, a sight I always favor, but in this instance, it makes me more fearful than ever. For below it is more snow than I’ve ever seen. More snow than Bryce or Tabito have ever seen. And while it has ceased for the moment, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky that showcases mountains in bridal white, Tabito believes more is on the way. Tonight? Tomorrow? It would take weeks to melt the snow already here. The men–

Samuel’s cry brought Odessa’s head up, and she set her pen aside and went to the babe in the next room. Now seven months old, the child quieted when he spotted his mother, gurgling a pleased coo and wiggling his arms and legs in vigorous excitement. She lifted him and cradled him close for a moment, running her lips over his sweet, soft cheek. She reached for another blanket, frowning at the chill in the room, and returned to the window over her desk, one of only two in the house that were not either frosted or sealed over by the vast snowbanks.

Her eyes traced the channel the men had dug from the bunkhouse to the main house and then over the hill to where the stables and shelters stood. She’d watched them taking turns with the digging until the bank on either side was shoulder high. Against the house, where the wind had driven into drifts, the white piles had been as high as the second-story windows on the western side and not much lower to the south and north. The men had dug them out each day, but each night as they slept through the high, dry wail of the wind, the drifts returned.

“Never, ever, have I seen this much snow,” Bryce had said, staring out a whitewashed window as if he could somehow bore through it and see his horses. That had been yesterday, when they wondered if the snow would ever stop. And then this morning it had.

The men were immediately at it, attempting to get to the hundred horses that had been left to battle the elements on their own. Only fifty could be in the stables at a time or sheltered in the corrals that lined it. They had found food and water throughout the storm. But the others? Those who had naught but the small snow breaks that dotted the fields? Odessa shook her head. Judging from the house, they might have all long been buried. Please, God, please … please let them be all right.

The passageway through which the men had disappeared remained silent and empty, a yawning chasm of doubt and fear. After a couple brutal years of drought, much of Odessa’s inheritance had gone into an extension of acreage that gained the Circle M increased water rights. Could the horses out there even get to water? Were they pawing and digging their way down to streams that were frozen solid?

Odessa blinked twice and turned, deciding to do something rather than stand there and fret. Bread, six loaves, she’d bake. A thick and hearty beef stew the men would love after their bone-chilling, hard work. An apple cobbler from her stash of summer preserves. “Come, Samuel,” she whispered, drawing comfort from the weight of him in her arms. She carried him down the stairs and into the kitchen, then set him on the floor atop a thick blanket, near the stove, which she blocked off by turning a chair on its side. It was so dark with the snow that embalmed the windows–despite the bright sun outside–she lit a couple of lamps, stoked the fire, handed Samuel a tin cup to play with, and turned to pull out flour and sugar.

Later, with the bread rising by the stove, she fed Samuel while she sat in her rocker, wondering how much longer it would take for Bryce, anyone, to return to her. She was desperate for word. By now they had surely made it to the snow breaks, assessed the losses–

It was then that she heard the stomping on the front porch, the low murmur of voices. She hurriedly pulled Samuel from her breast. She ignored his indignant cry, her eyes only on the front door as she rushed to meet her husband. He turned to her, and she could see the men walking away with stooped shoulders. But it was Bryce, her dear, sweet Bryce, who captured her whole attention. It was as if he had aged a decade, or suffered from consumption again, so weary and ill did he appear.

“Bryce,” she said.

He stepped forward and slowly closed the door behind him, then gradually raised his eyes to meet hers. Tears welled and threatened to roll down his cheeks.

“Oh!” she said, clamping her lips shut, feeling tears clench her throat. “All of them, Bryce? Are they all dead?” She moved forward to wrap one arm around him. Samuel wailed louder than ever, infuriated by the crush of his parents. But the two adults remained there as each gave way to the tremors of sobs.

Her husband wiped his cheeks with the palms and then the backs of his hands, trying to regain control. “Best we can tell, the storm took many of them.” He took another deep breath. “Some might have made it to the far side, instinctively heading for the shelter of the trees. But we’ll need a week of melt before we can make it across to see. And we can’t–” his voice broke and he wept for a moment–“we can’t even be sure how many are there, by the snow breaks. They’re buried, Dess. Buried. Stood there, waiting for us to save them.”

She moved back in to hold him, crying with him again. Dear God … Please. Please. The mere idea of it, the overwhelming vision of a hundred horses now dead.… No, no, no. Savior, please! What would become of them? The ranch depended on the income of the sale of a hundred and fifty horses each summer. One hundred already dead? And with more snow coming? Her eyes went to the front parlor window, a dark bank of dense snow. Show us, Lord. Show us what to do. We need You. We need You!

15 March 1887

Rio de Janeiro

“Come, Son, we have need of your services,” said a man gruffly, hauling Dominic to his feet.

Nic winced, both at the rapid motion and the bright light of morning. His stomach roiled and his head spun. Whatever they were pouring last night at the bar was hard on a man’s gut, even one used to liquor. He squinted, trying to see the men who were on either side of him as they rushed him down the stairs, out the door, and through a crowded market plaza. “Stop!” he yelled. “Unhand me! What’s this about?”

The two men paused, tightening their grip on his arms as he fought back. Two others arrived and lifted his feet from the cobblestones. “Wait! Where are you taking me?” Nic cried, battling both fear and fury now. He writhed and pulled, but to no avail. By the look of them, these four men were hardened seamen.

The leader motioned for the others to halt, and he was once again on his feet. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered, staring at them, but Nic was struggling to steady his eyes on the man. “Where are you taking me?” he repeated. The first relinquished Nic’s arm to another’s care and turned to face him. “You cost my cap’n a large sum of money last night with your poor fighting.”

“The man was twice my size!” Nic snarled, feeling the man’s complaint as if it were a sucker punch.

“Yes, well, the cap’n had high hopes for you. Your reputation, up to last night, was … unequaled. He put a fair sum down on you.”

“That’s a gambler’s risk.” He pulled again, hoping to get free, but the men still held stubbornly to his arms. If he could get even one fist free.…

The leader grinned, showing a mouthful of decaying teeth. “Too bad you didn’t win last night. He believes you owe him the money he lost.”

“That’s preposterous!” The man shrugged and smiled again. “Be that as it may, we are only obliged to follow our cap’n’s orders. And our cap’n is now yours as well.”

Nic paused and swallowed hard. So that was it. These men intended to shanghai him–force him to serve aboard their ship. “You’re nothing but a crimp! There are laws against–”

“For American ships, sailing under American laws,” said the man. He motioned to the others and turned to walk toward the docks, the others following behind, dragging Nic along. “We lost a dozen men here in port to the fever,” he said, turning partially toward Nic to speak while they walked. “Now the cap’n is not only cantankerous over losin’ them, but also losin’ his heavy purse over you. It’s your bum luck. Best to accept it and embrace it, man. Six months from now, you’ll be set free, in whatever port you wish.”

“If I’m not already dead.”

The man laughed, a slow, deep guffaw that eventually built into laughter that spread among the others. “Aye, that’s the risk of any sailor’s life, especially in the waters where we are headed.” He looked over his shoulder at his prisoner. “Come along, St. Clair. Cease your struggle. It is of no use. You’ll take to the water, you’ll see. Yes’sir, gamblers and fighters–they make the best of seamen. You might find you love it as much as the ring.”

Cañon City, Colorado

Reid Bannock straightened, groaning at the ache in the small of his back and between his shoulders. He set the pickax against his leg and gestured to the water boy to come his way. He casually met the gaze of the deputy, who watched over the prison chain gang with an armed shotgun resting across his arms. The man gave him a slight nod. They got on, the two of them. Reid fancied the idea that the younger man felt sorry for him even, though the two had never shared more than a few words. Undoubtedly, Deputy Johnson knew Reid’s story, passed along more from lawman to lawman than within his files.

The blue-lipped, shivering water boy finally reached him and offered up a grubby ladle full of water. The boy’s hand trembled violently, not out of fear but from exposure. In the cold, the top of his bucket kept frosting over and encased the whole thing in ice. He had to break through the top to fetch Reid the water, and it was so cold, it made Reid’s teeth hurt as he drank.

It stayed cold, even within him, making him feel as if he swallowed a chunk of ice rather than liquid. He coughed, thumped his chest, and gazed up at the mountains, finally clear after the blizzard. It mattered little, this trial. In a few months he’d be free. Regardless of the sentence, he’d be free. Every morning, he was up and dressed, awaiting the deputy who would chain him to others for the work on the new prison building, whatever the weather. Only the blizzard had allowed them a few days’ respite. Each mornin’, he greeted the deputy with a friendly word, knowing that consistent good behavior could knock months off a man’s sentence.

By his calculations, the county was drawing too many new people, and therefore too many new criminals. The general’s propaganda was doing its good work, and Colorado Springs, Pueblo, even Cañon City were seeing pioneers arrive by the thousands, all hoping to make a new life for themselves. After a winter like they’d had, many of them were liable to be desperate, driven to desperate decisions, not all of them on the right side of the law. Already, Reid shared his tiny cell with five other men. Word had it that a sixth would be brought in soon, left to sleep on the narrow space that was currently the only flooring between the two bunks, each with three levels. How long until a seventh arrived? Yes, when number seven arrived, tough decisions would have to be made; the prison warden would have to speak with judges, finding a means to alleviate the pressure before the prisoners exploded.

“Get back to work, Bannock,” the deputy barked.

“Yes sir, right away, sir,” Reid called back, immediately picking up his ax. He lifted it up over his left shoulder and then let it arc down toward the boulder in front of him, imagining faces upon it, as he had every day on every rock he had destroyed over the last three years.

Moira St. Clair. The woman who had stolen his heart, and then crushed it.

Dominic St. Clair. The man who had stood between Moira and him.

Odessa and Bryce McAllan, the people who refused to give up what was destined to be his.

A chunk of granite fell away with his next strike, revealing a tiny, crooked line of gold that glittered in the sun, too small to warrant the work of extraction, but tantalizing. It was common, these tiny remnants, teasing their discoverers with the idea about where the rock had once stood and what vein had once connected to this small one.… In spite of himself, he leaned forward and traced the line with his finger. Gold. Silver. Treasure untold. Sam O’Toole or his parents had discovered something, up near his mine. Something beyond the few sweet silver nuggets he’d brought out to Westcliffe and sold. Had the McAllans discovered it yet? Had they squired it away for a rainy day?

“The Spaniards, they came up this way, ya know,” said an old man, chained to his right leg. He was a chatty fellow, and Reid glanced at him before striking with the pickax again.

“That so?” he said casually.

“Yep. My great-granddaddy, he was a trapper. Ran with Kit Carson and the like for a time. Knew a lot of Injuns.”

“And the Spaniards?” Reid asked lowly.

“My great-granddaddy, he was chased right up into the Sangres by the Ute who didn’t take kindly to him being–”

“You two!” barked the deputy, frowning in their direction. “Less talking, more work!”

Reid frowned too and doubled his efforts against the boulder. But with each strike, he wondered more about what the old man had to say. A few minutes later, he dared to glance at the old man.

I’ll tell you later, his eyes said.

©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Sing by Lisa Bergren. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

focus: slowing down (02.2010 : v0.2)