The 13: Fall

November 26th, 2012

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!

Today’s Wild Card author is:

 

Robbie Cheuvront and Erik Reed

 

and the book:

 

The 13: Fall
Barbour Books (September 1, 2012)
***Special thanks to Sharon Farnell for sending me a review copy.***

 

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

 

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.

 

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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:

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.”
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!”

Dead Man Walking

November 25th, 2012

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

November 22nd, 2012

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

Abraham Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation

November 22nd, 2012

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.

A Thousand Sleepless Nights

November 20th, 2012

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!

Today’s Wild Card author is:

 

Michael King

 

and the book:

 

A Thousand Sleepless Nights
Realms (October 16, 2012)
***Special thanks to Althea Thompson for sending me a review copy.***

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

 

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.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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:

Nena Hutching loved being out on the porch first thing in the morning; it was her favorite time of day. On clear mornings the sun peeked above the black willows and painted the sky brilliant shades of pink and orange. Sometimes deer would gather in the front lawn as they crossed from one pasture to the next. She’d seen upwards of thirty or forty at a time. And if the temperature gradient was just right, a low mist would settle across the ranch, hovering like slow-moving water, giving the whole property a dreamlike appearance.

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.”

Eternal Life

November 18th, 2012

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

November 16th, 2012

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

Win a Kindle Paperwhite and connect with Kristen Heitzmann at “The Breath of Dawn” Facebook Party {11/27}!

November 16th, 2012

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!

Sofia’s Secret

November 15th, 2012

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!

Today’s Wild Card author is:

 

Sharlene MacLaren

 

and the book:

 

Sofia’s Secret, River of Hope Series Book 3
Whitaker House (October 1, 2012)
***Special thanks to Cathy Hickling for sending me a review copy.***

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

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.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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:

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.
—Psalm 51:17
June 1930
Wabash, Indiana
The blazing sun ducked behind a cloud, granting a smidgeon of relief to Sofia Rogers as she compressed the pedal to stop her bike in front of Murphy’s Market and, in a most inelegant manner, slid off the seat, taking care not to catch the hem of her loose-fitting dress in the bicycle chain. She scanned the street in both directions, hoping not to run into anyone she knew, then parked the rusting yellow bike next to a Ford truck. These days, she dreaded coming into town, but she couldn’t very well put off the chore much longer if she wanted to keep food on the table.
Her younger brother, Andy, had won the race to their destination. His equally corroded bike leaned against the building, and he stood next to it, his arms crossed, a burlap sack slung across one shoulder. As she approached, a smug grin etched his freckled face. “Didn’t I t-tell you I’d b-beat you?”
“That’s because you had a full minute head start on me, you rascal.” Sofie might have added that her present condition did not permit the speed and agility she’d once had, but she wasn’t about to make that excuse. “Just you wait. I’ll win on the way back home.”
“N-not if I can help it.”
She pressed the back of her hand to her hot, damp face and stepped up to the sidewalk. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Know-It-All.”
Andy pointed at her and laughed. “Now your face is all d-dirty.”
She looked at her hands, still soiled from working in the garden that morning, and frowned. “I guess I should have lathered them a little better when I washed up.” She bent over and used the hem of her skirt to wipe her cheek before straightening. “There. Is that better?”
He tilted his face and angled her a crooked grin. “Sort of.”
“Oh, who cares?” She tousled his rust-colored hair. “Come on, let’s get started checking those items off my shopping list.”
They headed for the door, but a screeching horn drew their attention to the street, where a battered jalopy slowed at the curb. Several teenage boys, their heads poking out through the windows, whistled and hollered. “Hey, sister! Hear you like to have a good time!”
At their crudeness, Sofie felt a suffocating pressure in her chest. With a hand on her brother’s shoulder, she watched the car round the bend, as the boys’ whoops faded into the distance.
“Who were those guys?”
“Nobody important.”
As if the baby inside her fully agreed, she got a strong push to the rib cage that jarred her and made her stumble.
“You alright?” Andy grabbed her elbow, looking mature beyond his eleven years.
She paused to take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, touching a hand to her abdomen. Even in her seventh month, she could scarcely fathom carrying a tiny human in her womb, let alone accept all of the kicks and punches he or she had started doling out on a daily basis. She’d read several books to know what to expect as she progressed, but none of them had come close to explaining why she already felt so deeply in love with the tiny life inside of her. Considering that she hadn’t consented to the act committed against her, she should have resented the little life, but how could she hold an innocent baby accountable? “I’m fine,” she finally assured her brother. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
Inside Murphy’s Market, a few people ambled up and down the two narrow aisles, toting cloth bags or shopping baskets. Sofie kept her left hand out of view as much as possible, in hopes of avoiding the condemnation of anyone who noticed the absence of a wedding band on her left ring finger. Not that she particularly cared what other folks thought, but she’d grown weary of the condescending stares. Several women had tried to talk her into giving the infant up for adoption, including Margie Grant, an old friend who had served as a mother figure to her and Andy ever since their parents had perished in a train wreck in 1924. “The little one growing inside you is the result of an insidious attack, darling. I shouldn’t think you’d want much to do with it once it’s born,” Margie had said. “I happen to know more than a few childless couples right here in Wabash who would be thrilled to take it off your hands. You should really consider adoption.”
Because Margie had long been a loyal friend, Sofie had confided in her about the assault, including when and where it had occurred. As for going to the authorities and demanding an investigation—never! Margie had begged her to go straight to Sheriff Morris, but she had refused, and then had made Margie swear on the Bible not to go herself.
“That is a hard promise to make, dearest,” Margie had conceded with wrinkled brow, “but I will promise to keep my lips buttoned. As for adoption, if you gave the baby to a nice couple in town, you would have the opportunity to watch it grow up. That would bring you comfort, I should think, especially if you selected a well-deserving Christian couple.”
“I can’t imagine giving my baby away to someone in my hometown, Christian or not.”
“Well then, we’ll go to one of the neighboring towns,” the woman had persisted. “Think about it, sweetheart. You don’t have the means to raise a child. Why, you and Andy are barely making ends meet as it is. Who’s going to take care of it while you’re at work?”
“I can’t think about that right now, Margie. And, please, don’t refer to my child as an ‘it.’”
The woman’s face had softened then, and she’d enfolded Sofie in her arms. “Well, of course, I know your baby’s not an ‘it,’ honey. But, until he or she is born, I have no notion what to call it—I mean, him or her.”
“‘The baby’ will do fine.”
Margie had given her a little squeeze, then dropped her hands to her sides and shot her a pleading gaze. “I sure wish you’d tell me who did this to you. It’s a crime, you know, what he did.”
Yes, it had been a crime—the most reprehensible sort. And it was both a blessing and a curse that Sofie couldn’t remember the details. The last thing she could remember was drinking her habitual cup of coffee at Spic-and-Span Cleaning Service before starting her evening rounds. She’d thought it tasted unusually bitter, but she’d shrugged it off at the time. Half an hour later—at the site of her job that night, at the law offices of Baker & Baker—she’d been overcome by dizziness and collapsed. She’d teetered in and out of consciousness, with only a vague notion of what was going on. When she’d awakened, it had been daylight, and she was sore all over. Fortunately, it had been a Saturday, and the offices were closed; no one had discovered her lying there, nauseous and trembling, her dress torn, her hair disheveled. A particular ache had given her a clue as to what had gone on while she’d been unconscious. As the sickening reality had set in, she’d found beside her the note that had haunted her ever since.
Breathe one word about this and you can say bye-bye to your brother.
It had been typed on the official letterhead of the sheriff’s office, making her even less inclined to go to the authorities. Whoever had assaulted her had connections to the law, and she wasn’t about to risk her brother’s life to find out his identity. Plus, without a name, and with no visual or auditory recollection, she had nothing to offer that would aid an investigation.
By the time she realized she’d gotten pregnant, two months had passed—too late to go crying to the authorities. Not that she’d planned to. Her attacker’s threat had been enough to keep her quiet. She could bear the scorn and the shame, as long as he left her alone. And the only way of ensuring that was to comply with his demands. No, she couldn’t say anything more about it to Margie.
“Margie, we’ve been over this. It’s better left unsaid, believe me.”
“But, don’t you know people are going to talk? Who knows what they’ll think or say when you start to show? If they learned the truth, perhaps they’d go a little easier on you.”
“No! I can’t. No one must know—not even you. I’m sorry, Margie.”
Margie had rubbed the back of her neck as if trying to work out a kink. A loud breath had blown past her lips and whistled across Sofie’s cheek. “You know I love you, and so I will honor your wishes…for now.” Then, her index finger had shot up in the air, nearly poking Sofie in the nose. “But if he so much as comes within an inch of you again, I want you to tell me right away, you hear? I can’t abide thinking that he’ll come knocking at your door. You must promise me, Sofia Mae Rogers!”
Sofie had hidden the shiver that had rustled through her veins at the mere thought of crossing paths with her attacker again. Why, every time she went to work, she couldn’t get the awful pounding in her chest to slow its pace until she was home again. She’d stopped drinking and eating at work—anywhere other than at home, really.
“Show me your list, Sofie.” Andy’s voice drew her out of her fretful thoughts. She reached inside her pocket and handed over the paper. When he set off down an aisle, she idly followed after, her mind drifting back into its musings.
***
Dr. Elijah Trent parked his grandfather’s 1928 Ford Model A in the lot beside Murphy’s Market. As he climbed out, he was careful not to allow his door to collide with a bicycle standing nearby. Another battered bike leaned against the building. It looked as if it could use some serious repair work. He closed his door and took a deep breath of hot June air, then cast a glance overhead at the row of birds roosting on a clothesline that stretched between two apartment buildings across the street.
When he pulled open the whiny screen door, an array of aromas teased his nostrils, from freshly ground coffee beans to roasted peanuts in a barrel. As he stepped inside, a floorboard shrieked beneath his feet, as if to substantiate its long-term use.
“Afternoon,” said the shopkeeper, who glanced up from the cash register, where he stood, ringing up an order for a young pregnant woman. Beside her, a boy dutifully stuffed each item into a cloth bag. The young woman raised her head and glanced briefly at Eli, who sensed a certain tenseness in her chestnut-colored eyes. Then, she shifted her gaze back to the clerk.
“Say, ain’t you Doc Trent’s grandson?” the man asked.
“That I am, sir. Elijah Trent. But most people call me Eli.”
The clerk stopped ringing items for a moment and gave him an up-and-down glance. “Heard you’re takin’ over the old fellow’s practice. That’s mighty fine o’ you. I understand you graduated with honors from the University of Michigan, an’ you worked at a Detroit hospital for two years, but you were itchin’ for small-town livin’. Timing’s good, since Doc’s retirin’. S’pose you two been plannin’ this for quite a while now, eh? Hate to see Wilson Trent retire, but most folks seem to think it’ll be good to get in some new blood. Get it? Blood?” He gave a hearty chortle, causing his rotund chest to jiggle up and down.
Eli smiled at the friendly man. “It sounds like Grandfather’s been keeping everyone well-informed.”
“He sure has. Plus, the Plain Dealer wrote up that article ’bout you.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
The woman shifted her narrow frame and fingered one of her short, brown curls, but she kept her eyes focused on the counter. Beside her, the freckle-faced youngster poked his head around the back of her and met Elijah’s gaze. They stared at each other for all of three seconds, but when Eli smiled, the boy quickly looked forward again.
As the clerk resumed ringing up their order, Eli reached inside his hip pocket and grabbed the short list his grandfather had scrawled in his somewhat shaky handwriting. In Detroit, he’d taken most of his meals at the hospital. Helping his grandfather in the kitchen would be an entirely new experience. At least it would be only temporary, until Grandfather’s housekeeper of twenty-odd years, Winifred Carmichael, returned from her two-week vacation out West.
“You lookin’ for anythin’ in particular?” the clerk asked.
“Nothing I can’t find on my own, sir.”
“Pick up one o’ them baskets by the door for stashin’ what you need. Name’s Harold, by the way. Harold Murphy. I’ve owned this place goin’ on thirty years now.”
Eli bent to pick up a basket. He hadn’t thought to bring along a sack in which to carry the items home. The store he had occasioned in Detroit had offered brown paper bags, but the trend didn’t seem to have caught on in Wabash just yet. “Yes, I recall coming here with my grandmother as a kid.”
“And I remember you, as well, with that sandy hair o’ yours and that there dimple in your chin.”
“Is that so? You have a good memory, Mr. Murphy.”
A pleased expression settled on the clerk’s face. “You used to ogle my candy jars and tug at your grandmother’s arm. ’Course, she’d always give in. She couldn’t resist your pleadin’. Seems to me you always managed to wrangle some chewin’ gum out o’ her before I finished ringin’ her order.”
“It’s amazing you remember that.”
“Well, some things just stick in my memory for no particular reason.” He glanced across the counter at the freckle-faced boy. “Young Andy, here, he’s the Hershey’s chocolate bar type. Ain’t that right, Andy?”
The lad’s head jerked up, and he looked from Mr. Murphy to the woman beside him. “Yes, sir. C-c-can I g-get one today, Sofie?”
Her slender shoulders lifted and drooped with a labored sigh. “I suppose, but don’t expect any other treats today.”
“I won’t.”
The brief tête-à-tête allowed Eli the chance to disappear down an aisle in search of the first item on his list: sugar. He found it about the same time the screen door whined open once more, with the exit of the young woman and the boy. Next, Eli spotted the bread at the end of the aisle. He picked up a loaf and nestled it in the basket, next to the box of sugar.
“Well, I think it’s plain disgraceful, her coming into town and flaunting herself like that. My stars, has she not an ounce of decency? And what, pray tell, is she teaching that brother of hers by not keeping herself concealed?”
“I must agree, it’s quite appalling,” said another.
Eli’s ears perked up at the sound of female scoffs coming from the other side of the shelving unit at the back of the store. He stilled, slanted his head, and leaned forward. If he could push a few cans and boxed goods to the side without creating a commotion, he might manage a partial view of the gossips.
“I always did wonder about her and that pitiable little brother of hers, living all alone on the far edge of town. No telling what sort of man put her in a motherly way. Why, if I were in her place, I’d have gone off to stay with some relative in another state. One would think she’d have somewhere she could go. She could have birthed the child, given it to some worthy family, and come back to Wabash, and no one would’ve been the wiser.”
The other gossip cleared her throat. “Perchance her ‘lover’ won’t hear of her leaving, and she doesn’t dare defy him. She always did come off as rather defenseless, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, yes, and very reclusive. Never was one to join any charity groups or ladies’ circles. Why, she doesn’t even attend church, to my knowledge. As I said before, the whole thing is disgraceful.”
Eli shuffled around the corner and stopped at the end of the next row, where he picked up a couple of cans of beans, even though they weren’t on Grandfather’s list, and dropped them into his basket with a clatter. The chattering twosome immediately fell silent. Eli cast a casual glance in their direction, and he almost laughed at their poses of feigned nonchalance. One was studying the label on a box, while the other merely stared at a lower shelf, her index finger pressed to her chin.
When Eli started down the aisle, both of them looked up, so he nodded. “Afternoon, ladies.”
The more buxom of the two batted her eyelashes and plumped her graying hair, then nearly blinded him with a fulsome smile. “Well, good afternoon to you.” She put a hand to her throat. “My goodness. You’re Doc Trent’s grandson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be. I overheard you talking with Harold, but I didn’t lay eyes on you until now.” She perused him up and down. “You sure are a handsome devil.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, Bessie, mind your manners.” The second woman bore a blush of embarrassment. “Don’t pay her any heed, Doctor. She’s such a tease.” She extended a hand. “I’m Clara Morris, the sheriff’s wife, and this is Bessie Lloyd. Her husband owns Lloyd’s Shoe Store, over on Market Street. Welcome to Wabash, Dr. Trent. We read about your impending arrival in the newspaper. I hope you find yourself feeling right at home here.”
“I’m sure I will.” Eli shifted his shopping basket and extended a hand first to Mrs. Morris, then to the annoying Mrs. Lloyd. He would have liked to remind them that two upstanding women in the community ought to put a lock on their lips, lest they tarnish their own reputations, but he hadn’t come to Wabash with the intention of making instant enemies, so he restrained himself. “Nice meeting you ladies. You have a good day, now.”
He glanced to his left and, seeing a shelf with maple syrup, snatched a can and tossed it into his basket. Casting the women one last smile, he headed down the aisle in search of the remaining items.
“My, my,” he heard Mrs. Lloyd mutter. “I think it may be time for me to switch physicians.”
“But you’ve been seeing Dr. Stewart for years,” Mrs. Morris said. “What about your bad knee?”
“Pfff, never mind that. I’d much rather look into that young man’s blue eyes and handsome face than Dr. Stewart’s haggard mug. Why, if I were younger….”
Eli picked up his pace and made it out of earshot before she finished her statement.
Several minutes later, he’d rounded up everything on his list, so he made his way to the cash register. As he did, the voices of the two gabby women carried across the store. Evidently, they’d found a new topic of conversation. “I went to McNarney Brothers yesterday,” Mrs. Lloyd was saying, “and would you believe they raised the price of beef by five cents a pound? Don’t they know times are tight? Before you know it, folks won’t be able to afford to eat.”
“She could afford to go a few days without eatin’,” Harold Murphy muttered. His eyes never strayed from his task, as he keyed in the amount of each item before placing it back in the basket.
Eli covered his mouth with the back of his hand until his grin faded. He decided it was best to keep quiet on the matter. Something else bothered him, though, and he couldn’t resist inquiring. He leaned in, taking care to keep his voice down. “That girl…er, that woman, who left a bit ago, who is expecting….”
“Ah, Sofia Rogers? She was here with her little brother, Andy.” Mr. Murphy rang up the final item, the loaf of bread, and placed it gently atop the other goods. Then, he scratched the back of his head as his thin lips formed a frown. “It’s a shame, them two…well, them three, I guess you could say.” He glanced both ways, then lowered his head and whispered, “Don’t know who got her in that way, and I don’t rightly care. When she comes here, I just talk to her like nothin’s different. Figure it ain’t really my concern. I know there’s been talk about her bein’ loose, an’ all, but I can’t accept it. Never seen her with anybody but that little boy. She takes mighty fine care o’ him, too.”
“She’s his guardian, then?”
“Sure enough, ever since…oh, let’s see here…summer of twenty-four, it was. They lost their ma and pa in a terrible train wreck. They’d left Andy home with Sofie for a few days, whilst they went to a family funeral somewhere out West, little knowing their own funeral would be three days later.” The man shook his balding head.
The news got Eli’s gut to roiling. Even after all those years of medical school, which should have calloused him to pain and suffering, his heartstrings were wound as taut as ever. He needed to learn to toughen up. Needed to accept that, thanks to Adam and Eve’s fateful decision in the garden, bad things happened to innocent people; that he lived in an imperfect world in which evil often won.
“Where do they live, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Somewheres out on the southwest edge o’ town. River Road, I believe, just off o’ Mill Creek Pike.”
Eli didn’t know Wabash well, but his grandfather certainly did, having driven virtually every street within the town limits to make house calls. But what was he thinking? He ought to bop himself on the noggin. He knew next to nothing about this woman, and the last thing he needed upon taking over Wilson Trent’s medical practice was a reputation for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Eli paid the shopkeeper and took up the basket. He had a good feeling about Harold Murphy. “Nice to see you again, sir. I’ll bring this basket back next time I come in…or shall I return it to you tonight?”
Harold flicked his wrist. “Naw, you bring it back whenever it’s convenient. You give ol’ Doc a hearty hello from me.”
“I’ll do that.” Eli turned and proceeded to the door, shoving it open with his shoulder. The first thing he noticed when he stepped outside was the absence of the two bikes, and it occurred to him then that Sofia and Andy Rogers had ridden to and from Murphy’s Market on those rickety contraptions. A woman in what looked to be her seventh month of pregnancy, riding a bike clear to the edge of town? In a dress? And in this heat?
This time, he did bop himself on the head.

Kindle Fire Giveaway from @LeslieGould! RSVP for Facebook Party {11/20}

November 15th, 2012

A retelling of the Taming of the Shrew! Leslie Gould is celebrating the release of Courting Cate with a fun Kindle Fire Giveaway and a Facebook Author Chat Party (11/20)!

One lucky winner will receive:

  • A Kindle Fire
  • Courting Cate by Leslie Gould

Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends on November 19th. Winner will be announced at the “Courting Cate” Author Chat Facebook Party on 11/20. Connect with Leslie, get a sneak peek of her next book, try your hand at an Amish 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 Courting Cate and join Leslie on the evening of the November 20th for a chance to connect with Leslie 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 20th!