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  The man named his wife Eve, because she was the mother of all living.

Genesis 3:20

Her children rise up and call her happy; her husband too, and he praises her.

Proverbs 31:28

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:

Livvie’s Song
(River of Hope series #1)

Whitaker House (July 5, 2011)

***Special thanks to Cathy Hickling of Whitaker House for sending me a review copy.***

“Shar” grew up in western Michigan and graduated from Spring Arbor University with a degree in education. She traveled the world with a musical group before returning home to marry Cecil MacLaren whom she’d known since childhood. Together they raised two daughters (and now have three grandchildren). As retirement approached, Shar asked God for a new mission that would fill her heart with the same kind of passion she’d felt for teaching and raising her family. She found her mission in Christian fiction writing, crafting plotlines that bring her characters face-to-face with God’s grace and restorative power. Since 2007 she’s released nine successful books – two historical series and three stand-alone contemporary novels – that have earned her numerous awards and an ever-increasing base of loyal readers who are comforted, inspired, and entertained by her books.

Visit the author’s website.

Life is far from a breeze for Olivia Beckman, owner of Livvie’s Kitchen, a favorite of locals in Wabash, Indiana. It’s the 1920’s and the widowed mother of two is struggling to make ends meet—no simple feat when her cook turns in his resignation. A late night patron soon solves the problem, though. Looking for work and carrying his only earthly possessions — a harmonica and a Bible — Will Taylor is an experienced cook eager for work. What Will doesn’t share is that his experience comes from ten years working behind bars in the prison cafeteria. He manages to bake his way into the stomachs of his customers—and into Livvie’s heart as well. Both Livvie and Will are hesitant, though, bearing deep wounds from the past. A recipe for love between them will require sharing secrets, braving dangers, and believing God for a bright future.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (July 5, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603742123
ISBN-13: 978-1603742122

ISLAND BREEZES

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.  I learned that little saying as a child.  I don’t remember why, but it was probably because I tried to get away with a fib.

The deception starts early on in this book.  And what a mess it creates!  Both Will and Livvie have to contend with their past.  Can they move beyond it?

Since this is the first book in the River of Hope series, I’m certainly looking forward to some of these characters continuing into the next book.

Please, Ms MacLaren, tell me you aren’t going to have all different people in the next book.  I’ve become attached to these inhabitants of Wabash.  The fact that I’m originally from Indiana might have a little bit to do with it, but not that much.  I just feel as if I know them as well as the people next door.

You’re going to like the bonus at the end.  Just saying.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Wabash, Indiana

“Praise ye the Lord. Sing unto the Lord a new song.”
—Psalm 149:1

Smoke rings rose and circled the heads of Charley Arnold and Roy Scott as they sat in Livvie’s Kitchen and partook of steaming coffee, savory roast beef and gravy, and conversation, guffawing every so often at each other’s blather. Neither seemed to care much who heard them, since the whole place buzzed with boisterous midday talk. Folks came to her restaurant to fill their stomachs, Livvie Beckman knew, but, for many, getting an earful of gossip was just as satisfying.

Behind the counter in the kitchen, utensils banged against metal and pots and pans sizzled and boiled with steam and smoke. “Order’s up!” hollered the cook, Joe Stewart. On cue, Livvie carried the two hamburger platters to Pete and Susie Jones’s table and set them down with a hasty smile. Her knee-length, floral cotton skirt flared as she turned, mopping her brow and blowing several strawberry blonde strands of damp hair off her face, and hustled to the counter. “You boys put out those disgusting nicotine sticks,” she scolded Charley and Roy on the run. “How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t allow smoking in this establishment? We don’t even have ashtrays.”

“Aw, Livvie, how you expect us t’ enjoy a proper cup o’ coffee without a cigarette?” Charley whined to her back. “’Sides, ar’ saucers work fine for ashtrays.”

“Saucers are not ashtrays,” stated old Evelyn Garner from the booth behind the two men. She craned her long, skinny neck and trained her owl eyes on them, her lips pinched together in a tight frown. Her husband, Ira Garner, had nothing to say, of course. He rarely did, preferring to let his wife do the talking. Instead, he slurped wordlessly on his tomato soup.

Livvie snatched up the next order slip from the counter and gave it a glance. Then, she lifted two more plates, one of macaroni and cheese, the other of a chicken drumstick and mashed potatoes, and whirled back around, eyeing both men sternly. “I expect you to follow my rules, boys”—she marched past them—“or go next door to Isaac’s, where the smoke’s as thick as cow dung.”

Her saucy remark gave rise to riotous hoots. “You tell ’em, Liv,” someone said—Harv Brewster, perhaps? With the racket of babies crying, patrons chattering, the cash register clinking as Cora Mae Livingston tallied somebody’s order, the screen door flapping open and shut, and car horns honking outside, Livvie couldn’t discern who said what. Oh, how she wished she had the funds to hire a few more waitresses. Some days, business didn’t call for it, but, today, it screamed, “Help!”

“You best listen, fellas. When Livvie Beckman speaks, she means every word,” said another. She turned at the husky male voice but couldn’t identify its source.

“Lady, you oughtta go to preachin’ school,” said yet another unknown speaker.

“She’s somethin’, ain’t she?” There was no mistaking Coot Hermanson’s croaky pipes. Her most loyal customer, also the oldest by far, gave her one of his famous, toothy grins over his coffee cup, which he held with trembling hands. No one really knew Coot’s age, and most people suspected he didn’t know it, himself, but Livvie thought he looked to be a hundred; ninety-nine, at the very least. But that didn’t keep him from showing up at her diner on Market Street every day, huffing from the two-block walk, his faithful black mongrel, Reggie, parked on his haunches under the red and white awning out front, waiting for his usual handout of leftover bacon or the heels of a fresh-baked loaf of bread.

Before scooting past him, she stooped to tap him with her elbow. “I’ll be right back to fill that coffee cup, Coot,” she whispered into his good ear.

He lifted an ancient white eyebrow and winked. “You take your time, missy,” he wheezed back before she straightened and hurried along.

Of all her regulars, Coot probably knew her best—knew about the tough façade she put on, day in and day out; recognized the rawness of her heart, the ache she still carried from the loss of her beloved Frank. More than a year had come and gone since her husband’s passing, but it still hurt to the heavens to think about him. More painful still were her desperate attempts to keep his memory alive for her sons, Alex and Nathan. She’d often rehash how she’d met their father at a church picnic when the two were only teenagers; how he’d enjoyed fishing, hunting, and building things with his bare hands; and how, as he’d gotten older, his love of the culinary arts had planted within him a seed of desire to one day open his own restaurant. She’d tell them how they’d worked so hard to scrimp and save, even while raising a family, and how thrilled Frank had been when that dream had finally come to fruition.

What she didn’t tell her boys was how much she struggled to keep her passion for the restaurant alive in their daddy’s absence. Oh, she had Joe, of course, but he’d dropped the news last week that he’d picked up a new kitchen job in a Chicago diner—some well-known establishment, he’d said—and he could hardly have turned it down, especially with his daughter and grandchildren begging him to move closer to them. Wabash had been home to Joe Stewart since childhood, but his wife had died some five years ago, and he had little to keep him here. It made sense, Livvie supposed, but it didn’t make her life any easier having to find a replacement.

She set down two plates for a couple she’d never seen before, a middle-aged man and his wife. Strangers were always passing through Wabash on their ways north or south, so it wasn’t unusual for her not to know them. “You folks enjoy your lunch,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you kindly,” the man said, licking his lips and loosening his tie. “This meal looks mighty fine.”

Livvie nodded, then made for the coffeepot behind the counter, sensing it was time for a round of refills.

A cloud of smoke still surrounded Charley and Roy’s table, though their cigarettes looked to be nearing their ends. She decided not to mention anything further about their annoying behavior unless they lit up again. Those fools had little compunction and even less consideration for the feelings of others. She would have liked to ban them from her restaurant, if it weren’t for the revenue they brought in with their almost daily visits. Gracious, it cost an awful lot to keep a restaurant going. She would sell it tomorrow if she had a backup plan, but she didn’t. Besides, Frank would bust out of his casket if she hung a “For Sale” sign on the front door. The diner had been his dream, one she’d adopted with gusto because she’d loved him so much, but she hadn’t envisioned his leaving her in the thick of it before they’d paid off their mortgage on the three-story building and turned a good profit on the restaurant.

Oh, why had God taken Frank at such a young age? He’d been thirty-one, married for ten years and a restaurant owner for five. Couldn’t God have intervened and sent an angel just in time to keep Frank from stepping in front of that horse-drawn wagon hauling furniture? And why, for mercy’s sake, did the accident have to occur right in front of the restaurant, drawing a huge crowd and forever etching in her mind’s eye the sight of her beloved lying in the middle of the street, blood oozing from his nose and mouth, his eyes open but not really seeing? Coot often told her that God had her best interests in mind and that she needed to trust Him with her whole heart, but how could she, when it seemed like few things ever went right for her, and she had to work so hard to stay afloat? Goodness, she barely had a minute to spare for her own children.

Swallowing a sigh, she hefted up the coffeepot, which had finished percolating, and started the round of refills, beginning with Coot Hermanson.

***

Will Taylor ground out his last cigarette with the sole of his worn shoe as he leaned against the wall of the train car, his head pounding with every jolt, the whir and buzz of metal against metal ripping through his head. He stared down at his empty pack of Luckies and turned up his mouth in the corner, giving a little huff of self-disgust. He didn’t really smoke—not anymore. But, when he’d left Welfare Island State Penitentiary in New York City in the wee hours of the morning, one of the guards had handed him a fresh pack, along with the few belongings he had to his name, and he’d smoked the entire thing to help pass the time.

Sharing the mostly empty freight car with him were a dozen or so other men, the majority of whom wore unkempt beards, ragged clothing, and long faces. They also stank to the heavens. He figured he fit right in with the lot of them. Frankly, they all looked like a bunch of bums—and probably were, for that matter. Why else would they have jumped aboard the freight car at various stations while the yardmen had their backs turned instead of purchasing a ticket for a passenger car? Will had intended to pay his fare, and he’d even found himself standing in the queue outside the ticket booth, but when he’d counted his meager stash of cash, he’d fallen out of line. Thankfully, the dense morning fog had made his train-jumping maneuver a cinch. If only it could have had the same effect on his conscience. He’d just been released from prison. Couldn’t he get through his first day of freedom without breaking the law?

“Where you headed, mister?” the man closest to him asked.

He could count on one hand the number of minutes anybody on that dark, dingy car had spent engaged in conversation in the hours they’d been riding, and he didn’t much feel like talking now. Yet he turned to the fellow, anyway. “Wabash, Indiana,” he answered. “Heard it’s a nice place.”

Actually, he knew nothing about it, save for the state song, “On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away,” which spoke about the river running through it. He’d determined his destination just that morning while poring over a map in the train station, thinking that any other place in the country would beat where he’d spent the last ten years. When he’d overheard someone mention Wabash, he’d found it on the map and, knowing it had its own song, set his mind on going there.

He didn’t know a soul in Wabash, which made the place all the more appealing. Best to make a fresh start anonymously. Of course, he had no idea what he’d do to make a living, and it might be that he’d have to move on to the next town if jobs there were scarce. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

His stomach growled, so he opened his knapsack and took out an apple, just one of the few items he’d lifted from the jail kitchen the previous night—with the approval of Harry Wilkinson, the kitchen supervisor. The friends he’d made at Welfare Island were few, as he couldn’t trust most folks any farther than he could pitch them, but he did consider Harry a friend, having worked alongside him for the past four years. Harry had told him about the love of God and convinced him not six months ago to give his heart over to Him, saying he’d need a good friend when he left the island and could do no better than the Creator of the universe. Will had agreed, of course, but he sure was green in the faith department, even though he’d taken to reading the Bible Harry had given him—his first and only—almost every night before laying his head on his flat, frayed pillow.

“Wabash, eh?” the man said, breaking into his musings. “I heard of it. Ain’t that the first electrically lighted city in the world? I do believe that’s their claim to fame.”

“That right? I wouldn’t know.”

“What takes you to Wabash?” he persisted, pulling on his straggly beard.

Will pulled on his own thick beard, mostly brown with some flecks of blond, briefly wondering if he ought to shave it off before he went in search of a job. He’d seen his reflection in a mirror that morning for the first time in a week and had nearly fallen over. In fact, he’d had to do some mental calculations to convince himself that he was actually thirty-four years old, not forty-three. Prison had not been kind to his appearance; where he’d slaved under the hot summer sun, digging trenches and hoeing the prison garden, and spent the winters hauling coal and chopping logs. While the work had put him in excellent shape physically, the sun and wind had wreaked havoc on his skin, freckling his nose and arms and wrinkling his forehead. When he hadn’t been outside, he’d worked in a scorching-hot kitchen, stirring kettles of soup, peeling potatoes, cutting slabs of beef, filleting fish, and plucking chickens’ feathers.

“Wabash seemed as good a place as any,” he replied after some thought, determined to keep his answers short and vague.

The fellow peered at him with arched eyebrows. “Where you come from, anyway?”

“Around.”

A chuckle floated through the air but quickly drowned in the train’s blaring whistle. The man dug into his side pocket and brought out a cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and lit the end, then took a deep drag before blowing out a long stream of smoke. He gave a thoughtful nod and gazed off. “Yeah, I know. Me, too.” Across the dark space, the others shifted or slept, legs crossed at the ankles, heads bobbing, not seeming to care about the conversation, if they even heard it.

Will might have inquired after his traveling companion, but his years behind bars had taught him plenty—most important, not to trust his fellow man, and certainly never to divulge his personal history. And posing questions to others would only invite inquiries about himself.

He chomped down his final bite of apple, then tossed the chiseled core onto the floor, figuring a rodent would appreciate it later. Then, he wiped his hands on his pant legs, reached inside his hip pocket, and pulled out his trusty harmonica. Moistening his lips, he brought the instrument to his mouth and started breathing into it, cupping it like he might a beautiful woman’s face. Music had always soothed whatever ailed him, and, ever since he’d picked up the skill as a youngster under his grandfather’s tutelage, he’d often whiled away the hours playing this humble instrument.

He must have played half a dozen songs—“Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” “Oh My Darling, Clementine,” “Over There,” “Amazing Grace,” “The Sidewalks of New York,” and even “On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away”—before the shrill train whistle announced their arrival in Wabash. Another stowaway pulled the car door open a crack to peek out and establish their whereabouts.

Quickly, Will stuffed his mouth organ inside his pocket, then stretched his back, the taut muscles tingling from being stationary for so long. At least his pounding headache had relented, replaced now by a mess of tangled nerves. “Reserved excitement” is how he would have described his emotion.

“Nice playin’,” said a man whose face was hidden by the shadow of his low-lying hat. He tipped the brim at Will and gave a slow nod. “You’ve got a way with that thing. Almost put me in a lonesome-type mood.”

“Thanks. For the compliment, I mean. Sorry ’bout your gloomy mood. Didn’t mean to bring that on.”

“Ain’t nothin’. I been jumpin’ trains fer as long as I can remember. Gettin’ the lonelies every now and again is somethin’ to be ’spected, I s’pose.”

“That’s for sure,” mumbled another man, sitting in a corner with his legs stretched out. Will glanced at the sole of his boot and noticed his sock pushing through a gaping hole. Something like a rock turned over in his gut. These guys made a habit of hopping on trains, living off handouts, and roaming the countryside. Vagabonds, they were. He hoped never to see the inside of another freight car, and, by gum, he’d make sure he didn’t—with the Lord’s help, of course. He had enough money to last a couple of weeks, so long as he holed up someplace dirt-cheap and watched what he spent on food. He prayed he’d land a job—any job—in that time. He wouldn’t be choosy in the beginning; he couldn’t afford to be. If he had to haul garbage, well, so be it. He couldn’t expect to do much more than that, not with a criminal record. His hope was that no one would inquire. After all, who but somebody downright desperate would hire an ex-con? Not that he planned to volunteer that bit of information, but he supposed anybody could go digging if they really wanted to know.

He hadn’t changed his name, against Harry’s advice. “I’m not going to run for the rest of my life, Harry,” he’d argued. “Heck, I served my time. It’s not that I plan to broadcast it, mind you, but I’m not going to carry the weight of it forever, either. I wasn’t the only one involved in that stupid burglary.” Though he did shoulder most of the responsibility for committing it. The others had left him to do most of the dirty work, and they’d run off when the law had shown up.

Harry had nodded in silence, then reached up to lay a bony hand on Will’s hulking shoulder. Few people ever laid a hand on him and got away with it, so, naturally, he’d started to pull away, but Harry had held firm, forcing Will to loosen up. “You got a good point there, Will. You’re a good man, you know that?” He hadn’t known that, and he’d appreciated Harry’s vote of confidence. “You just got to go out there and be yourself. Folks will believe in you if you take the first step, start seeing your own self-worth. The Lord sees it, and you need to look at yourself through His eyes. Before you know it, your past will no longer matter—not to you or to anyone else.”

The train brakes screeched for all of a minute, with smoke rising up from the tracks and seeping in through the cracks of the dirty floor. Will choked back the burning residue and stood up, then gazed down at his strange companions, feeling a certain kinship he’d never expected. “You men be safe, now,” he said, passing his gaze over each one. Several of them acknowledged him with a nod, but most just gave him a vacant stare. The fellow at the back of the car who’d spent the entire day sleeping in the shadows finally lifted his face a notch and looked at him—vigilantly, Will thought. Yet he shook off any uneasiness.

The one who’d first struck up a conversation with him, short-lived as it had been, raised his bearded chin. The two made eye contact. “You watch yourself out there, fella. You got to move fast once your feet hit that dirt. Anybody sees you jumpin’ off is sure to report you, and if it’s one of the yardmen, well, you may as well kiss your hiney good-bye. They got weapons on them, and they don’t look kindly on us spongers.”

“Thanks. I’ll be on guard.” Little did the man know how adept he was at handling himself. The years he’d served in the state pen had taught him survival skills he hoped never to have to use in the outside world.

When the train finally stopped, he reached inside his shirt pocket and peeked at his watch, which was missing its chain. Ten minutes after seven. He pulled the sliding door open just enough to fit his bulky body through, then poked his head out and looked around. Finding the coast clear, thanks to a long freight train parked on neighboring tracks, he gave the fellows one last nod, then leaped from the car and slunk off into the gathering dusk, his sack of meager possessions slung over his shoulder.

First item on his short agenda: look for a restaurant where he could silence his grumbling stomach.

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:

Secret of the Talking Leaves (Book 1 of The Fisheye Files)

StoneHouse Ink; 1 edition (March 24, 2010)

***Special thanks to Chris Conrad for sending me a review copy.***

Chris Conrad has spent most of his life in Oklahoma where he still lives in rural Sequoyah County. He was influenced at an early age by great children’s authors and aspired to someday write the kind of stories he loved as a child. Now he offers his own unique style, mixing his love of God with his love of writing.

Thirteen year old Brian is what other students call a brain. Physical challenges keep him in a wheelchair while his mind isn’t challenged enough. But when a strange dream the night before a field trip becomes reality, he isn’t so sure of himself. A local park he’s only visited in his sleep becomes a crime scene. A teen is found unconscious. He’s in a coma and giving no answers as to how he got there or why. Is he victim or thief? Brian’s father, an FBI agent, doesn’t think the case is important but the dream and mysterious emails seem to say otherwise. Are the scriptural messages actually from God? One of his friends thinks so but the other isn’t so easily convinced. Is one of the teachers at his new school a criminal? His mother is principal but how well does she know the people she works with? Can he solve the case before another crime is committed? Brian follows the clues by the facts and by faith to get to the truth.

Product Details:

List Price: $2.99
Format: Kindle Edition
File Size: 232 KB
Publisher: StoneHouse Ink; 1 edition (March 24, 2010)
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services
Language: English
ASIN: B003E35Z5U

ISLAND BREEZES

I have to admit that I haven’t finished reading this book yet.  Due to a recent injury, it’s difficult for me to spend long periods of time looking up at my monitor.  That’s only a problem due to the fact that I have to review it as an ebook.

But I’m loving it!  I want to snatch up Brian and his friends and bring them home with me.  Of course, starting off with a mystery gets my attention every time. 

I’m thinking that just about any tween would love this book.  I know my grandson will.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Now he was in the driver’s seat of that car with the steering wheel in his hands. Trees and buildings passed by. Was he actually driving? How was that possible? His feet dangled high above the pedals. Who was talking to him? Was it Mom or Dad? No, it was that guy–that guy from…from the old television show about…

What was he saying? He couldn’t understand. It was all garbled. Something about his dog? Yes, that was it. Brian’s dog was sitting on the front end of the car like a hairy hood ornament, barking out directions.

Did ‘woof’ mean left or right?

Before he could decide, the car careened around a corner without even slowing down. He tried to control the wheel but it spun wildly and he was thrown against the door. Somehow the dog stayed glued in place but the TV guy was crushing him! His cologne was nauseating.

Wait a minute. Why would the TV guy smell like…?

Mrs. Felcher, his second grade teacher, was now the one sitting beside him. They straightened out again and she was telling him…what? He was going to be late? Late for what?

It was so hard to understand and the dog wouldn’t stop barking.

She pointed a bony finger forward. The sun’s glare from her horn-rimmed glasses was almost blinding. He looked ahead and saw the school building in the distance. But even as the car seemed to speed up the building moved farther and farther away.

He was going to be late for school! He tried to run but his legs wouldn’t move.

Suddenly he was perched on the hood of the car and the dog was driving. Mrs. Felcher said it was okay though because…

…dogs have…

…four legs.

Whirrrr, thump!

“Ow!” Did they hit a pothole? Had he fallen off the car? Why was it so dark?

The familiar red numbers on his clock/radio brought him back to reality.

3:37 a.m.

“Stupid dream,” he mumbled groggily. “I don’t even have a dog.”

Brian felt around and found the foot rests on his wheelchair and folded them up out of the way. With a little help from his legs he pulled himself up into the seat. His fingers fumbled around on the night stand for the touch lamp until the room flooded with light.

There was a quiet knocking on his open bedroom door. Chandra Cole, his physical therapist, stood there squinting, her straw colored hair looking like a lopsided haystack. She clutched her pink flannel housecoat tightly around her and tied the belt.

“I thought that sounded like a thirteen year old hitting the floor,” she rasped, helping him straighten blankets back onto the bed. “Another bad dream?”

“The usual,” he replied groggily. “Just weirdness.”

“Why didn’t the chair stop you? Wasn’t it against the bed?”

“I guess I rolled over onto the switch. I hope the noise didn’t wake up Mom and Dad.”

“I doubt it. Besides, they know if something’s wrong I’ll handle it.” She smiled weakly. “You want help getting back in or is nature calling?”

“Calling, emailing, texting, faxing…”

She gave a dismissive wave and turned to go.

“Sorry you had to get up for nothing.”

“It’s okay, kid,” she yawned. “All part of the job. Just glad you’re okay. Goodnight then.”

“G’night.”

Her slippers shuffled along the hardwood floor to her own room across the hall.

Brian belched. He could taste the pizza from dinner. No wonder he’d been having such weird dreams. They were eating so much takeout because of the craziness of moving into the new house in rural Sequoyah County. He knew no one had time to cook though. His parents had already been there a week, trying to get his mom settled into her new job as principal at his new school. He and Chandra had stayed in Tulsa until the new house was wheelchair friendly and all that. The twenty-two year old had only been with them for a few months since finishing her college courses to become a licensed nurse. She was nice, if a little odd sometimes, and he was glad she’d decided to make the move with them. Maybe when she was through getting the house squared away she could start making real meals again.

His stomach was gurgling like crazy. He’d drank too much before bedtime also. Pushing the toggle switch on the armrest, he sent the wheelchair into motion and headed for the bathroom. The familiar clicking and whirring of the electric motors helped to distance his mind from the silly dreams. But why did thinking he could run seem so natural in the dream when he’d never even walked right in real life? The muscular problems in his legs sent him from crawling, as an infant, straight into a wheelchair.

A picture of Jesus stared at him from the end of the dimly lit hallway. God only knew the answer to those kinds of questions, and so far He wasn’t talking.

As he wheeled into the bathroom a motion sensor turned on the lights.

His dad was making a huge transition as well, he considered, transferring to a new FBI office in Fort Smith, Arkansas, just across the state line. For several weeks he’d driven back and forth from Tulsa to make the switch. Maybe he could get a little more rest now.

As long as they had to move though, Brian was glad they’d decided to stay in Oklahoma. He’d be going to a school where his mom worked too, so at least he’d know one person there. After all, his old friends were a hundred miles away now.

Back in bed he tried to relax. Maybe he could get a little more sleep before it was time to get up. And maybe he wouldn’t have any more crazy pizza dreams. Maybe…if he could just…relax. Maybe he would…

…maybe…

Brian was in a parking lot. There were no cars but he could see the stripes on the pavement. Woods to the left. A small cemetery to the right behind a chain link fence. Black cows grazed beyond the tombstones.

Nothing looked familiar but somehow he knew he was facing south. Straight ahead twin wrought-iron gates blocked the only opening in a brown rock wall. A light breeze made them stir a little, creaking and moaning their resistance. Suddenly a gust forced them open with a horrible rusty groan. A large sign on the left blurred as if his eyes simply refused to read it. The view ahead was clear though; a stone walkway stretching beyond, half buried in dead leaves.

The breeze tossed his hair about and he could smell autumn. Falling leaves danced on the wind around his chair, many suspended in a sort of swirling motion. More and more joined in and gathered momentum. Soon he was in the eye of a small storm of them, weaving a colorful curtain around him.

A whisper.

What did it say? He listened more intently.

Another whisper and then another. Others blended in, stronger and louder. The whirlwind of leaves tightened, moving even faster, the voices more insistent. He could feel the pressure growing from all directions.

What were they saying? It sounded so foreign. What did they want? He couldn’t understand. The pressure was terrible!

As quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Only a faint whisper of leaves brushed across his body and a weak spiral of them played out on the asphalt between his chair and the gates. The only sounds left were from a few errant ones skittering aimlessly here and there across the pavement.

Suddenly, without knowing how, he was sitting just inside the entrance. The trees still had some leaves but there were so many more on the ground like a carpet of orange and yellow, brown and red. He knew there were various buildings to either side but they were just a blur like the sign. For some reason he could only see clearly forward. A small structure spanned the walkway in the distance. It wasn’t a building, but more like a little wooden carport covering the largest kettle he’d ever seen.

He thought he heard the whispers again. Or was it just the wind? Small gusts skipped across the tops of the leaves, twisting them up in little tufts.

Another whisper in his ear.

Instantly he was right next to the huge black iron kettle. It looked like a Halloween witch’s cauldron or something out of an old movie about cannibals.

There was the sound of running water nearby but he couldn’t see it.

A large stone building sat to the right of the walk a short distance beyond the kettle. The structure was sandstone like the wall and the walk and its windows were far too high to see inside. What could be in it? It seemed important somehow, the whole place, like maybe it was some sort of park. Yes, that was it. Manicured lawn stretched out past the building to another part of the rock wall further south.

He heard the water sounds again and started to wheel around the kettle but found he was suddenly there already. A sandstone fountain sat to his right, between the giant kettle and the building. Water bubbled over a plaque into a basin pool, the words on it swimming in the flowing water. He tried harder to read it but it only made his vision worse.

Then he noticed one of the corner blocks on the building about three feet up. There was another whisper and leaves brushed across the back of his head. At once, he was sitting directly in front of the block. It was a square stone, bright gray and smooth, so different from the rough ones around it. There were inscriptions but he couldn’t make them out. Only a symbol on the right face was visible. It looked like a diamond. In its center was the letter “G.”

What did it mean?

The walkway branched off to the right and disappeared around the building. To the left, near the main walk, sat a statue facing away from the building among some small trees. It was very dark, maybe cast iron like the kettle. No, a statue would be bronze, darkened from weathering. It looked like a man sitting on a tree stump, looking upward.

No sooner had he wished for a closer look than the breeze stirred and his chair was sitting right next to it. The turban clad head was turned away toward the eastern sky but his body faced Brian. A big thick book sat at the man’s feet and a powder horn and long stemmed clay pipe lay on top of it. He was dressed in buckskin and held another book or tablet on his lap, a quill pen poised above it. Perhaps then the horn was for ink instead of powder.

Suddenly a tight twist of leaves shot up high into the air behind the statue’s head. In that instant Brian found himself looking down into the bronze figure’s face. He was flying again, like in the pizza dream. But this was different, wasn’t it? It was so clear to all his senses! How could it not be real?

He was circling high above like one of the leaves. And he could hear the whispering voices again.

The statue’s features softened and suddenly it looked more like a real man. It seemed aware of what the voices were saying and began to write.

He couldn’t believe it. The statue was moving!

The man looked up time and again as the leaves, Brian with them, swirled around him.

The whispering grew more intense and the man’s scribbling more fervent. Brian and the leaves moved lower and began to circle faster. There were more whispers in the strange tongue, growing louder and more insistent.

Lower and closer and faster. More whispering. Around again. Lower, closer, faster. Tree limbs flying past–the building beyond–the kettle–the man writing.

He was very close now, just above the man’s head, coming around the back again. Lower, closer, faster. The voices were still like whispers but together they were so loud!

Then silence. The statue’s head snapped up into its original position, quill freezing in midair above the tablet.

Like a shot, Brian came around, only inches from the face. The center of the statue’s nearest eye became a gaping void that pulled him in against his will. Just before darkness swallowed him whole, he finally heard something he understood.

“God is watching.”

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:

Undaunted Faith

Realms (May 3, 2011)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Charisma House | Charisma Media for sending me a review copy.***

Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar 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 cofounder 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.

When Pastor Luke McCabe begins paying extra attention to her, Bethany takes his fine-sounding words with a grain of salt. She’s heard sweet talk before. This time she is going to keep her mind on the Lord and on her new teaching job in the Arizona Territory. But when her reputation is accidentally soiled by the rakish town sheriff, Luke steps in with a marriage proposal to save Bethany’s good name. Luke is certain their marriage is God’s will…but Bethany is just as certain God must have someone else in mind to be Luke’s wife. Someone sweet and spiritual, who knows the Scriptures better than Bethany does. Someone like Luke’s old friend from home.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Realms (May 3, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1616382058
ISBN-13: 978-1616382056

ISLAND BREEZES

With this book I’m forced to leave the Seasons of Redemption and the McCabe family behind.Each book has been a good stand alone read, but made special with the McCabe history from the previous ones.

This book is the story of the two preacher brothers, Luke and Jake, who have settled in Silverstone, a small town in the Arizona Territory.

This book details the growing love between them and a couple ladies, Bethany and Annetta, who have baggage to overcome before allowing a glimmer of love to grow in their hearts.

An entire day was spent with my attention solely on this book.  I’m going to miss the McCabe family.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Journal entry: Monday, April 1, 1867

I, Bethany Leanne Stafford, am writing in a leather-bound journal, which my dear friend Mrs. Valerie McCabe gave me for a going-away gift. She suggested I write my memoirs of my impending journey West and about my new life as a schoolteacher in the wild

Arizona Territory. Valerie said she wished she’d have kept a diary of her escape from New Orleans and a loveless marriage from which her husband Ben had rescued her.

For continuity’s sake, I shall back up from the day I left Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In September of last year, upon leaving the city, I took the train to Jericho Junction, Missouri. My traveling companions were Pastors Luke and Jacob McCabe and Gretchen Schlyterhaus, a German widow. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had worked as a housekeeper for Captain Brian Sinclair, who, at the time of our departure, was declared dead—drowned in a boating accident on Lake Michigan. Mrs. Schlyterhaus felt her livelihood had ended too, until Pastor Luke convinced her to go West with us. Weeks later, the captain was

discovered alive in a Chicago hospital. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had been certain that he would insist upon her returning to her duties in his household; after all, she’d signed a binding contract with him. But to her surprise, the captain allowed her to resign and even sent her a bonus (a tidy sum, I heard). Richard and Sarah brought it with them when they came for the Christmas holiday. Uncharacteristic for the captain, but Sarah said he’s a changed man. He found the Lord—and a good woman, whom he married—and he’s living happily

in Milwaukee where he owns a shipping business and a store. Richard is now his business partner and an equally important man in Milwaukee.

But I digress. After a full day’s train ride, we arrived in Jericho Junction, where I’ve lived for the past seven and a half months and earned my teaching certificate. In that time I’ve gotten to know Sarah’s relatives. How I wish I were part of this family! Pastor Daniel McCabe is a thoughtful, gentle man, unlike my own father who is a hard, insensitive soul. Mrs. McCabe has been more of a mother to me than I’ve ever known. My own mother died when I was eight. My father remarried, and my stepmother is as lazy as she is lovely (and she’s beautiful!). My half brother Tommy was born when I was nine, and nearly every year since my stepmother bore another child for me to look after in addition to my chores on the farm.

Forever, it seemed, I dreamed of escaping the drudgery of my life by marrying Richard, except God had other plans. Richard married Sarah. At first I felt jealous, but seeing how much Richard loved her, I couldn’t begrudge them their happiness. I did fear, however,

that I’d be forever trapped on my father’s farm caring for my brothers and sisters and working my body to the bone. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying as a spinster who’d never accomplished anything meaningful.

So when Luke McCabe offered me this chance to teach in the Arizona Territory, I jumped at it. In spite of my father’s protests, I packed my meager belongings and stayed next door with the Navises until the day of my departure. Needless to say, I left my family on a sour note. My father said he never wanted to see me again. I can’t say as I give a whit. I’m glad to be gone!

And as for the trip itself, we will depart in just a few short hours. We will follow the Santa Fe Trail along with other migrants—most of them families whom we met last night in the hotel’s dining room.

I am ever so excited about my adventure. Still, I’m quite aware that traveling by oxen-drawn, covered wagons may, indeed, prove to be a hardship, but both Mrs. Schlyterhaus and I are ready and eager to face each new challenge. As required by the United States, more than one hundred wagons are signed up to leave this morning. Due to the threat of Indian attack no less than a hundred can travel the trail.

But I must cease my writing now. Luke is knocking at the door. It’s time for breakfast…and then we’ll be on our way!

Journal entry: Wednesday, June 12

There has been no time for me to write. It’s been a long and exhausting journey thus far. During the daytime I walk beside the wagon while Luke and Jake take turns driving and scouting the trail ahead by horseback. After we make camp I prepare dinner, and then we clean up and get some sleep. But this evening by lamplight I simply had to pen what occurred today. I saw, for the first time in my life—a rattlesnake! On the farm in Wisconsin, I never saw anything larger than a pine snake, and even though they can bite, pine snakes are not poisonous. But I happened upon this deadly reptile quite accidentally as I unloaded our wagon this evening. I nearly stepped on the horrid thing and it poised, ready to strike me. In those seconds that passed I was sure I’d be bitten and die. But Luke saw the snake the same time I did. He pulled out his rifle and shot it dead before it attacked me.

Afterward I just stood there, gazing at the creature’s lifeless, beady black eyes. I burst into tears, realizing how frightened I had really been. Luke put his hand on my shoulder and said, “There, now, Beth, that buzzworm’s dead as a doornail. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Luke saved my very life that day, and I thank God for him.

Journal entry: Friday, June 14

Yesterday a horrible thing happened involving another rattlesnake, but this time it resulted in a tragedy. A five-year-old boy named Justin McMurray got bit. His passing was the saddest thing I ever witnessed. The strike happened during the day, but the McMurrays didn’t want to make the entire wagon train stop because of Justin. By the time several men and one doctor went by the McMurray wagon to see if they could be of help, it was too late. The poison had gotten into the boy’s system, and he had a raging fever. Then Luke and I went over and talked to Justin. Despite the fever and chills, he was coherent and in a tremendous amount of pain. My heart immediately went out to him, but also to Mrs. McMurray. She looked so sad and helpless as she held her child whose life was slipping away with each passing second. Instinctively, I put my arm around the woman’s shoulders in an effort to comfort her while Luke talked to the boy about heaven. Justin listened intently. I choked back a sob and glanced at Mrs. McMurray, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. Luke’s eyes looked misty too, but instead of weeping, he started singing. He knew so many songs about rejoicing in heaven

that Mrs. McMurray actually smiled, and Justin even laughed a couple of times.

Finally the Lord took the boy home, and while I was happy that Justin is in the Savior’s arms, I felt a bit sick inside. I still do.

Journal entry: Sunday, June 30

For the past two weeks since little Justin McMurray’s death, I’ve been having nightmares. Each time I doze, I envision rattlesnakes everywhere—in the wagon, even

in my hair! I awaken with a start, and Mrs. Schlyterhaus hushes me, since we both sleep inside the wagon while Luke and Jake make their beds on the ground below us.

My fear of rattlesnakes grew along with the exhausting desert temperatures to the point where I refused to get down from the wagon and stretch my legs during the day. At night I begged Mrs. Schlyterhaus to start the fire and make supper. I did not have any appetite and would lie down inside the wagon and pray for some peaceful sleep . . . which never seemed to come. Finally last night Luke said, “Bethany Stafford, you climb down off that wagon this minute!” I told him I would do no such thing. He asked me why, but I could

not admit how afraid I was to leave the wagon and have a rattlesnake kill me. However, Luke guessed the trouble. He said, “There’s no snakes around, so come down now or I’ll climb up and get you myself.”

Still, I refused, but I tried to be polite about it. Next thing I knew Luke had his arm around my waist, lifting me out of the wagon. Then he announced we were taking a stroll around the wagon train encampment.

I begged to stay back, but he would not be dissuaded. I went so far as to threaten him, saying if I died of snakebite, it would be all his fault. He said, “I’ll take my chances.”

So I pleaded with him to at least carry along his rifle. Luke replied, “No, ma’am, we’re only taking the Lord with us tonight.”

The fear inside of me increased. My heart pounded and my legs shook with every anxious step. At last Luke said folks were going to get the wrong impression about us if I did not begin to walk in a ladylike fashion. To my shame, I realized I was stepping all over him in order to keep away from the rattlesnakes that I knew lurked beneath the sands of the Cimarron.

Luke’s voice became very soft and gentle. He said, “Beth, God does not give us the spirit of fear, so don’t be afraid. Our heavenly Father was not surprised when Justin McMurray got bit by that snake. That home-going had been planned since the beginning of time.”

I knew he was right, and somehow his straightforwardness caused me to relax. Then he mentioned what a nice evening it was for a stroll, and for the first time I realized the sky looked clear and the air felt cool and clean against my face. Amazingly I even felt hungry then. I loosened the death grip I had around Luke’s elbow. He chuckled as though he was amused. I felt horribly embarrassed, and he laughed again. I like the sound of his laugh, so slow and easy. And it’s a funny thing, but with God and Luke right there with me, I didn’t fret about rattlesnakes the rest of the night.

Journal entry: Sunday, July 21

After walking in oven-hot temperatures for ten to fourteen miles every day, except Sundays, we finally arrived in Santa Fe. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m ever so disappointed with what has met my weary eyes thus far. Santa Fe is not at all lush and green like Wisconsin during the summer months. Everything is a dismal brown. Most houses are single-story adobe structures with dirt floors. There is a telegraph office, and we learned that Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His name is Samuel Richard. I must say that Luke and Jake seem quite proud of their youngest sister and newest nephew. I’m genuinely happy for Richard and Sarah.

As for myself, I am bone-thin, and the traveling dresses I made for the journey hang from my shoulders like old potato sacks. Luke is worried about me, and so we will remain here for a couple of weeks while I regain my strength.

On the last leg of our journey we escaped both Indian attack and bad weather. But we did encounter a buffalo stampede, the likes I hope to never witness again! The ground shook so hard my teeth rattled. That same day we saw abandoned wagons and fresh graves, which proved an almost eerie forewarning. Days later, a strange fever made its way around our wagon train, and several people died, including four small children.

Although both Luke and Jake gave encouraging graveside messages, having to leave the little bodies of their children behind, coupled with the fear of animals discovering them, proved more than the three young mothers in our camp could bear. They wept for days,

and my heart broke right along with them.

Luke soon enlisted my services, and I prayed with the mourning women and helped with their daily chores. Luke said I was a blessing to them. Oddly, in assisting them, my own heart began to heal. When Mrs. Schlyterhaus took ill with the fever, I nursed her back to health as well. Both Luke and Jake said they didn’t know what they’d have done without me.

As for Mrs. Schlyterhaus, Jake has decided that, although her health is improving, she will remain here in Santa Fe permanently. He has arranged for her to stay with a missionary family and work as their housekeeper. Mrs. Schlyterhaus is very accepting of this arrangement, although I will miss her. She has softened considerably since leaving Milwaukee and has come to realize how unhappy she has been since her husband’s death. But she said the thought of another four weeks traveling through Indian territory frightens her senseless.

In truth, it frightens me also. But, as Luke is fond of saying, God does not give us the spirit of fear, and from the human standpoint, he and Jake have taken precautions to ensure our safety. He hired a guide— a physician named Frank Bandy, one of the few white men who have made peace with the Apaches. The Indians allow him passage through their territory because he has been able to minister medically to their people.

But, alas, I must stop writing for now as there are numerous tasks I would like to accomplish—although if Luke discovers I am not resting, I may have some explaining to do.

Journal entry: Monday, October 7

I have discovered I keep a poor journal. Truth is, I forgot about my diary these past months as it has been tucked away in my trunk of belongings. However, this morning I shall do my best to bring the events up to date. I fully recovered from my journey and now spend much of my time becoming familiar with my surroundings and the people here. We arrived in Silverstone on August 27, and I had only a few days to prepare the classroom as school began on Monday, the second of September. I have thirteen children in my class, ranging from first to eighth grades. Three of my students are from one family. They lost their mother just a few short months ago in childbirth. I hope to be able to help them deal with their loss as they might prove to be the brightest children under my tutelage this year.

Meanwhile, the Arizona heat has been ghastly. Rain compounded the misery by turning everything to mud. I doubt I shall ever get used to this place. I find myself looking forward to my cool baths every morning at the break of dawn when several of us women go down to the riverbank, as is the custom of the Mexican women here. The muddy water looks red and the river’s current is swift; however, after wilting in the previous day’s heat, it is a welcomed respite. Silverstone itself is located twenty miles north of Arizona City and the Yuma Crossing on the Colorado River. Beyond the town the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. The majestic mountaintops seem to touch an ever-azure sky, and the swirling red river water flows beneath them. But the town is an eyesore by comparison. It’s a hot, dusty, unpainted freight town. The people here are an odd mix of prospectors, ranchers, freighters, Mexicans, and Indians, and they keep Main Street (if it may be called such a thing) lively with regular brawls, which I abhor.

On one side of the rutted, unpaved road there is an adobe government building, which houses the sheriff and a jail. Ironically, right next door, there is a rickety wooden saloon called Chicago Joe’s and, above it, a house of ill repute. On the other side of Main Street is the Winters’ Boardinghouse, in which I am presently residing. The Winters also operate a dining room and the post office. Beside their place is a dry-goods store and next to it a freight office and a bank. Luke maintains the church at the end of the thoroughfare and delivers the Sunday morning message each week. Jake does carpentry work when he is not riding the circuit and preaching. Beside the church there stands a small one-room schoolhouse, where I teach.

As one might guess, the two sides of Main Street are largely at odds with each other. Mrs. Winters says we are the “good” side, and those across the way (particularly the women in the brothel) are the “bad” side—all save for Sheriff Paden Montaño, of course. Silverstone’s sheriff has been commissioned by the United States Army and oversees the shipping and receiving of government freight landed in Silverstone by river steamers. Then it is transported across the Territory by wagon. Sheriff Montaño’s father was a rugged vaquero (cowboy), and his mother was a genteel woman from back East.

I think the sheriff seems to have inherited traits from both parents; however, he is a sight to behold. He is a darkly handsome man with hair so long it hangs nearly to his waist. One would never see such a man in Milwaukee, Wisconsin!

At first glance, he resembles a fierce Indian, but his actions are polite and refined. Like his vaquero father, he is a capable horseman and masterful with a gun. Like his mother, with whom he was raised, he is well educated. Some say Sheriff Montaño is a Mexican and Indian sympathizer, out to use his status as a United States lawman for his own purposes, but Luke says he’s a fair man. I must admit I have found the sheriff to be charming.

And then there is Ralph Jonas, who is quite the opposite. He claims to be a Christian man, but he can be quite disagreeable. His wife died during childbirth just before we arrived in town, and Mr. Jonas is desperately trying to replace her—just as he might replace a mule. I was insulted when he proposed to me, and I find his philosophy on marriage highly distasteful. Thankfully, Luke had a talk with him. I don’t know what he said, but now Mr. Jonas keeps his distance for the most part.

I must admit that I hate it here in Silverstone. I want to return to Jericho Junction. I’m praying the McCabes will find something for me to do there, but first an opportunity will have to present itself. But worse is the next wagon train won’t depart for Missouri again until next spring.

Six months. Six long months.

Will I be able to survive that long, here in this Godforsaken land?

One

Aknock sounded once. Then again, more insistent this time.

“Coming.” Bethany set down the quill and capped the inkwell. Closing her journal, she stood from where she’d been sitting at the desk Jake had crafted for her use. Then, before she could open the door, Trudy poked her round, cherubic face into Bethany’s bedroom.

“Mama says breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Trudy. I’ll be down shortly.”

A grin curved the flaxen-haired girl’s pink mouth. “Reverend Luke and Reverend Jake are already here. Sheriff Montaño is too.”

Bethany wasn’t at all taken aback by the familiar way in which Trudy referred to both Luke and Jake. Because the men shared the same surname, the townspeople called them by their first names.

“I’ll be down shortly.” Walking to the looking glass, Bethany brushed out her long brown hair. It had dried from her earlier bath in the river.

Thirteen-year-old Trudy stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind her. “I’ll bet we’ll hear some lively conversation. Something about cattle stealing. Papa said the Indians have been causing trouble again.”

“Oh, dear.” Bethany tried not to show either her discontent with this town or her unease with the natives of this land.

Gather together, gather, O shameless nation, before you are driven away like the drifting chaff,

before there comes upon you the fierce anger of the Lord, before there comes upon you the day of the Lord’s wrath.

Seek the Lord, all you humble of the land, who do his commands;

seek righteousness, seek humility;

perhaps you may be hidden on the day of the Lord’s wrath.

Zephaniah 2:1-3

I received the following press release regarding Jericho Books.

HACHETTE BOOK GROUP LAUNCHES JERICHO BOOKS,

NEW IMPRINT FOR NASHVILLE DIVISION

(Nashville, TN) Hachette Book Group is pleased to announce the launch of a new faith-based imprint called Jericho Books. Jericho Books is an imprint of the Nashville Division of Hachette Book Group and will be led by Wendy Grisham, who will serve as Publisher and Vice President.

The mission of Jericho Books is to seek new, innovative authors who reflect a growing change in the church. These non-traditional voices will appeal to the fresh perspectives in today’s culture and provide an avenue for those exploring political and social issues as they relate to faith.

“I’m very excited about this new opportunity and adventure. There is a growing worldwide community that is pushing traditional boundaries. Jericho Books will provide a platform for these authors,” says Wendy Grisham.

“We look forward to launching another imprint under the leadership of someone who has such a stellar reputation in inspirational publishing,” said Rolf Zettersten, Senior Vice President of the Nashville Division. “Many American authors are very familiar with Wendy who acquired their rights from US houses and published them so successfully in the UK.”

Wendy has an extensive background in book publishing. Previously she served as the Rights Manager at Random House, UK from 2001-2004, Publishing Director for EMEA and acting International Publishing Director at Alpha International from 2005-2007, and since 2007 as Director of Publishing for Hodder Faith, a Hachette UK company.

Jericho Books will launch in the summer of 2012. Wendy will report to Rolf Zettersten, Senior Vice President of the Nashville Division, and will be based in the Nashville office. She will continue to collaborate with the Hodder Faith team in the UK to acquire books, as appropriate. Wendy can be reached at wendy.grisham@hbgusa.com or 615-371-7773.

About Hachette Book Group:

Hachette Book Group (HBG) is a leading trade publisher based in New York and a division of Hachette Livre, the second-largest publisher in the world. HBG publishes under the divisions of Little, Brown and Company, Little Brown Books for Young Readers, Grand Central Publishing, FaithWords, Center Street, Orbit, and Hachette Digital.

This is the modern day story of Ruth and Naomi – well, as modern as 1746.  The journey begins with two women alone, both widows, and ends at the home of a distant relative who lives in very meager circumstances. 

This is a tale of fortunes made and lost, family secrets and the stirrings of new love as the two Kerr ladies and cousin Anne struggle to make ends meet and put food on the table.

All this, plus a secret that could endanger their lives.  This was a very enjoyable read, and if we’re lucky, would be the first of a new series.  I do so want to see how the lives of these ladies continue.

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:

Mine Is the Night

WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011)

***Special thanks to Cindy Brovsky of Random House Inc. for sending me a review copy.***

Liz Curtis Higgs is the author of 28 books with three million copies in print, including: her best-selling historical novels, Here Burns My Candle, Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose, Christy Award-winner Whence Came a Prince, Grace in Thine Eyes, a Christy Award finalist, and Here Burns My Candle, a RT Book Reviews Award finalist; My Heart’s in the Lowlands: Ten Days in Bonny Scotland, an armchair travel guide to Galloway; and her contemporary novels, Mixed Signals, a Rita Award finalist, and Bookends, a Christy Award finalist.

Visit the author’s website. You’ll also find her on Facebook and Twitter.

The emotional and spiritual journey that began with Here Burns My Candle (WaterBrook Press, 2010) soars to a triumphant finish in Mine Is the Night (WaterBrook Press, March 15, 2011) a dramatic and decidedly Scottish retelling of the biblical love story of Boaz and Ruth. A compelling tale of redemption and restoration, the latest novel from best-selling author Liz Curtis Higgs transports both story and reader to 18th century Scotland, where two widows are forced to begin anew.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 464 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400070023
ISBN-13: 978-1400070022

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Selkirkshire

26 April 1746

The distant hoofbeats were growing louder.

Elisabeth Kerr quickly pushed aside the curtain and leaned out the carriage window. A cool spring rain, borne on a blustery wind, stung her cheeks. She could not see the riders on horseback, hidden by the steep hill behind her. But she could hear them galloping hard, closing the gap.

Her mother-in-law seemed unconcerned, her attention drawn to the puddle forming at their feet. A frown creased her brow. “Do you mean for us to arrive in Selkirk even more disheveled than we already are?” Three long days of being jostled about in a cramped and dirty coach had left Marjory Kerr in a mood as foul as the weather.

“’Tis not the rain that concerns me.” Elisabeth resumed her seat, feeling a bit unsteady. “No ordinary traveling party would ride with such haste.”

Marjory’s breath caught. “Surely you do not think—”

“I do.”

Had they not heard the rumors at every inn and coaching halt? King George’s men were scouring the countryside for anyone who’d aided bonny Prince Charlie in his disastrous bid to reclaim the British throne for the long-deposed Stuarts. Each whispered account was worse than the last. Wounded rebel soldiers clubbed to death. Houses burned with entire families inside. Wives and daughters ravished by British dragoons.

Help us, Lord. Please. Elisabeth slipped her arm round her mother-in-law’s shoulders as she heard the riders crest the hill and bear down on them.

“We were almost home,” Marjory fretted.

“The Lord will rescue us,” Elisabeth said firmly, and then they were overtaken. A male voice cut through the rain-soaked air, and the carriage jarred to a halt.

Mr. Dewar, their round-bellied coachman, dropped from his perch and landed by the window with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels until he found his balance, then yanked open the carriage door without ceremony. “Beg yer pardon, leddies. The captain here would have a wird with ye.”

Marjory’s temper flared. “He cannot expect us to stand in the rain.”

“On the contrary, madam.” A British dragoon dismounted and rolled into view like a loaded cannon. His shoulders were broad, his legs short, his neck invisible. “I insist upon it. At once, if you please.”

With a silent prayer for strength, Elisabeth gathered her hoops and maneuvered through the narrow carriage doorway. She was grateful for Mr. Dewar’s hand as she stepped down, trying not to drag her skirts through the mud. Despite the evening gloom, her eyes traced the outline of a hillside town not far south. Almost home.

The captain, whom Elisabeth guessed to be about five-and-forty years, watched in stony silence as Marjory disembarked. His scarlet coat was drenched, his cuffed, black boots were covered with filth, and the soggy brim of his cocked hat bore a noticeable wave.

He was also shorter than Elisabeth had first imagined. When she lifted her head, making the most of her long neck, she was fully two inches taller than he. Some days she bemoaned her height but not this day.

By the time Marjory joined her on the roadside, a half-dozen uniformed men had crowded round. Broadswords hung at their sides, yet their scowls were far more menacing.

“Come now,” Mr. Dewar said gruffly. “Ye’ve nae need to frighten my passengers. State yer business, and be done with it. We’ve little daylight left and less than a mile to travel.”

“Selkirk is your destination?” The captain seemed disappointed. “Not many Highland rebels to be found there.”

“’Tis a royal burgh,” Marjory told him, her irritation showing. “Our townsfolk have been loyal to the crown for centuries.”

Elisabeth shot her a guarded look. Have a care, dear Marjory.

The captain ignored her mother-in-law’s comments, all the while studying their plain black gowns, a curious light in his eyes. “In mourning, are we? For husbands, I’ll wager.” He took a brazen step toward Elisabeth, standing entirely too close. “Tell me, lass. Did your men give their lives in service to King George? At Falkirk perhaps? Or Culloden?”

She could not risk a lie. Yet she could not speak the truth.

Please, Lord, give me the right words.

Elisabeth took a long, slow breath, then spoke from her heart. “Our brave men died at Falkirk honoring the King who has no equal.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “Did they now?”

“Aye.” She met the captain’s gaze without flinching, well aware of which sovereign she had in mind. I am God, and there is none like me. She’d not lied. Nor had the dragoon grasped the truth behind her words: by divine right the crown belonged to Prince Charlie.

“No one compares to His Royal Highness, King George,” he said expansively. “Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes.”

Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he’d not ask their names. A list of royalist soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the British casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.

My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he’d wounded her, she’d loved him once and mourned him still.

Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. “My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—”

“We are not.” Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. “A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—”

“Sir!” Marjory protested. “How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner.”

His dragoons quickly closed ranks. “A lady?” one of them grumbled. “She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear.”

The captain’s expression darkened. “Aye, so she does.” Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth’s sleeve and turned back the fabric. “Where is it, lass? Where is your silk Jacobite rose?”

“You’ve no need to look.” Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. “I haven’t one.”

Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. “The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie’s favorite, was it not? I’ve plucked them off many a Highland rebel.”

“I imagine you have.” Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. “Are you quite satisfied?”

“Far from it, lass.” The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. “It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it.”

See for yourself.

I have to admit that I was distracted by her dress.  I think something a little more modest might have been more appropriate for this song.  Something a bit longer and not skin tight, but maybe she couldn’t afford that many sequins.

I must admit that I prefer this version

or this one.

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:

In Grandma’s Attic
AND
More Stories from Grandma’s Attic

David C. Cook (April 1, 2011)

***Special thanks to Karen Davis, Assistant Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***

Arleta Richardson grew up in a Chicago hotel under her grandmother’s care. As they sat overlooking the shores of Lake Michigan, her grandmother shared memories of her childhood on a Michigan farm. These treasured family stories became the basis for the Grandma’s Attic Series.

Remember when you were a child, when the entire world was new, and the smallest object a thing of wonder? Arleta Richardson remembered: the funny wearable wire contraption hidden in the dusty attic, the century-old schoolchild’s slate that belonged to Grandma, an ancient trunk filled with quilt pieces—each with its own special story—and the button basket, a miracle of mysteries. But best of all she remembered her remarkable grandmother who made magic of all she touched, bringing the past alive as only a born storyteller could.

So step inside the attic of Richardson’s grandmother. These stories will keep you laughing while teaching you valuable lessons. These marvelous tales faithfully recalled for the delight of young and old alike are a touchstone to another day when life was simpler, perhaps richer, and when the treasures of family life and love were passed from generation to generation by a child’s questions and the legends that followed enlarged our faith. These timeless stories were originally released in 1974 and then revised in 1999. They are being re-released with new artwork that will appeal to a new generation of girls.

Product Details:

In Grandma’s Attic:

List Price: $6.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback: 144 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook (April 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0781403790
ISBN-13: 978-0781403795

More Stories from Grandma’s Attic:

List Price: $6.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback: 144 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; 3 edition (April 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 9780781403801
ISBN-13: 978-0781403801
ASIN: 0781403804

ISLAND BREEZES

These books make me wish I could turn back the years so that I could listen to my grandmother tell me more stories.

Arleta’s grandmother, Mabel, had some really good stories.  I’m sure her parents were glad when Mabel grew up more and quit getting into so much trouble.

These books are very enjoyable, both for children and for those of us who are only children in our memories.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Pride Goes Before a Fall

“Grandma, what is this?”

Grandma looked up from her work. “Good lands, child, where did you find that?”

“In the attic,” I replied. “What is it, Grandma?”

Grandma chuckled and answered, “That’s a hoop. The kind that ladies wore under their skirts when I was a little girl.”

“Did you ever wear one, Grandma?” I asked.

Grandma laughed. “Indeed I did,” she said. “In fact, I wore that very one.”

Here, I decided, must be a story. I pulled up the footstool and prepared to listen. Grandma looked at the old hoop fondly.

“I only wore it once,” she began. “But I kept it to remind me how painful pride can be.”

I was about eight years old when that hoop came into my life. For months I had been begging Ma to let me have a hoopskirt like the big girls wore. Of course that was out of the question. What would a little girl, not even out of calicoes, be doing with a hoopskirt? Nevertheless, I could envision myself walking haughtily to school with the hoopskirt and all the girls watching enviously as I took my seat in the front of the room.

This dream was shared by my best friend and seatmate, Sarah Jane. Together we spent many hours picturing ourselves as fashionable young ladies in ruffles and petticoats. But try as we would, we could not come up with a single plan for getting a hoopskirt of our very own.

Finally, one day in early spring, Sarah Jane met me at the school grounds with exciting news. An older cousin had come to their house to visit, and she had two old hoops that she didn’t want any longer. Sarah Jane and I could have them to play with, she said. Play with, indeed! Little did that cousin know that we didn’t want to play with them. Here was the answer to our dreams. All day, under cover of our books, Sarah Jane and I planned how we would wear those hoops to church on Sunday.

There was a small problem: How would I get that hoop into the house without Ma knowing about it? And how could either of us get out of the house with them on without anyone seeing us? It was finally decided that I would stop by Sarah Jane’s house on Sunday morning. We would have some excuse for walking to church, and after her family had left, we would put on our hoops and prepare to make a grand entrance at the church.

“Be sure to wear your fullest skirt,” Sarah Jane reminded me. “And be here early. They’re all sure to look at us this Sunday!”

If we had only known how true that would be! But of course, we were happily unaware of the disaster that lay ahead.

Sunday morning came at last, and I astonished my family by the speed with which I finished my chores and was ready to leave for church.

“I’m going with Sarah Jane this morning,” I announced, and set out quickly before anyone could protest.

All went according to plan. Sarah Jane’s family went on in the buggy, cautioning us to hurry and not be late for service. We did have a bit of trouble fastening the hoops around our waists and getting our skirts pulled down to cover them. But when we were finally ready, we agreed that there could not be two finer-looking young ladies in the county than us.

Quickly we set out for church, our hoopskirts swinging as we walked. Everyone had gone in when we arrived, so we were assured the grand entry we desired. Proudly, with small noses tipped up, we sauntered to the front of the church and took our seats.

Alas! No one had ever told us the hazards of sitting down in a hoopskirt without careful practice! The gasps we heard were not of admiration as we had anticipated—far from it! For when we sat down, those dreadful hoops flew straight up in the air! Our skirts covered our faces, and the startled minister was treated to the sight of two pairs of white pantalets and flying petticoats.

Sarah Jane and I were too startled to know how to disentangle ourselves, but our mothers were not. Ma quickly snatched me from the seat and marched me out the door.

The trip home was a silent one. My dread grew with each step. What terrible punishment would I receive at the hands of an embarrassed and upset parent? Although I didn’t dare look at her, I knew she was upset because she was shaking. It was to be many years before I learned that Ma was shaking from laughter, and not from anger!

Nevertheless, punishment was in order. My Sunday afternoon was spent with the big Bible and Pa’s concordance. My task was to copy each verse I could find that had to do with being proud. That day I was a sorry little girl who learned a lesson about pride going before a fall.

“And you were never proud again, Grandma?” I asked after she finished the story.

Grandma thought soberly for a moment. “Yes,” she replied. “I was proud again. Many times. It was not until I was a young lady and the Lord saved me that I had the pride taken from my heart. But many times when I am tempted to be proud, I remember that horrid hoopskirt and decide that a proud heart is an abomination to the Lord!”

***************************************

Chapter 1

The Nuisance in Ma’s Kitchen

When Grandma called from the backyard, I knew I was in for it. She was using her would-you-look-at-this voice, which usually meant I was responsible for something.

“What, Grandma?” I asked once I reached the spot where she was hanging up the washing.

“Would you look at this?” she asked. “I just went into the kitchen for more clothespins and came back out to find this.”

I looked where she was pointing. One of my kittens had crawled into the clothes basket and lay sound asleep on a clean sheet.

“If you’re going to have kittens around the house, you’ll have to keep an eye on them. Otherwise leave them in the barn where they belong. It’s hard enough to wash sheets once without doing them over again.”

Grandma headed toward the house with the soiled sheet, and I took the kitten back to the barn. But I didn’t agree that it belonged there. I would much rather have had the whole family of kittens in the house with me. Later I mentioned this to Grandma.

“I know,” she said. “I felt the same way when I was your age. If it had been up to me, I would have moved every animal on the place into the house every time it rained or snowed.”

“Didn’t your folks let any pets in the house?” I asked.

“Most of our animals weren’t pets,” Grandma admitted. “But there were a few times when they were allowed in. If an animal needed special care, it stayed in the kitchen. I really enjoyed those times, especially if it was one I could help with.”

“Tell me about one,” I said, encouraging her to tell me another story about her childhood.

“I remember one cold spring,” she began, “when Pa came in from the barn carrying a tiny goat.”

“I’m not sure we can save this one.” Pa held the baby goat up for us to see. “The nanny had twins last night, and she’ll only let one come near her. I’m afraid this one’s almost gone.”

Ma agreed and hurried to find an old blanket and a box for a bed. She opened the oven door, put the box on it, and gently took the little goat and laid it on the blanket. It didn’t move at all. It just lay there, barely breathing.

“Oh, Ma,” I said. “Do you think it will live? Shouldn’t we give it something to eat?”

“It’s too weak to eat right now,” Ma replied. “Let it rest and get warm. Then we’ll try to feed it.”

Fortunately it was Saturday, and I didn’t have to go to school. I sat on the floor next to the oven and watched the goat. Sometimes it seemed as though it had stopped breathing, and I would call Ma to look.

“It’s still alive,” she assured me. “It just isn’t strong enough to move yet. You wait there and watch if you want to, but don’t call me again unless it opens its eyes.”

When Pa and my brothers came in for dinner, Reuben stopped and looked down at the tiny animal. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?”

I burst into tears. “It does so!” I howled. “It looks just fine! Ma says it’s going to open its eyes. Don’t discourage it!”

Reuben backed off in surprise, and Pa came over to comfort me. “Now, Reuben wasn’t trying to harm that goat. He just meant that it doesn’t … look like a whole lot.”

I started to cry again, and Ma tried to soothe me. “Crying isn’t going to help that goat one bit,” she said. “When it gets stronger, it will want something to eat. I’ll put some milk on to heat while we have dinner.”

I couldn’t leave my post long enough to go to the table, so Ma let me hold my plate in my lap. I ate dinner watching the goat. Suddenly it quivered and opened its mouth. “It’s moving, Ma!” I shouted. “You’d better bring the milk!”

Ma soaked a rag in the milk, and I held it while the little goat sucked it greedily. By the time it had fallen asleep again, I was convinced that it would be just fine.

And it was! By evening the little goat was standing on its wobbly legs and began to baa loudly for more to eat. “Pa, maybe you’d better bring its box into my room,” I suggested at bedtime.

“Whatever for?” Pa asked. “It will keep warm right here by the stove. We’ll look after it during the night. Don’t worry.”

“And we aren’t bringing your bed out here,” Ma added, anticipating my next suggestion. “You’ll have enough to do, watching that goat during the day.”

Of course Ma was right. As the goat got stronger, he began to look for things to do. At first he was content to grab anything within reach and pull it. Dish towels, apron strings, and tablecloth corners all fascinated him. I kept busy trying to move things out of his way.

From the beginning the little goat took a special liking to Ma, but she was not flattered. “I can’t move six inches in this kitchen without stumbling over that animal,” she sputtered. “He can be sound asleep in his box one minute and sitting on my feet the next. I don’t know how much longer I can tolerate him in here.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t much longer. The next Monday, Ma prepared to do the washing in the washtub Pa had placed on two chairs near the woodpile. Ma always soaked the clothes in cold water first, then transferred them to the boiler on the stove.

I was in my room when I heard her shouting, “Now you put that down! Come back here!”

I ran to the kitchen door and watched as the goat circled the table with one of Pa’s shirts in his mouth. Ma was right behind him, but he managed to stay a few feet ahead of her.

“Step on the shirt, Ma!” I shouted as I ran into the room. “Then he’ll have to stop!”

I started around the table the other way, hoping to head him off. But the goat seemed to realize that he was outnumbered, for he suddenly turned and ran toward the chairs that held the washtub.

“Oh, no!” Ma cried. “Not that way!”

But it was too late! Tub, water, and clothes splashed to the floor. The goat danced stiff-legged through the soggy mess with a surprised look on his face.

“That’s enough!” Ma said. “I’ve had all I need of that goat. Take him out and tie him in the yard, Mabel. Then bring me the mop, please.”

I knew better than to say anything, but I was worried about what would happen to the goat. If he couldn’t come back in the kitchen, where would he sleep?

Pa had the answer to that. “He’ll go to the barn tonight.”

“But, Pa,” I protested, “he’s too little to sleep in the barn. Besides, he’ll think we don’t like him anymore!”

“He’ll think right,” Ma said. “He’s a menace, and he’s not staying in my kitchen another day.”

“But I like him,” I replied. “I feel sorry for him out there alone. If he has to sleep in the barn, let me go out and sleep with him!”

My two brothers looked at me in amazement.

“You?” Roy exclaimed. “You won’t even walk past the barn after dark, let alone go in!”

Everyone knew he was right. I had never been very brave about going outside after dark. But I was more concerned about the little goat than I was about myself.

“I don’t care,” I said stubbornly. “He’ll be scared out there, and he’s littler than I am.”

Ma didn’t say anything, probably because she thought I’d change my mind before dark. But I didn’t. When Pa started for the barn that evening, I was ready to go with him. Ma saw that I was determined, so she brought me a blanket.

“You’d better wrap up in this,” she said. “The hay is warm, but it’s pretty scratchy.”

I took the blanket and followed Pa and the goat out to the barn. The more I thought about the long, dark night, the less it seemed like a good idea, but I wasn’t going to give in or admit that I was afraid.

Pa found a good place for me to sleep. “This is nice and soft and out of the draft. You’ll be fine here.”

I rolled up in the blanket, hugging the goat close to me as I watched Pa check the animals. The light from the lantern cast long, scary shadows through the barn, and I thought about asking Pa if he would stay with me. I knew better, though, and all too soon he was ready to leave.

“Good night, Mabel. Sleep well,” he said as he closed the barn door behind him. I doubted that I would sleep at all. If it hadn’t been for the goat and my brothers who would laugh at me, I would have returned to the house at once. Instead I closed my eyes tightly and began to say my prayers. In a few moments the barn door opened, and Reuben’s voice called to me.

“Mabel,” he said, “it’s just me.” He came over to where I lay, and I saw that he had a blanket under his arm. “I thought I’d sleep out here tonight too. I haven’t slept in the barn for a long time. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no. That’s fine.” I turned over and fell asleep at once.

When I awoke in the morning, the goat and Reuben were both gone. Soon I found the goat curled up by his mother.

“Will you be sleeping in the barn again tonight?” Ma asked me at breakfast.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll take care of the goat during the day, but I guess his mother can watch him at night.”

Grandma laughed at the memory. “After I grew up, I told Reuben how grateful I was that he came out to stay with me. I wonder how my family ever put up with all my foolishness.”

Grandma went back into the house, and I wandered out to the barn to see the little kittens. I decided I wouldn’t be brave enough to spend the night there even if I had a big brother to keep me company!