 
Cats on the Keyboard:

Real Life Cat Stories by 14 Historical Romance Authors

## Edited by Michele Stegman

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## Copyright 2015 Michele Stegman

## Smashwords Edition

## Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy and also discover other works by these authors. Thank you for your support.

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## Thanks to Jennette Marie Powell, the cover artist, who also helped create this book.

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## Cover photo: Kit Kat, a rescue cat who has taken over the hearts of many. Photo by Shana Stegman.

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Cats on the Keyboard:

Real Life Cat Stories by 14 Historical Romance Authors

### Everyone enjoys a good cat story and a cute cat photo. These are true stories, written by cat-loving historical romance writers. Enjoy the stories and take a look at the excerpts from each author's book.

Stories **:**

Samurai Cat by Michele Stegman

A Rescue on the Q.T. by Jennette Marie Powell

Topaz by Anna Markland

The Cat Who Came Back by Alina K. Field

Unforgettable Road Trip by Charlotte Russell

Jess and Crosby by Raven McAllan

Cisco by Cindy Holby

My Cat Sitter Adventure by Vicky Dreiling

The Stray that Came to Stay by Collette Cameron

The Cat in the Wall by R.L. Syme

Being Ivan by Madeline Hunter

Lost and Found by Ally Broadfield

Ride, Vaquero by Mark Ozeroff

Whisky, the Organizing Cat by Louise Clark

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# Samurai Cat  
by Michele Stegman

## Katana

If it wasn't for her teacup size, I would have sworn that the tiny white kitten with badly sunburned ears and nose was actually a tiger in disguise. She had shown up at our isolated home begging for, well, anything, food, affection, a lap.

She was so tiny, so skinny, in such bad shape, there was no way she could make it any further. We didn't want another cat. But how could we ignore her plight? We began feeding her, and she began curling up on any lap available.

The problem was, we had two other cats and this white tidbit tiger was terrorizing them. Chopstix and 5 were three times her size, but they were totally cowed. Even the neighbor's dog ran in fear when this little thing launched herself at him in full cartoon mode with a yowl, outspread claws, and poofed fur. We certainly couldn't keep this cat. Not if we expected our own two cats to stick around. We were leaving on a trip in a couple of days, and we didn't want to take it to the shelter (even though it is a good no-kill one) but what could we do?

When my daughter, Kira, came over, she and the little cat fell in love. Kira sat with her on her lap for hours, and the cat was content to be there. As starved as she was, she passed up food a time or two to remain on a lap where she was cherished. Kira wanted a cat, but hated to confine one to a small apartment. She agreed to foster the cat at least until we got back from our trip, but I think she was hoping she would be able to keep her.

After a visit to the vet, Kira took the cat home and by the time we returned from our trip, the little cat, now appropriately named Katana, after the Japanese Samurai sword, had a new home. "She loves it here," our daughter said, "and she feels secure. When I open the door she runs the other way. This is where she wants to be."

Katana, now at 9 pounds, has doubled her weight and the sunburn has healed nicely. She is sleek and playful, at home wherever Kira is, and, like any other cat, completely self-satisfied and master of her domain. She is still fierce, but she loves Kira. And the feeling is mutual.

## Conquest of the Heart

## by Michele Stegman

Blurb:

Her people conquered his country. How can they overcome the distrust they feel to find love?

Madeline wants a big, brash, never-defeated-in-battle, Norman knight. What she gets, by order of the king, is a wiry Saxon who once studied for the priesthood instead of warfare. But is this gentle man she has fallen in love with entangled in the rebellion now sweeping the land?

Ranulf wants to marry the girl next door. What he gets, by order of the king , is a lush, strong Norman woman who just might be a spy reporting his every move. He wants her in every way a man can possibly want a woman. But can he trust his heart to a woman who might have been sent to root out the struggle for freedom his people are engaged in?

Excerpt:

She did not cry out or pull away. She opened her mouth farther, inviting a deeper taste of her sweetness, an invitation that this time, he did not ignore. She swayed against him, and the combined heat of their bodies seemed to melt them together, fusing them into one.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he marveled at how well their two bodies fit together, curve to cavern, hill to hollow, swell to depression. He started when her hand touched the bare flesh of his back, and again when her other one was also laid upon him, was utterly lost to dignity when they moved over his skin.

His own hands began to explore, almost, it seemed, of their own volition, but he drank in their findings, savoring the slope of her shoulder, the long curve of her back, a cresting buttock. His hands found it all, gliding over her, sending searing sensations to him to feed his hunger for her. But it was an insatiable hunger, a hunger that grew with each touch, each caress, each play of tongue on tongue.

One of his hands searched upward from her waist, climbed the mound of her breast, and was rewarded by a hardening nub at the peak. He pressed closer, wanting that union of flesh with flesh that could not be accomplished through layers of silk and linen. He pressed against her and she stumbled back a step. He turned her so that her back was to the oak and ground into her, tongue thrusting, loins pressing in a frenzy to intermesh.

Her hands moved with an equal searching frenzy across his back, kneading, clawing, wanting, urging him on. He grabbed at her skirt, trying to lift it, but the fullness of it defeated him, slithering back into the path of his groping hand, blocking him from his goal of bared thigh and hip and belly. He heard her moan and its plaintive note lent him new resourcefulness.

You can learn more about Michele Stegman and her books at: http://www.MicheleStegman.com

# A Rescue on the Q. T.  
by Jennette Marie Powell

## Q.T. Pi

The kitten chewed furiously at the metal jaw clamped over her front paw, even though her tiny mouth was tired from biting at it for so long. All she'd wanted to do was chase those dry leaves as they danced in the wind alongside the barn. But nothing worked, and her paw hurt so bad... maybe she could rest, just for a while--

Something rustled in the leaves. Coming toward her. She crouched down, trying to make herself as small as possible, until two, blue-clad legs appeared. "Hmm, what's this? You're not a groundhog."

She looked up at the human—David, he was called, for she'd heard another human yell that at him, back before the metal jaws bit her, and he'd answered.

The kitten looked up at him. "Mrrrowww?"

David bent down, and in the shiny plates over his eyes, she saw a tiny, striped cat. Herself. Her leg that the metal jaws clamped around trembled, it hurt so much. "Maaaaooooowwwwww...." she couldn't help wailing.

"You don't look feral," David said, then he did something marvelous: he touched the metal jaw, and it released her leg!

David looked over her, then started to walk away.

The kitten couldn't let him do that, especially since her leg still hurt, so she followed. But when she put weight on the paw that the metal jaw had bit, it buckled beneath her—and hurt really bad. "Mrrrowwwrrr!"

David bent down to take a look. "Nope, not feral. Looks like we're going to the vet."

The kitten didn't want him to leave her, so she hopped into the box-cage with a clean, soft bed inside. Then David put the box-cage into another, larger box thing, then climbed in beside her.

It was loud and rumbly, but the kitten felt safe, so she lay quietly until David lifted her box-cage out, where she stayed until a man in white coaxed her out with gentle words. She hopped onto a cold, metal table. The man in white pressed on her paw that the jaws had bit. "Yowl!" the kitten screeched.

"I don't think we can save the paw," the man in white said to David.

"You mean amputate it? Okay." David sounded calm, so the kitten hoped this meant that was a good thing.

Until the man in white stuck something into her back that pinched...

## * * *

The next thing the kitten knew, she was back in the box-cage, somewhere else, with David.

Her foreleg was shorter, and wrapped up in something white at the end. And when she tried to wiggle her toes... there weren't any! But it did not hurt as much.

David was talking, even though there were no other humans there. "Mom? Do you think you and Dad could keep this kitten until I find a good home for her? I know Blackie won't accept another cat." After that, more rumbling, and then David carried the box-cage into another warm place, one that smelled like chicken.

The kitten liked that, and when he left her there, she didn't mind a bit.

She liked Mom and Dad. Mom had a soft lap, and Dad took lots of naps and let her lie on his chest so she could nap too. Mom and Dad talked to her a lot and told her what a pretty kitten she was. Dad pointed a black box at her that made a bright flash of light.

"You should send those pictures to Jennette." Mom unwrapped the kitten's paw, and put clean wrappings on it.

The kitten didn't like that too much, but she supposed she'd have to tolerate it.

"She needs a name," Dad said. "How about Cutie Pie?"

"I thought we were just keeping her until--"

"I mean, Q.T.Pi."

"Well, she certainly is a cutie," Mom said.

A little while later, Dad was talking to someone who wasn't there, on a little box in his hand. Q.T.'s hearing was very good, and she could hear the person in the box, a woman named Jennette. Dad told her about the kitten. "We told your brother we'd keep her until he found a home for her."

"I got your email and saw the pictures. Q.T. Pi, huh?" Jennette laughed, a sound Q.T. Had leaned humans made when they were amused. "Come on, Dad, that cat's not going anywhere."

## * * *

Over a year later, she hadn't. To this day, whenever David comes to visit, Q.T. comes running for him! And David now uses box traps to catch groundhogs.

## Time's Best Friend

## by Jennette Marie Powell

Blurb:

Time's Best Friend: At the height of WWII, a time-traveling farm woman braves the eighteenth-century Tennessee frontier to search for the explorer she loves, only to find her historic home occupied by Nazi soldiers, and her only friend a dog who may be their spy.

Excerpt:

Zeke Allen stopped inside the cave entrance, mouth agape. The rabbit and possum he'd collected from his traps slid right out of his hand.

The dog had brought him a woman.

Damon--or so the tag on his collar read--had stayed with Zeke nigh four days, and had proven to be a fine hunting dog indeed. Even when not with him, many an evening Zeke had returned to his home in the cave to find Damon there, sitting on the bear skin, a fresh kill of rabbit or beaver or possum on the ground before him.

But this time, his prize lay on the fur beside him, very much alive. Zeke was relieved to note the slow, even rising and falling of her breath. Trepidation rising beneath his ribs, he quietly stepped closer. Damon lay still, other than moving his head to follow Zeke's motion, smiling up at him from beside the sleeping female.

While not the fair beauty his former betrothed had been, this one was plenty pleasing to the eye, despite the mighty strange style of her clothing and hair. Wearing a man's laced shoes and naught else but a nightdress, she wore her curled, brown hair shorn so it barely touched her shoulders--much shorter than Zeke's, even when he tied it in a queue.

Zeke stopped at her feet, facing Damon. "Where in blazes did you find this, ol' boy?"

The dog kept grinning like the cat that ate the caged songbird, his stump of a tail wagging like a hummingbird's wings.

Zeke studied the woman's still form, his confusion growing by the second. Where, indeed, had the dog found a female in the mountainous frontier, when Zeke had seen nary a one in the ten months he'd been there? She looked to be roughly Zeke's twenty-and-five years, though it was hard to tell with her sleeping on her side, her legs halfway curled beneath her--

Zeke closed his eyes. Her legs. That nightdress was unseemly short, baring them above her ankle-high boots. He shouldn't look, it was dishonorable, yet...

He couldn't stop himself from opening his eyes. Shapely and pleasant to look upon, those legs were indeed.

And a thin, red line ran down one--

As if he'd read Zeke's thoughts, Damon leaned to the side and licked the woman's wound, drawing his wide, pink tongue up in a long, slurp. When the dog pulled away, Zeke could see that it was naught but a surface cut, and the pink tinged skin around it told him Damon had been tending it for some time already, and had likely stopped the bleeding.

But who was she? And how did she come to be here?

Only one way to find out. "Ma'am?"

You can find out more about Jennette Marie Powell and her books at: http://www.jenpowell.com

# Topaz  
by Anna Markland

## Topaz

Over the years I've owned many cats. At one time I had four of them. I don't know how this love affair with felines began. My mother hated cats and I have an abiding memory of her rushing into the garden to chuck a bowl of water on any cat that had the effrontery to luxuriate in her catmint.

The most precious of all my cats was Topaz. She was named for the brown and white brindled fur typical of torties, but she turned out to be every bit the jewel her name implied.

Torties are reputed to be unfriendly. Topaz was the opposite. She was as friendly as any cat can be, yet she remained independent, true to her feline nature.

One of the best things about her was that she preferred not to use a litter box, but always "went" outside. Any cat owner will understand what a bonus it is not to have to constantly clean a litter box.

After eleven years, we lost our lovely cat rather unexpectedly, yet I still wake up at night and wonder why she isn't tucked into the small of my back! I haven't been able to bring myself to acquire another cat since, and I probably never will.

At the time of her death, I was writing Haunted Knights. I wrote a brindled kitten into the story and named it Topaz. Sentimental fool that I am I also dedicated the book to her memory.

## Haunted Knights

## by Anna Markland

**Background to Excerpt:** The story is set in 12th century England. Paulina is rescued by Denis when a fire destroys her home where she has spent her life shut away from the world by her parents.

Excerpt:

Denis took several deep breaths, hoping to calm his raging heart when he saw Paulina walking towards him, her dainty feet raising puffs of dust from the sun baked packed earth of the courtyard.

The kitten squirmed, mewling loudly, but he held it firm. This scrap of fur might be his one chance.

Paulina stood in front of him, her gaze fixed on the kitten.

"Do you want to hold her?"

Her eyes darted from the kitten to him and back again. "Is it a cat?"

He lifted the animal by the scruff of the neck. It cried its indignation, its claws extended. She stepped back.

"Yes, but don't be afraid. It's a baby cat. A kitten. I think her mother has abandoned her."

Paulina gasped and reached out her arms. "Kitten," she whispered. "Abandoned."

"Lean back on the wall of the well, and I'll put her in your arms. Careful! She might scratch. Tickle her ears. Kittens love that. Hold the scruff of her neck like this at first. She'll get used to you."

She held her breath as he passed the animal. The kitten quickly gave up her protests, settling into the swell of Paulina's breasts, narrowing its eyes as she stroked its head. "She's making a noise."

The innocently seductive smile that accompanied this observation fired Denis' blood. "It's called purring."

I'd be purring too if my head was resting on those lovely globes.

Frantically he sought inspiration to make her smile again. "You should choose a name for her."

Naming cats! His brothers would suspect lunacy!

She frowned, pursing her lips. "She's many beautiful colors, golden brown, white, black."

Suddenly, her frown intensified. "How can you tell it's a she?"

In Normandie he had never heard of a male brindled cat, but perhaps in England, things were different. "We can check."

He took the kitten from her and cupped it in his hand, lifting its tail, then parting the fur below its belly. It wriggled, clawing at the air. No little penis or couilles, thank God. He breathed a sigh of relief. "She does not have male parts."

Paulina looked at him curiously as he handed the kitten back to her. "Male parts?"

Dieu! How had this discussion come about? The woman had two brothers for God's sake.

He swallowed hard, feeling his face redden. "Males have male parts, whereas females have—female parts."

She nodded thoughtfully, obviously interested in learning something new. But she blushed as she added, "Just as I have breasts, and you don't."

The light touch of her palm on her breast undid him. "Ou—oui," he stammered, running his finger over the kitten's belly. When our friend here bears kittens you will see little—"

The word stuck in his throat. Instead he murmured, "Teats. We call them teats on cats."

"Teats," she repeated in a whisper, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. "Why will she have teats?"

"A mother cat's body makes milk for her kittens. They drink it from the teats."

She looked down at her breasts. "Is it the same for people?"

Christ! If ever he did sire children he would make sure they were better prepared for the world than this vulnerable innocent. He took a deep breath to steady his voice. "It is."

She remained thoughtfully silent for a few minutes, watching him tickle under the kitten's chin. "She likes to be petted. I have much to learn from you, milord de Sancerre."

"Paulina, it would be my honour to assist you as you make your way in a new world that can be difficult at times."

She blinked away tears. "I will take my kitten to the kitchen. What do they eat? She reminds me of a ring my father wore. He told me once the stone was a topaz. I will name her that. It was a beautiful ring."

"Perfect! Topaz it is!" he declared, his mind full of her wistful face, not the name she had chosen. "I will accompany you, if I may."

You can find out more about Anna Markland and her books here: http://www.annamarkland.com.

# The Cat Who Came Back  
by Alina K. Field

## Henry

Not so long ago I had one of those bad, bad years that we all experience at one time or another. I was rolling in grief from the recent loss of my mother, and stressed out of my mind from problems with teenagers and work, and still trying to carry on. Oh, and one of my close friends at work had just tragically lost his only son.

One hot August afternoon during this miserable time, my husband, who was working out of our home, (in his recliner in front of the television) called me at work.

"Guess what?" he said. "That cat is back. He's knocking on the screen door even as we speak." My husband's recliner was stationed near that door. "Not even the dog scares him away."

He sounded intrigued. Impressed, even. This was the third day in a row the cat had come to our door, literally pounding it with his little padded paws. On day one and day two, he'd been told to skedaddle.

And did I say, I'm married to the man who hates cats?

"I think he's hungry," he said.

We'd only ever had dogs in our marriage, but I kind of liked cats. Once, my daughter rescued a kitten and concealed it in her room overnight until she could deliver it to its new home. We had to keep the meowing down so Dad would not find out and cast it out into the night.

But now, he was intrigued, impressed. Of course,I saw a softening in that hard heart.

"He's not very big," he said. "I think he's a kitten. Get down, Jack."

Jack was our cranky, elderly, half-blind-and-deaf terrier. He'd come to us with a difficult personality and had never been cuddly or warm. He had no dog therapy skills in him.

"Why don't you open a can of tuna?" I said, nonchalantly.

If there's one thing that brings my husband pleasure, it's watching animals and kids chow down.

A while later my phone rang again. "He devoured that whole can."

Good move, Kitty.

"And he's sitting in my lap right now, and you should see him. He's trembling."

The man had never experienced a purring cat.

The cat, being very smart, didn't leave. We named him Henry and agreed he would be an outside cat, like our neighbor's. I took him for thirty dollars' worth of shots and bragged about how inexpensive he was as a pet.

Until he got into a fight a couple of months later. Feeling less feisty than usual, he crawled onto my lap one day, and as I petted him, I saw that he had an oozy wound. Three hundred dollars later, the vet had patched up and neutered that free cat and he was sleeping in our utility room on a little bed that I bought him.

Seven years later, he sleeps on our bed. Or our son's bed. Or on the recliner that he's claimed as his own. Wherever he wishes!

## Bella's Band

## by Alina K. Field

Blurb:

Bullets, blades, and incendiary bombs—Major Steven Beauverde, the latest Earl of Hackwell, belongs in that world, and is determined to get back to it. His brother's murder has forced Steven into a new and completely unwanted role, and worse, he has no idea how to salvage his family's depleted estate.A rumor that his brother had a son by a woman who may be a) the murderer, and b) his brother's secret wife, sets Steven on a mission to find her, the boy, and—Steven ardently hopes—the proof of a marriage that will set him free.

Confirmed spinster Annabelle Harris is a country heiress with a penchant for taking in orphans and helping the downtrodden. Her philanthropy hides her desperate search for her disgraced sister, the mistress to the Earl of Hackwell. When the Earl is murdered, her sister thrusts her child into Annabelle's care and disappears. Now, with suspicion pointing at the sister, Annabelle has begun a new quest, to find the woman, and clear her name.

When their paths converge, the reluctant Earl and the independent spinster find themselves rethinking their goals, and battling the real murderer together.

Excerpt:

Surprise pinned Annabelle to the cracked leather seat of the carriage and finally her heart restarted and picked up its pounding.

"Good evening, my lady." Lord Hackwell flashed her a wide, easy smile that made his face glow like a boy who had pulled a very fast one.

The shock eased. She realized she felt not one whit of fear.

"Is this an abduction, Lord Hackwell? I have never been abducted before. Shall I scream with alarm? Do you mean to harm me?"

His smile disappeared and his face grew too serious. "I mean to protect you, Miss Harris. This is an escort. I mean to see that you return home unharmed."

"I see. Unharmed, except for the besmirching of my reputation. Shall we appear in the scandal sheets tomorrow, do you suppose?"

"In this bourgeois neighborhood? I think not. Unless, the man who helped you into the hackney is someone of interest?"

Oh, he was prying, and she was so tempted to lead him on. But of course, she had Robby to think about. "Very much so. He is my solicitor. He asked me to dinner to counterbalance his wife's inquisitive aunt who is visiting from the country, and curious about all things criminal, political, and financial. The poor man has difficulty balancing his client's confidentiality with his need to be polite to his children's future benefactress. She is wealthy, I believe."

"So he set her on you. And how did you maintain your secrets, Miss Harris?"

"We spoke of my home."

"Which is?"

A ribbon of sensation uncurled in her secret places. The space between her and Lord Hackwell had shrunk, and his dark eyes showed more than an interest in her pedigree. Her nerves tingled with the anticipated pleasure of a repeat of the earlier kiss.

I must not.

"Yorkshire," she said, as blandly as possible. "I grew up on a good-sized estate there."

"Do you plan to take Robby there?"

Sudden tears pricked her eyes and she turned quickly to the window. Robby and Thomas would have loved Ryeland. With acres and acres of freedom and kind neighbors, they could have played for hours and had adventures that didn't involve cutpurses and the Watch.

"Miss Harris?"

"No, Lord Hackwell. My family home was entailed. The cousin who inherited, I've only met once, at my father's funeral." And his invitation to linger had been merely perfunctory. Besides, staying in the district of her childhood would beg questions about Veronica.

"So you had no brothers. Is your mother living?"

He hadn't asked about sisters. That was curious. Perhaps he suspected her relationship with Miss Miller was more than a friendship, and was coming to the question, inch by torturing inch.

"You are dancing again, Lord Hackwell. It is ever so tiresome. Let us get you to the facts. I am the eldest surviving child of Edward Harris, who died two years ago. I had a brother, who died many years before. I have a younger sister who has found a position and made a life with a distant cousin in Scotland. My mother has been gone since I was eighteen. I am twenty-seven years old now. I never had a coming out, because my father took ill, and needed me to manage the estate."

His eyes widened and he went very still, examining her. The air around them seemed charged with a kind of explosive tension.

Oh heavens. He was finding fault with the country spinster. The gown was from her mourning two years previous, outdated of course, and she felt her hair slipping again, and she'd never been one to effect powders and pigments. "Yes. Well—"

"You managed an estate?"

"Astonishing, isn't it?" She waved a gloved hand in the air, and he captured it.

He dropped a kiss on her knuckle. "And you managed the household also?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you don't care for dancing?"

"I enjoy dancing very much, though my experience is limited to our local assembly. I have not been to a ball in so many ages, and never a town ball."

"No Almack's."

She could only laugh at that and shake her head. She receive a voucher for Almack's? Ridiculous.

"No waltzing, Miss Harris?" His manner remained intense.

"Sadly, no, Lord Hackwell, I have never waltzed."

He straightened in his seat and his eyes looked ahead. "But you have counted ploughs," he said thoughtfully.

Tears pricked again, suddenly and unexpectedly. What a dismal woman she was. Too plain, too proper, too practical. Alone in a closed hackney with a devastatingly handsome man, and they were talking about farm equipment.

Never had she felt more desire to be younger, prettier, more daring. This must have been how Veronica had felt.

Her heart filled with compassion and grief. "Ye—yes. Ploughs. Very important they're correctly deployed. Fate of the tenants' crops and the estate's income depends upon them." She sniffed.

"What's this?" His large ungloved hand covered her smaller ones, enveloping her in his warmth. "I've distressed you?"

She shook her head and tried to compose herself.

"Of course I have, my dear. I've reminded you of your lost home."

"It is fine, sir. My current home is—is not the best, but it is mine, and I can afford to move to something better if the neighborhood deteriorates further. You needn't worry about Robby. I will give him a good life. Not, perhaps, an aristocratic one, but—"

"Shall I tell you about myself, Miss Harris? Yes. I believe I must." He cocked his leg on the seat so he sat sideways, and extended his hand to caress the back of her neck. The other remained squarely over her folded hands. "I am twenty-nine. The younger son of the Earl of Hackwell. The very, as it has turned out, needful spare. My mother was the second of two wives. She died not long after I was born. My father sent me off to be fostered, then off to Eton, and then to university for a very short while. I'm not much of a scholar. I landed in the army, where I found I could do something of worth."

His mouth had grown taut and his hand had tightened over hers, so that she could feel his tension.

"Thomas, the late, great, Lord Hackwell, aside from one lengthy grand tour, was kept close under the paternal wing and learned the business of managing the earldom, standing in the House of Lords, and immersing himself in society. From the state of the accounts, it was the last activity that drew most of his interest."

He let his fingers caress her neck, distractedly, as though the gesture comforted him, like petting a favorite hound.

Comforting to him; deliciously unsettling to her. Pleasure rippled through her at each touch. She held her breath, lest his fingers pause too long in his search for his next words.

"I can bow properly and make reasonably polite conversation, but I was never much good in a ballroom or drawing room, Miss Harris. Still, like every gentleman with a purse, I had my share of immersing myself in pleasure. Here, and on the continent." He lapsed into a momentary dark silence. "Not so much since my return."

"You fought at Waterloo?"

"Yes. And before, on the peninsula."

And before that too, at every step of his motherless, fatherless life, she'd warrant. As in the children's game she played with the boys, Annabelle drew out a hand from the pile and pressed his between hers.

And her heart skipped with a realization. Lord Hackwell had no family except Robby.

She felt his eyes fixed on her. He drew her head closer and she could smell his woodsy clean scent, so intensely male. The carriage passed by a street lamp and into a dark stretch, and she could no longer discern the outline of his face.

Her heart tingled and her breath came in short little huffs of anticipated pleasure.

"Annabelle," he whispered. "What do they call you? Anna? Belle?"

She tensed remembering her chat with Lady Rosalyn.

"It is Belle. How very appropriate." He kissed her hand.

"Bella," she whispered. "And not appropriate at all. How did you learn my name?"

"Bella." He breathed her name in a brandy-laced murmur. "The maid at the Harley Street house gave me your last name. And by the way, she worships you."

Dear Trish. Annabelle pushed at the seat and squirmed, with no success. He still held her fast.

"I've found that servants know everything and talk prodigiously." He dropped a kiss on her nose.

Annabelle bit back a disagreement and stilled. In a properly run household, gossip was squashed. The poor man had never lived in a properly run household.

His lips hovered over her and she waited. He'd kissed her nose. Perhaps he'd been aiming for her mouth and missed. She wanted one more kiss. She would be safe. In a carriage on a public street, he wouldn't attempt to take more.

## ***

Steven held himself an inch away from her lips. Her nose had been cold, but heat radiated between them, holding them in a warm cocoon. She smelled of plain soap and faint lavender. There was nothing cloying about Miss Harris. He'd breached a line of defense with the use of the pet name. Bella. She wanted him to kiss her.

Not yet. Not yet. She was lovely, and innocent, and perfect. He was known for his quick thinking under duress, and he'd made up his mind. He would do this honorably. He was not his brother. It would not be a seduction.

"Bella, you are right that we should dispense with the dance. You are right that we should speak to the point, and so I will. I think you and I, we should wed."

"What?" She jumped a full inch from the seat before settling back.

You can learn more about Alina K. Field and her books at: http://alinakfield.com

# Unforgettable Road Trip  
by Charlotte Russell

## The Russell Cats

Many years ago my husband and I were the owners of five cats. Oh fine, they were mostly mine but I was more than willing to share! We were also the proud parents of an 18-month-old. And suddenly we found ourselves having to move from Phoenix to Seattle. We were just starting out and didn't have a whole lot of possessions (just a whole lot of cats) so we decided to rent a big U-Haul truck and pull our car behind it on a trailer. But, hmmm, what to do with five cats and one toddler? We decided to leave our son with his grandparents. They were going to drive to Wyoming in ten days for a family reunion and we could meet them there after dropping our stuff in Washington. As for those darn cats, well, they were in for a road trip. In the U-Haul. In the cab. With us. For 1500 miles. At the time this sounded so reasonable.

Thinking about this road trip still gives me nightmares. Also, it makes me laugh. We were such a sight. Tigger and Irish (who got along best) went into one big carrier. Mickey, Jake, and Tasha each had their own. Because of the way the cab was configured, the carriers all had to go on the passenger seat and floor. That left me to sit in the middle while my husband drove. Our intention was to switch off with the driving but there was no way my husband could sit in the middle. He ended up doing the majority of the driving. So there we were, cats piled on the passenger side and us riding those hard U-Haul bench seats. If you've ever rented a U-Haul I think you know how luxurious they are. Not at all, that is to say. There was a radio but we had our own sweet "meow" music to listen to. Constant meowing from one cat or another.

We intended to spend two and a half days on the road. We spent the first night at a hotel in Utah. All went well until the next morning when we pulled out of the parking lot. Or tried to. The parking lot had a steep decline at the exit and since we were pulling our car (front wheels on a trailer) behind the truck, well this wasn't ideal. As the truck went down the small hill, the trailer got stuck at the connection point. And by stuck I mean had to call a tow truck driver who somehow worked a miracle to get it unstuck.

Needless to say, by the time we got on the road, all squished into the cab with our five meowing cats, our patience had worn thin. Instead of stopping again that night, we drove straight on through and pulled into Seattle at 3AM. Of course, we swore we would never do anything like this again.

Guess what? Thirteen years later we headed out from Seattle to St. Louis in the middle of the coldest, snowiest winter in a decade, loaded down with lots of worldly possessions, plus three kids and two cats.

But that's a story for another time.

Photo of Tasha (grey), Tigger (yellow), and Mickey (tuxedo). Unfortunately I could not find a picture of Jake and Mickey (we recently moved so the location of the photo albums is currently a mystery)

## A Spy's Honor

## by Charlotte Russell

Blurb:

At seventeen, Lady Claire Talbot thought she'd found her one true love. But after rescuing her from a dangerous situation, in undue haste he fled to the Continentinstead of marrying her. Now, after years of suppressing her romantic side and honing her practicality, Claire is on the verge of an altogether convenient match.

A man of few words but much passion, Lord John Reyburn always regretted his decision to turn back from Gretna Green. Now, wounded in more ways than one, he is in the place—but not the position—to correct his mistake. His missionin England is tocapture an assassin. And, so, one of His Majesty's more unconventional spies, John must add yet a further deceit: cold indifference to Claire'simpending marital bliss.For unless sweet loyalty and devotion couple with suspicion and betrayal, nothingcan make things right.

Excerpt:

London, May 1812

Lady Claire Talbot stared wistfully at the couple leading the dancers down the floor of the Duke of Allerton's grand ballroom. The handsome duke, his untamable hair falling over blue eyes bright with love, partnered his bride with a breathtaking tenderness and grace. The two were perfectly matched—he, tall and strong; she, petite and pretty. But more than that was the romantic air swirling around them, causing an outbreak of smiles and happy laughs in all who watched.

Tucked out of sight in a corner of the room, Claire sighed. Her sister Emily, the beaming bride, had found her True Love. But would Claire ever find such love for herself?She broadened her gaze, taking in all the lively couples now dancing alongside the bride and groom.

"You've wasted my time and money, girl." The Earl of Bradwell's brandy-coated breath assaulted her nose. "Not one offer of marriage this Season. Not one suitor coming to call. No one has even asked you to dance at your own sister's wedding ball."

Claire flinched, at seventeen still unable to disguise how much her father's words hurt her. One day she would master that skill.

The Earl of Bradwell moved to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the bride and groom. Cheeks burnished a deep red and eyes glazed over with drink, he shook his head. "'Tis no wonder. Look at you. Plumper than a Christmas goose. And the color of that dress—why did you not ask Emily for her opinion? Not much rattles around in that brain of hers, but she does know what's fashionable."

I did ask her. I always do! She said the peach color was perfect for my darker skin tone. She said the overdress flattered my figure. She said I looked lovely. And what would you know of fashion anyway? You can barely see straight.

Not a word of this passed her lips. There was no point in protesting; he never listened to a word she said. And, truthfully, he must be right. Not a single man had attempted to court her this spring despite her not-insignificant dowry. She'd been lucky to dance once at each affair she'd attended, and she wouldn't be surprised to learn Emily had slyly solicited those offers on her behalf.

She picked at a loose thread on the embroidered overdress and hoped the temptation of swilling more of the duke's brandy would lure her father away.

"I cannot afford to give you another Season."

Of course he couldn't afford it, not when he whiled away so much of his meager wealth on drink and traveling aimlessly around the world. Claire's dreams of finding that perfect man to sweep her off her feet and rescue her from the brunt of her father's drunken anger skittered away at her father's pronouncement. No one like Allerton would ever have the chance to save her.

All she could manage in reply was a weak, "Yes, Father."

"Now, don't have a fit of the dismals on me, daughter." A white-gloved finger wagged in front of her face. "I know how much you want to marry. So, I've done your work for you. I've found just the man. Never say I didn't do anything for you."

The prospect of her father choosing her husband didn't exactly elevate her spirits. However, this man could have potential...

"He's willing to overlook all this"—her father waved a hand up and down in front of her body—"for your nice, fat dowry. That's the only thing that should be fat, eh?"

Or perhaps not. Claire closed her eyes, only wishing she could cover her ears too, to block out her father's derisive laugh. When in his cups his mood always turned foul. He derided her for her appearance and her sister for what he perceived as a slow intellect.

"Wait here," her father ordered. "I'll bring Lord Landry over for a dance." As he turned away, she heard him mutter something about "that demmed dress."

Claire, eyes still shut, drew in a deep breath and let the rustling of beautiful gowns and the tap-tap of slippered feet wash over her. Where was a dashing hero when you needed one? Should she hide from her father? Would it do any good?

"Lady Claire, may I have the next dance?"

You can find out more about Charlotte Russell and her books at: http://www.authorcharlotterussell.com

# Jess and Crosby  
by Raven McAllan

## Tabby Crosby

For over 30 years we've had cats... six in all, two at a time, always brother and sister. And the weird thing is, they've all been born on my sister in laws birthday.

Our first two were called Crosby (after Crosby Stills and Nash... and their song... Our house is a very, very,very, fine house, with two cats in the yard...) and Jess. No, not after Postman Pat's cat. This was pre-kids and anyway our Jess was ginger and white. For those of you scratching your heads PP is a kids cartoon and his cat was black and white.

Crosby and Jess were, shall we say, characters. Probably due to the fact that their mum, belonged to a friend who lived in a Northumbrian ex-mining village, where the streets were named after communists. So you got roads like Trotsky Avenue and Stalin Street.

Mum went by the improbable name of Rocky. That's because when Chris got her from the Cat Shelter, she was told Rocky was a boy.

Rocky duly went out on the prowl every night, and came home each morning to eat and sleep. Then Chris noticed just how rotund rocky was, and made an appointment for Rocky to visit the vet...

Rocky it seemed was Rocketta, and pregnant. No wonder she slept every day, she'd been living it up with the Tabby Tom from next door... called originally, Tom.

Four kittens were duly delivered. Mum and babies were doing well, dad visited each day—to, we were told, eat mum's food when she was preoccupied. Mum soon put a stop to that.

We'd wanted kittens for ages, so this was our chance. Off we went to see them. Which did we pick?

It was an easy choice. Crosby shoved Jess down the stairs, she swatted him around the head. Mum ignored them both...

Jess climbed up hubby's leg, Crosby, with one white whisker quivering, crossed his eyes say on his paws and meowed at me.

We were hooked.

## La Bella Isabella

## by Raven McAllan

Blurb:

When your life is all arranged for you, there's only one thing to do—enjoy yourself while you can.

When Amanda finds out whom her parents have chosen for her to marry, it puts her into despair. The one man occupying her dreams is to be hers in name only. Determined to enjoy life before it's all too late, La Bella Isabella and Her Dancing Girls is formed.

The beautiful girl he keeps meeting by accident intrigues Harry. There is something familiar about her...he just cannot place.

A private performance by La Bella Isabella provides a little knowledge, but is a little knowledge a dangerous thing?

Excerpt:

The snow was beginning to fall faster, and there were no cabs to be seen.

"Bloody hell, I'll be too cold to warm anyone up at this rate," he muttered as he slid through the thickening snow, his footsteps muffled by its depth. 'I'll take a week to be normal again."

So engrossed in keeping warm and muttering to himself, he heard nothing until a snort and a jangle of harness immediately behind him almost made him loose his footing.

A black carriage had drawn level.

"My lord," said a soft voice from inside, "this snow is getting thicker, and walking must be hazardous. As I trust there are no dogs out and about, I believe it is safer traveling in a carriage. May I give you a lift anywhere?"

He recognized that voice. So did his body. No, not a week, after all. He felt light-headed and somewhat giddy. Not even a minute.

"That would be kind...miss? Lady?"

She laughed. "Yes, wouldn't it. Now, if you wish, get in and tell my coachman where you are heading."

"Smithson Gardens," he said to the coachman, knowing that was near enough to his destination without revealing exactly where he was heading. He opened the door and swung inside, shutting it quickly after him to keep as much snow out as possible. The occupant was cloaked in dark velvet, a hood covering most of her face. She showed no inclination toward removing the hood.

"I do hope I'm not taking you out of your way," he remarked urbanely. "For I believe on our earlier meeting, you were heading in the opposite direction.

"I was, wasn't I, my lord? But as you see, now I am heading in this direction. And indeed, you will not take me out of my way."

Harry sat back against the squabs. It was definitely his damsel in distress. And she obviously felt secure enough to invite him into her carriage even though she had no companion. But who was she? Obviously quality, but surely no lady of quality who valued her reputation would be in a carriage without a companion, let alone would invite a gentleman to share it with her. "I feel you have the better of me. You know me, but do I know you?"

Again, that musical laugh.

"You feel so, my lord? I wonder why? Because I call you 'my lord'? Are you a lord?"

"I am. As to why? I thought I did feel so, perhaps I will feel so again." Such gentle innuendo, but realized—and judging by the brief laugh he heard—appreciated. "Are you a lady?"

She considered. "Well, I am female, so that makes me a lady. Am I a lady? One of life's mysteries, my lord."

Harry moved slightly, so his thigh rested against her cloak. "I love a mystery."

"Oh, so do I."

The coach came to a halt. "I believe we have reached Smithson Gardens, my lord. Are you sure you do not want to be taken all the way to your destination? We wouldn't want you to catch a chill and be unable to...shall we say...help Lady Mellissa, would we?"

The minx! So she did know who he was! And about his involvement with Mellissa, something he was sure very few people were aware of.

You can find out more about Raven McAllan and her books at: http://www.ravenmcallan.com

# Cisco  
by Cindy Holby

## Cisco and Cindy

I lost my dad in October of 2011 a few weeks after my son got married. After his death, I found myself wanting to do something to honor him. My dad was a great man, with an important position in a large company, but he always found time to help anyone who needed it. I decided, in his honor, to volunteer my time where it was needed and the local animal shelter was just the place, as I love animals, and it desperately needed help. I started there in December, right before Christmas.

My first day was hard. The shelter was a sad, sad place, with a very limited budget. Our county is very rural so overcrowding was definitely an issue. I cleaned cages, emptied litter boxes, scraped a lot of poop and walked the dogs. Several were feral and so horribly scared of where they were and what was going to happen to them, with good reason to be so.

I finished up my duties and was walking back to the lobby when I ran into one of the employees, who was walking back to the cat room with a tiny black fluffy kitten cradled in her hands. "A man just turned this in as a stray," she said. I took one look at the frightened, and definitely undernourished kitten and said, "I'm taking him home." I knew my husband would have a fit because he was afraid of this happening, but my logic was, I'll give the kitten to my mom for companionship. Christmas was coming, and who could turn down a fluffy kitten with a red bow?

My mom most definitely could turn down a fluffy kitten with a red bow. I already had two cats, a dog, and a very tolerant husband who was at his limit of patience. My mom offered to pay the vet bills, meanwhile, I started asking around for a home for this kitten and had no takers.

In January, after the excitement of Christmas wore down, I took the kitten, which we realized was a boy, to the vet to get him started on his shots. While doing the exam, they asked about his history. I explained there was none so they did a guestimate of his age and came back with a birth date of Oct. 25, 2011. The same day my dad died.

It had to be a sign. Dad sent this kitten to comfort me, and when I lost my two current cats, just a few weeks later to a coyote attack, I knew there was a reason Cisco came into my life. Cisco repays me every day with lots of love and devotion. Since then we have rescued three more cats, but Cisco is and always will be my guy. He was sent from heaven. What more do I need.

# Angel's End  
by Cindy Holby

Blurb:

Can the devil in disguise find redemption in an angel's arms?

Excerpt:

CADE GENTRY was not one to ask for forgiveness. Life was what it was and it was best just to deal with it. He'd done a lot in the past ten years that he wasn't proud of, acts he thought he'd have time to atone for. He just needed the opportunity to succeed, to set the record straight. He'd always thought there was still time.

That was before he'd been shot.

He supposed he was lucky because the bullet passed straight through his gut, tearing its way through his belly and bouncing off his ribs before it blew its way through his back. If this was luck, then it was the first time he'd ever been graced by its company. He could only hope that it would hang around until he froze to death. That had to be less painful that bleeding out.

Or so he hoped.

Cade took a moment to survey his surroundings. He stood deep in a copse of aspens that led down to a frozen stream. He'd lost his horse hours ago. The animal finally gave out from the bullet in his lungs, but not until Cade had escaped his pursuers. He hated losing that horse. He'd been his only friend for as long as he could remember.

The air was so cold that it burned his throat as he sucked it in. Still he felt hot, sweaty and clammy since he'd awakened shivering from the hour of sleep he'd allowed himself at dawn. Cade pulled his hand away from his stomach and his shirt moved with it, clinging to his glove with tiny flakes of ice. The bleeding had slowed down to a trickle, but he had no way of telling if it was because of the cold, or because he didn't have any left to give. The only thing he did know was that he couldn't stop. If he did, he'd be dead for certain, because the bastards who shot him were bound to finish the job.

Desperation, always close at hand, grabbed him by the throat and held him until he couldn't breathe. The moments of his life, especially the last few wasted years filled his mind. Was this it? Why bother living if there was nothing to this existence but loneliness and desperation to fill each passing moment. Why bother at all? He should just sit down in this beautiful, peaceful spot and die alone. His body would freeze solid and lie there until the animals got to him. There was nobody to know, nobody that would even care, except a brother he hadn't seen in ten years.

"Please God," Cade said to the silent trees. "I'm not ready to die." Why did he bother to pray? God had never heard him before. And why should God care? It wasn't as if he was worth saving. But suddenly the golden leaves that stubbornly clung to the branches of the aspens, despite the quick approach of winter, rattled with the quickening wind. It wasn't much of an answer, but it did bring the scent of burning wood. Maybe after all these years God finally heard him. There was a fire close by, and hopefully warmth, a horse, and a way out of his latest predicament.

Cade pulled his .45 from his holster and checked the load. He had three bullets left. His belt was empty. He could only hope the three would be enough. He opened his mouth to pray again, and then clamped it firmly shut. No use tempting fate or God. He didn't need any help killing. That was something he was good at.

He holstered his Colt and staggered a few steps down the slope. The ground wavered and he had to grab onto an aspen to settle his spinning world. Cade closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the gnarled bark. It felt cool against his skin, but there was only a moment of relief. He took a deep breath and the smell of burning wood filled his lungs, along with the scent of meat sizzling on a fire. He opened his eyes and saw a trace of smoke hanging just above the trees on the opposite bank.

"If you want it," he reminded himself, "you're going to have to get it yourself. There are no handouts in this world." With a determined step he moved onward.

The sun, weak in the wintry sky, was gone, chasing the horizon that hid behind the mountains. The air around him grew colder, so sharp that it felt as if you could break it off in great chunks and shatter it against the ground. It was so quiet that Cade could hear his heart beating in his chest. Each thump-thump weakened him, like a spinning top that slowly lost its momentum and finally spun over on its side.

The soft glow from the fire kept him moving. Somewhere in his mind he knew the heat he felt on his skin was from a fever and not the fire. That didn't keep him from shivering. He wrapped his arms around his body and kept trudging onward, not even caring when his foot slipped off a rock and splashed into the icy cold water of the stream. He was so desperate to get to the fire that he kept stumbling onward until his instinct for self-preservation, always so strong, screamed slow down, look around, and make sure you know what you're getting in to. He had to take a moment to remember what he should do. Finally his mind caught up with his instincts. Cade changed his angle of approach and moved from tree to tree until he was able to crouch down and observe the site, with gun in hand, from behind a deadfall of pines.

"You are most welcome to join me brother," a voice boomed out.

A man stood before the fire, fully exposed to Cade's shot, if he decided to take one. Cade could not make out his features. The entire scene wavered in his vision, as if he were dreaming. The man wore a long heavy coat and held his arms outstretched to show he was unarmed. In his left hand he held a book. The fire snapped and popped behind him and the scent of coffee filled his senses. A pale horse stood off to the side with his ears pricked toward Cade's hiding place. Whoever he was, he'd chosen his site well. It was close to the trail and within a copse of evergreens that grew beside a huge boulder that had probably lain there for an eternity. When the snow finally came, he'd have the benefit of some shelter and the reflected warmth of the fire off the boulder.

"I have food, coffee and an ear for listening if you are so inclined," the man continued.

Cade wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He had two options before him. He could shoot the man down, eat his food, drink his coffee and steal his horse. Or he could holster his gun and join him.

"I may be a lot of things, but a murderer isn't one of them." He holstered his gun and stood with his hands up. Liar, his conscience said as he stepped forward in to the light. Cade looked side to side, to make sure it wasn't a trap, but for some strange reason his eyes couldn't focus. If it was a trap, there wasn't much he could do about it. It took every bit of strength he had to walk the ten paces that led him to the fire.

"Welcome brother," the man said. He extended his right hand. Cade looked at it, willing his mind to accept the fact that there was no danger here. Slowly he lifted his hand to grasp the one offered. It floated before him as the fire burned brighter. The trees spun around him as he finally gave in to the fever and his wound and sank to the ground.

It was the dream again. The one that haunted him ever since Sand Creek and the death of his mother and baby sister. The one where he ran through the smoke and the falling bodies while the sound of the howitzers drowned out the screams. He tried to escape the dream but something held him back, suffocating him, just as the smoke had that day. Something grabbed him, held on to him, and he swung out, fighting his father who held him as they watched his mother struggling beneath a soldier . . .

"It's a dream!"

Cade slowly opened his eyes. His lids felt heavy and the weight upon him was oppressive. He looked down and saw that he was covered with a heavy coat. A man knelt by his side and smiled encouragingly at him. "You were having a bad dream," he said.

"Who are you?" Cade managed to get the question out, even though his mouth felt as dry as sand.

"Reverend Timothy Key of Chillicothe, Ohio." He offered Cade a canteen. "And the Baptist church." Cade took it and Timothy helped him sit up so he could drink. The water inside was so cold that his head seized up as he gulped it down.

It was full dark now. Thick clouds hung just above the treetops, waiting with indecision to drop their heavy load of snow. "What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" Cade returned the canteen.

"I'm on my way to my flock." Cade looked around. Flock? This man wasn't foolish enough to bring sheep into cattle country was he? He was relieved to see his gun belt lay close at hand. The movement also made him realize that his abdomen was tightly bandaged. He put a hand to his wound.

The preacher smiled as he doused his handkerchief with water. "I'm referring to the people of Angel's End. He motioned to the north and west with one hand as he dabbed the wet handkerchief on Cade's forehead. "I was called to be their minister." He handed the handkerchief to Cade and picked up his book. One glance confirmed that it was a Bible. Cade wiped his face and grimaced as he moved.

"I have my letter of introduction right there." Timothy pointed to the pocket of the large overcoat that covered Cade. "A recommendation from the Bishop Henderson himself. Unfortunately the stage driver didn't believe me when I said the snow would hold off until we got there," Timothy further explained. "And since there won't be another stage until the spring melt I bought a horse and struck out on my own."

"Trying to beat the storm?"

"Wherever God leads me."

"Looks like he's brought you to the middle of nowhere," Cade grunted. His wound pained him and the fever was enough to make him wonder if he were still caught up in a dream.

"Or perhaps he's brought us together."

Yes. He was dreaming. Or else the preacher man was crazy.

"God led you all the way from Ohio?"

"To this very place." Timothy smiled. Cade studied his eyes. If he was crazy, the eyes would be a sure indication. But all he saw was a feeling of peace in the warm brown that was a shade lighter than his own.

I wonder what he sees when he looks into my eyes?

"Do you think you can handle some food?" Timothy turned to the fire. He had to be cold. He was dressed in a black frock coat, just like his father used to wear. He'd thrown his heavy overcoat over Cade, who'd had nothing but a short jacket over his shirt, pants and long johns. It wasn't as if he'd had time to prepare when all the bad showed up.

Timothy looked expectantly over his shoulder. The man had to be crazy, turning his back on a complete stranger who showed up in his camp. Or was he?

Cade tried to recall the last time he'd eaten, and whether he should try to eat now. There was no telling if the bullet had nicked any of his internal organs. If they had he was dead anyway so he might as well go out with a full stomach as opposed to an empty one. "I'd appreciate it," he said and Timothy once more graced him with his peaceful smile.

Timothy handed him a large slice of bread wrapped around a thick chunk of ham. "The cook at the stage stop was most generous," he explained. Cade didn't bother to reply as he sunk his teeth into the sandwich. Timothy handed him a cup of coffee. He'd thought when he'd started that he'd eat the entire thing but after a few bites and one swig of coffee he was exhausted.

"Thanks," he said when Timothy took the remnants of his meal. He sank back to the ground with his head propped on the saddle and pulled the coat up beneath his chin. He knew he lay on the only blanket but the thought of getting up, and giving up this small comfort was more than he could bear at the time. "For the food, and for the doctoring."

"Brother, you were lucky the bullet passed through," Timothy said. "I'm afraid my skills of surgery are quite lacking, even with the power of prayer." He raised what was left of Cade's sandwich in a toast and finished it off as he sat cross-legged by the fire on the cold hard ground with the Bible by his side.

"You really believe in that stuff?" Cade asked.

"Don't you?" Timothy's eyes seemed to see more than Cade wanted to reveal. How could he know that he'd just prayed for help? He'd been across the stream on the opposite side of this small valley when that occurred. It seemed like it happened days ago instead of moments.

"Not a bit," he lied. "Every time I pray God laughs."

"Really?" Timothy quirked his head to the side as if he was contemplating Cade's statement. "What makes you think that?"

He was warm, and as long as he didn't move too much the pain was bearable, so he decided to humor the preacher. It had all happened so long ago that it felt as if it were someone else's life. Or so he kept telling himself.

"I lived in an orphanage from the time I was ten years old. My dad dumped me and my little brother there after our mother died. Every night I prayed that he would come back and get us. After a while I realized he wasn't coming back, so I started praying that a nice family would adopt us." Cade looked up at the night sky, recalling the many nights he used to do the same when he was a boy. Praying to the heavens in hopes that God would hear him better without the interference of a roof or wall. And sometimes wishing on a falling star because his mother always did so. There were no stars to be seen through the heavy clouds. Maybe a prayer or two could get through the dense cover, but none of them would be his.

"When I was fifteen and my brother was eleven someone did come and adopt us. We couldn't believe our luck. They were going to Oregon and needed a couple of strong boys to help them work their homestead. So we went with this nice couple . . ." He almost choked on the words. "I remember climbing up in the back of that wagon and being so excited I could hardly stand it." Cade looked at Timothy to make sure he was paying attention. He was.

"That night when we made camp another man was waiting for us. I thought it was kind of strange, especially the way he looked us over, checking to make sure we had all our teeth and were healthy. Then he said he'd take my brother, Brody. And just like that he loaded him up on his horse and took off. I tried to follow them and the man who was supposed to be my new father caught me, tied me to the wagon wheel and beat me with a leather strap until I bled. Then he said if I ran off, or ever did anything that he didn't like, he'd have his friend kill my brother."

As he expected, Timothy looked appropriately shocked.

"Not exactly an answer to my prayers now was it, brother?" He sneered the word and a tiny bit of his conscience flared up for being an ass toward the man who helped him.

Timothy smiled. "We have no way of knowing where God's path will lead us," he began. "For instance the last thing I expected tonight was to be keeping company with a wounded man but here I am, listening to your tale and very grateful to the Lord for the company, as I imagine you are?"

"I already said so and I'll say it again. Thank you for helping me."

"So what happened to the people who adopted you?"

He didn't want to think about those three years. The worry every day about Brody and if he was as scared as he was that he was going to die. About the things Jasper Middleton taught him to do and made him do. The things his wife Letty whispered in his ear and did to him when Jasper wasn't around until he had to lock what used to be the good part of his soul up into the deepest recesses of his mind. He'd have been better off dying with his mother and sister. At least that way he'd have had a chance of getting into heaven. Instead he was sure to go to hell, a place he was very familiar with.

Cade summed it up for the preacher. "He killed his wife. Then I killed him."

"Bless you brother," Timothy said. "The Lord will forgive you. All you have to do is ask."

Obviously the preacher wasn't listening. It was hard to argue with a man when he was practically flat on his back. Cade shifted and sat up. Timothy moved to help, adjusting the saddle so Cade could sit comfortably. Cade explained things to the preacher one more time.

"God doesn't have the time, or the inclination to listen to me ask for forgiveness for all my sins." He gritted his teeth as a pain shot through his abdomen. "And believe me, brother, the list is long. There is no doubt in my mind that I've broken every one of the Commandments."

Timothy crouched beside him. "And yet God led you to this place at this time in your life. Did you ever stop to think that perhaps God's answer was not now? To wait and be patient and see where he leads you?"

"God sure has a roundabout way of doing things if all he wanted me to do was to talk to you."

"You never told me your name you know. When I introduced myself, you never mentioned your name."

Cade had nothing to lose by telling him. Fortunately he'd managed so far to avoid getting his name on a wanted poster, or so he hoped. "Cade Gentry."

Timothy smiled again and poked at a log in the fire. It popped as it settled and he added another piece of pine, which burned quick and bright. "So tell me, Cade Gentry, what did you pray for when you were stumbling around out there, gut shot, without a horse, with a blizzard bearing down on you." Timothy looked at him. "You did pray." It wasn't a question, just a statement of certainty.

Yes he did. But what exactly did he say? Cade found he could not remember the words.

"Maybe God knew what you needed before you knew what to ask for."

"Are you like this with everyone you meet?" Cade asked.

"God said to feed his sheep."

Cade looked incredulously at Timothy. Not because he didn't believe him. It was because his father had said the same thing before he packed up his wife and three young children and brought them out west to minister to the Cheyenne.

"I take the responsibility personally," Timothy added.

As usual, if God was listening to Cade, it was only because he needed a laugh.

The fire popped again. A log broke and sparks sprayed up. Timothy turned toward the deadfall and stared into the darkness. Cade sensed movement in the woods and his hand went instinctively to his hip. His gun wasn't there, but it was within reach. He yanked the belt over and pulled his weapon from the holster.

A shot rang out. The impact of the bullet hitting Timothy's chest and spun him around. He looked down at his chest, at the blood spurting out from where his heart had been struck. He looked up at Cade and spoke three words before he fell, facedown, into the fire.

"Feed my sheep."

Cade rolled to the side and fired. The first bullet missed. He grabbed the saddle and scrambled behind it. Timothy's horse jerked against the hobble.

"I knew I'd run you down eventually." A man walked into the circle of light cast by the fire.

"It took you long enough Davis." He had two bullets left and a fever that made him shaky. Plus the smell of burning flesh wasn't making things any easier for his stomach.

"Fitch said to bring you back alive. He's got plans for you."

"Tell him no thanks." He had to draw Davis in closer if he wanted a good shot at him. He also had to hope that the gunfighter was on his own. He probably was. Davis was a selfish bastard. He'd want the bounty Fitch offered all to himself. "Tell him I was dead when you found me." If Davis thought he was weak enough he'd come in real close. The man never was one to take chances. "Dead from that gut shot one of you gave me when I ran."

"I'm betting you're out of bullets too," Davis said. He paused by the fire and nudged Timothy's leg with his boot. As if Timothy could be playing possum with his face in the fire.

"That's an easy bet," Cade said. "How many did I take out?"

Closer . . .

"Enough that my cut is going to be real nice. You're good with a gun,Gentry, I'll give you that. One of the best I've ever seen. But an empty gun ain't going to do you no good now, no matter how fast you are."

Cade slowly settled back against the saddle. He had to make Davis think he was done. It took every bit of his willpower to stay still, to be patient until Davis took the last few steps toward Cade. Davis had the audacity to smile at him when he finally came face-to-face.

Cade dropped him with the first shot to his chest. He followed up with his last bullet just to make sure. Davis fell backward against the rock from the close and sudden impact, and slowly slid to the cold, hard ground.

Standing up was harder than Cade anticipated. Dizziness just about put him back down, but he fought through it. When he could finally stand without the world spinning around he kicked Davis in the ribs. He was dead. Cade took Davis's gun and stuffed it in his belt.

"Damnit!" Timothy's body smoldered in the fire. Another one of God's jokes. Cade grabbed his ankles, pulled him out and flipped him over. His face was burned and unrecognizable. Gone.He didn't deserve to die, especially not like this.

It could have just as easily been me . . .

A sudden thought hit him. Was it divine intervention or straight from the devil himself? With his fever it was hard to tell if he was thinking straight. Timothy's hair, what was left on the back of his head was the same dark brown as Cade's. The preacher had to have been close to his age, perhaps a little older. His eyes were definitely the same color. He might be a few inches shorter. It was hard to say since Cade couldn't recall standing next to him. Whatever discrepancies there were could be taken care of by the fire, the coming snow and the pack of wolves he heard howling in the distance. They could always smell death.

"I should bury him." It was a weak protest at best. The ground was frozen hard, he had no shovel and the snow would start at any time. Cade looked at where Davis lay. Even with his fever he realized that it was feasible. Whoever found the bodies would think he and Davis shot each other. All he had to do was put Davis's gun in Timothy's hand.

Cade shucked off his jacket and traded with Timothy's corpse. Timothy's black frock coat was a bit charred around the collar but it would have to do. He'd think of some lie to cover it. Hell, he was great at lying. He flipped Timothy back over and was about to return him to the fire when he realized there was one more thing he had to do. His jacket had a bullet hole in the back. Cade had no choice. He flipped Timothy over and shot him in the general vicinity of his own wound. A trickle of blood oozed out. Something else he could only hope nature and time would take care of. The bullet wouldn't go through but he figured no one would take the time to look and see if it was still in him. All that was left to do was put his gun in Timothy's hand and place him back in the fire.

Cade wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he crouched by the fire. Timothy's clothing began to smolder but that did not stop him from placing his gloved hand on Timothy's shoulder.

"I'm sorry brother. Sorry that you got caught up in my problems. But like you said, maybe God put you in my path for a reason. I'd hate to think that this was it. But like I said, when it comes to me, God doesn't exactly listen. So maybe our prayers kind of canceled each other's out. Whatever it is, I know you're standing before him now with a big old smile on your face as the devil will be with me when I finally get down to his place."

That was as close to a benediction as he was going to get. As Cade turned away he saw Timothy's Bible, open on the ground with the pages flipping rapidly with the growing wind. Cade picked it up and stuffed it in the pocket of the thick long coat that Timothy had covered him with. He placed Davis's gun back in his hand, and with the last ounce of his strength saddled Timothy's horse. He put on the heavy coat and managed to drag himself into the saddle. He pointed the horse's nose up the trail and dug his heels into the animal's sides. The snow started just as he lost sight of the fire.

"Feed my sheep."

He would, if he could find them. He heard them calling, heard them bleating, but the wind howled and the snow swirled and he couldn't find them. They were lost.

He was so cold. But he was hot. His body shook and the sweat poured beneath his hat and coat, mixing with the snow that hit his face. He wanted to take off the coat, it weighed him down but he was too weak to shrug it from his shoulders. All he could do was hang on to the reins with his fingers twisted in the horse's mane. It wasn't his horse. His horse was lost.

"A lost sheep," Cade mumbled. "The shepherd will leave the ninety-nine to search for the one who's lost." A scripture he recalled from his childhood. From one of his father's sermons. He could see his father, standing in the smoke, his hands covered with his mother's blood. Then he couldn't see anything. The snow was too thick. The horse kept moving, plowing onward, in hopes of finding shelter from the storm.

"Gotta keep moving. No hope. No sheep. No shelter from the storm." He kept it up. Kept talking because it was the only way to keep the ghosts at bay. The only way to keep the horse moving through the storm. He talked until his voice was gone, barely rasping out the words.

The horse stopped. Cade realized they weren't moving and looked up. His lashes were frozen to his cheek and he had to blink several times to break them loose. He untangled his hands from the mane and slid from the horse into snow deep enough to cover his ankles. He kept his hands on the reins and struggled forward, his feet dragging through the snow as if each one weighed a ton, until he stood by the horse's head. The animal stood with his head down, blinking against the snow, and blowing from his labors. Cade looked up and saw an angel standing before him with its hands reaching for him, as if it would swoop him up into her arms and fly him to heaven.

"You're wrong," he said. "I'm going to hell."

You can find out more about Cindy Holby and her books at: http://www.cindyholby.com

# My Cat Sitter Adventure  
by Vicky Dreiling

## Foxy

I grew up with pint-size dogs and even had a rabbit at one time, but I'd never had a cat. However, many of my friends had cats. The felines always seemed a little mysterious to me. Whenever a friend's cat rubbed against my leg I wasn't certain if that was meant as a friendly gesture or if it was a secret cat code that suggested my presence was annoying and unwelcome. The only thing I knew about cats was that they required litter boxes.

Nevertheless, when my son asked me if I would take care of his pet cat Foxy while he was out of town, I agreed and assured him that it would be no trouble whatsoever. Foxy was a mature cat, not a kitten, so it sounded easy enough. How difficult could it be? All I had to do was supply water, feed it. and clean out the litter box. Granted, I had to vacuum the cat hair off the sofa, and I sneezed a bit from the fur, but it was only for a week.

Unbeknownst to me, Foxy had sized me up from the moment she entered my home. She would meow continuously long before it was time for her dinner. I confess I caved in and fed her a little early—more than once. Naturally I'd set a precedent, and Foxy who squeaks rather than meows made it clear that she would continue to protest. I kept telling her that she'd have to take this up with my son upon his return, but eventually Foxy got in a huff and cat-walked off.

I took the trash out, and when I returned, I was relieved that Foxy had finally accepted that I was not quite the cat dummy she thought me. Now that she was quiet, I could write uninterrupted. Naturally, I lost track of time. When I got up, I realized I hadn't seen or heard Foxy for some time. Since it was a small house, I figured I'd find her quickly.

When I called out her name, nothing happened. I checked under the sofa and under the bed. I opened the bedroom closet and called her name, but there was no sign of her. After I checked the other rooms, I started to worry. Had Foxy managed to slip out into the garage when I'd opened the door?

Then I remembered that I'd left the garage door open.

I ran out of the house and started looking around the yard, but I saw nothing. My heart was in my throat, thinking I had lost my son's cat.

I returned to the house and started checking every room again. Then I heard a very strange noise behind the armoire—the very large, very heavy armoire. A cat yelp sounded, terrifying me. I started trying to move the armoire and feared the worst. I was alone so there was no chance I could move it. I feared Foxy would hurt herself, but she managed to slither out of that tight spot. I've never been so happy to see a cat in all my life.

After that, I kept all of the doors shut and made sure Foxy didn't manage to get past me when I opened a door.

P.S. Foxy played a role in my third book HOW TO RAVISH A RAKE as the squeaky cat named Poppet. She's an elderly cat, but with lots of loving care, she's still squeaking and doing well.

## What a Devilish Duke Desires

## by Vicky Dreiling

Blurb:

WILL A FEW FLIRTATIOUS STEPS

Harry Norcliffe never wanted to inherit his beloved uncle's title. The rigidity of the ton, the incessant reminders from his marriage-minded mama that he must settle down with a highborn lady and produce an heir and a spare: it's all such a dreadful bore. So when his mother asks him to take part in a dancing competition, he patently refuses. The last thing he needs is another chore . . . until a beautiful, brilliant, delightfully tempting maid makes him rethink his position.

LEAD TO A SCANDALOUS SEDUCTION?

Most women would be over the moon to be pursued by a wickedly handsome-not to mention wealthy-duke like Norcliffe. But Lucy will not be any man's trophy. She could use a friend, though, and what begins innocently soon ignites into desire. As Lucy tries to resist Harry's scorching kisses, he makes an utterly irresistible offer. Enter the dance contest with him, and win a prize that could change her life forever . . . if falling in love doesn't change it first.

Excerpt:

The misty fog swirled around Harry as he strode along Piccadilly, but it wasn't too dense tonight. Soon he must buy a carriage. He'd need one for inclement weather, and now that he was a bloody duke, he supposed he ought to have a decent vehicle for traveling. God knew he'd inherited an enormous fortune and could afford whatever caught his fancy. He'd always thought money would bring him happiness, but it hadn't. Perhaps in time he would feel differently.

He was only a block away from his rooms at the Albany when he saw a thief tugging on a woman's basket. When she screamed, Harry ran as fast as he could and shouted, "Stop, thief!" The ragged man took one look at him and ducked down an alley.

"Are you hurt?" Harry said as he reached the woman. Lord, his heart was hammering in his chest.

"No, but I thank you, kind sir," she said, picking up the small loaf of bread and dusting it off.

He couldn't help noticing her shabby glove as she set the bread beneath a cloth in her basket. Yet she spoke in a crisp, educated manner. The hood of her red, threadbare cloak fell back as she straightened her small frame. The lighted oil lamp nearby revealed her thick, red curls. She had the kind of hair that made a man want to take it down, but that only reminded him of her peril. "You ought not to be on the streets alone at night," he said. "It's dangerous for a woman."

She pulled her hood up and scoffed. "Sir, I assure you, I would not set foot on these mean streets if I had any other choice."

The woman's plump lips and bright emerald eyes drew him. She was a rare beauty. "If you will allow it, I will escort you for your safety," he said, smiling. "Surely you will not object to protection."

Her eyes narrowed. "You've done your good deed for the evening, Sir Galahad." She reached in her basket and brandished a wicked-looking knife. "My trusty blade is protection enough."

Holy hell. It was a large blade, but she held it too low. He also noticed her arm trembled. She clearly had no idea how to use the blade. One sharp blow to her arm would incapacitate her, and the knife would fall to the ground.

She looked him over and shook her head. "Perhaps I should escort you for your safety."

He laughed. "That's rich."

"Evidently, so are you."

She'd obviously taken stock of his clothing and deduced he was wealthy. "Come now, I'm a man and far stronger than you. I can defend myself."

She angled her head. "Have a care, sir. I quickly deduced you have a full purse inside your inner breast pocket. And if I can surmise that this quickly, you can be sure ruffians will, too."

"You heard the coins jingling while I ran."

She looked him over. "I wager those boots were made at Hoby's. They're worth a fortune. So is all of your clothing. At the very least, you ought to carry one of those canes with a hidden blade. Not everyone is as merciful as I am."

"You believe I am in danger?" How the devil had this conversation taken such a bizarre turn?

She regarded him with a world of knowledge in her eyes. "Tonight, Sir Galahad, you are far more vulnerable than I am."

You can find out more about Vicky Dreiling and her books at: http://www.vickydreiling.com

# The Stray that Came to Stay  
by Collette Cameron

## Jett

I didn't need nor want another cat.

Our family already had four rescues: one feral, one dumped, and two abandoned, when I spotted the mangy stray streaking from my front porch one morning. I'd lost count of the number of cats I'd seen stealing food from our dishes over the years.

Besides, I'm a dog person, specifically dachshunds. We have seven dogs, five of them dachsies. I've always said that I adore dogs but only tolerate cats.

Nevertheless, compassion compelled me to put out extra food for him; I assumed the skin and bones, practically hairless, creature was a male. Weeks passed, and I would spot him every few days sneaking food. The minute I went outside, he took off in a flash. I had several cans of cat food a neighbor gave me, and I put one out hoping to fatten him up.

He started waiting for that daily treat, going so far as to let me touch him every once in a while. By now, almost two months had passed, and he wasn't quite as emaciated. His long black fur had begun to grow back. Somewhere in the next two weeks he must have decided to make our house his home. Most mornings he met me at 5:30 and walked with me to let my chickens out. He'd nudge my leg until I petted him then swat me gently when I stopped.

Thereafter, if anyone sat on the front porch, he'd show up and try to crawl into their lap. He'd been someone's pet, although, the time on his own had made him skittish and terrified of most humans.

After taking him to a feral cat clinic to get wormed, vaccinated, and neutered, I decided he might as well have a name. Since he was entirely black, I chose Jett. A bright red collar followed a week later. He started purring, a barely detectible rumble, then too.

Another month passed before Jett would come into the house. He hated being inside at first and would stand at the door meowing. The dachsies took to him almost instantly, and he never seemed bothered by five little black noses sniffing him—maybe because he was bigger than the dogs.

Soon Jett waited at the door to be let in. Though loud noises or sudden movements spooked him and sent him under the nearest table or bed, he still wanted to be with us. The final step, one I still can't believe has happened—remember, I'm a dogperson, not a catperson—he started sleeping on my bed at night, or when the mood strikes, atop me with his nose just under my chin.

Now healthy, and a plump twelve and a half pounds, he's the sweetest, gentlest cat I've ever owned. Maybe, when it comes to Jett, I am a cat person after all.

## Triumph and Treasure

## Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1

## by Collette Cameron

Blurb:

A disillusioned Scottish gentlewoman.

Angelina Ellsworth once believed in love—before she discovered her husband of mere hours was a slave-trader and already married. To avoid the scandal and disgrace, she escapes to her aunt and uncle's, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford. When Angelina learns she is with child, she vows she'll never trust a man again.

A privileged English lord.

Flynn, Earl of Luxmoore, led an enchanted life until his father committed suicide after losing everything to Waterford in a wager. Stripped of all but his title, Flynn is thrust into the role of marquis as well as provider for his disabled sister and invalid mother. Unable to pay his father's astronomical gambling loss, Flynn must choose between social or financial ruin.

When the duke suggests he'll forgive the debt if Flynn marries his niece, Flynn accepts the duke's proposal. Reluctant to wed a stranger, but willing to do anything to protect her babe and escape the clutches of the madman who still pursues her, Angelina agrees to the union. Can Flynn and Angelina find happiness and love in a marriage neither wanted, or is the chasm between them insurmountable?

Excerpt:

Angelina had no business taking note of any gentleman's appearance, especially his mouth. And what in heaven's blessed name was she doing sitting in a tree, talking with him as if they were making polite conversation in a drawing room? She didn't even know his name, for pity's sake.

"Can you get down yourself?"

He dismounted. After removing his gloves and hat, he placed them on the same boulder she'd used for her stockings. He spied her discarded belongings, his gaze pausing on a stocking dangling from a bush. A purely masculine smile bowed his mouth.

Mortification swept her.

He held his riding crop as he purposefully made his way to the tree. He placed a booted foot atop the branch resting on the ground. "Here, I'll come up."

"No, I can manage perfectly on my own. You assure that devil keeps his distance."

Sure-footed, Angelina edged along, her bare feet gripping the limb beneath her. Her injured toe protested, but the pain was unimportant. She must make haste. It wouldn't do to be discovered with a man without a chaperone present.

The stranger released a hearty chuckle and raised the crop. "That's what this is for. One or two sound smacks on his muzzle usually does the trick nicely."

Usually?

"And what happens if it doesn't do the trick?" She maneuvered the last few inches to the fork in the tree.

The gentlemen pointed the crop at the tree. "We run for it. He's not named Deamhan for nothing."

She sniffed. "Deamhan? Oh, that's Scottish?"

"Yes, Gaelic for demon."

"A most fitting name. Only Satan would be more appropriate."

Shoving hair off her face, she stepped onto the lowest limb and hesitated a moment before taking his outstretched hand. She nearly jerked hers away when a jolt of sensation vibrated clear to her shoulder.

Once safely on the ground, she disengaged her hand. "Thank you."

"I'd bow before I introduce myself, but I don't trust him." Gesturing toward the dozing bull, the man flashed perfect white teeth.

Of course they were. Just like Charles's. And what a bounder he'd turned out to be.

New rule.

Don't trust men with nice teeth.

She met the gentleman's curious perusal.

Or beautiful eyes and sinfully thick lashes.

"I'm Flynn, Ear—" A grimace shadowed his face. "Marquis of Bretheridge. My estate, Lambridge Manse, borders these lands."

"Thank you, my lord."

Should she curtsy? A little late for conventions.Best to get on her way as soon as possible.

Not trusting the behemoth resting a stone's throw away, Angelina warily gathered her belongings.

The marquis's focus sank to her bare feet.

Muddy toes, one bloody, peeked from beneath her soaked and soiled skirt.

She swore his mouth quivered in amusement.

The first English peer she'd met besides her uncle, and she resembled a street urchin. Aunt Camille would have apoplexy if she found out. And Uncle Ambrose?

Gads.

Angelina didn't want to imagine his reaction. His response would be unpleasant to be sure.

She made to turn toward the house. "Thank you, again."

"Aren't you going to tell me who you are?" Lord Bretheridge regarded her expectantly.

In another time and in another place, she might have— before she learned not to trust.

You can find out more about Collette Cameron and her books at:

http://collettecameron.com

# The Cat in the Wall  
by R. L. Syme

## Mikhail

He was born in a ghost town, in the wall of an old saloon—one rumored to have given lounge to the most dangerous criminals from the Mississippi to the Pacific, when the West was still a rough, nameless place. Today, we call it Montana.

When I got him, he was so small. Like a frizzed-out ball of leftover yarn someone put through the dryer. But he had these wide, yellow eyes and a yowl that would raise the protective, mothering instinct in anyone. I knew when I saw him that he would always be mine.

The blue-grey fuzz made me think of a Blue Russian, and he jumps and twists in the air, trying to catch some invisible bug. Just like a Russian ballerina. His name was Peewee—a reminder that he was small and forgotten—but I changed that, to remind me of a beautiful Russian dancer.

And he's always been small. Even today, at more than ten years old, he looks like an old kitten, and certainly has the energy of one. He still has those wide, yellow eyes, and he still dances.

But his roots in the history of Montana make him extra-special to me. He was born out of my history, as a Montana native, as much as if he sprang from the soil that covers the streets of my hometown. He was born in a speakeasy, abandoned as the runt of a litter. He almost didn't survive. But I found him, in that rough, nameless, ghostly place. And today, I call him Mikhail.

## Lachlan's Revenge

## Finale (book four) of the Highland Renegades series

## by R.L. Syme

Blurb:

They took his family, they took his freedom... but he's back to reclaim it all...

Lachlan MacLeod survived an English dungeon. He held his own under torture and brutality. He survived the death of his wife and alienation from his family. He managed to take back his ancestral home and restore his son's inheritance. But the English threat has never truly abated. According to his nephew, invasion is imminent. Tired of being subject to the whims of the English, Lachlan will take control of his own destiny. By any means necessary.

Lady Evangeline, daughter of an invading English earl, has been raised to privilege and the expectation of an advantageous foreign marriage. She is as eager to escape her father's control as Lachlan is eager to kidnap her, though the wilds of the Scottish Highlands could be a tad more welcoming. The secret she holds could have deadly consequences--not only for Lachlan, but for his entire clan, not to mention the proud English lady and her companions. But this is one secret she cannot wait to spill...

Excerpt:

"Lachlan MacLeod, lord and ruler of this castle and head of the Clan MacLeod..." The priest was about to walk through all of the promises and Lachlan shook his head, urging his men to step forward. There was only so much lying he would tolerate, and he certainly wasn't about to make promises to a woman he had no intention of forcing to live as his wife.

Nor would he make her promise fidelity and love and honor. All he expected from her was the ceremony.

He would even put his own life's blood on the bed sheets if she would not bed him after this. A part of him hoped she would refuse. A rather large part.

She wasn't rough on the eyes, and her figure was pleasant, if a bit hidden under layers of garments. But she was so young. Cailean had reported her to be just over eighteen. A child.

He did not relish this.

"Skip to the legal part," Lachlan ordered, his voice low.

"But you won't be married in the eyes of God."

"Oh, yes, we will." Lachlan pulled her into his side and they stepped forward. "I doubt God needs all this pomp the way you do, master priest. He honors the covenant of flesh, just as the law does."

Father Bead crossed himself and opened his book. "Very well. This will be on your soul, MacLeod. Not mine."

Lachlan wrenched the girl forward into a kneeling position. "My soul is already bound for hell. Best to speed it on its way."

Another frantic sign of the cross.

"My lord MacLeod, do you take this woman, in front of God and these witnesses, as your wife?"

"I do."

"And my lady. Do you take this man, in front of God and these witnesses, as your lawful and holy husband?"

The men murmured amongst themselves. Finally, Reyf spoke up. "Should we untie the gag, my lord?"

But before they could make a move, Cailean reached behind the lady, grabbed her head and bobbed it in a nod.

"She does," Cailean said in a clipped voice.

The priest's eyes passed around the room and he expelled a long breath. "Very well, then. And God help you all." He signed the cross above them as though the very size of it might cleanse the evil they perpetrated in this chapel. "By the power invested to me by his Majesty, the King, and the office given me by the Holy Mother Church in Rome, I now pronounce you both to be married."

Lachlan jumped to his feet, hoisted the slight frame of his new wife into his arms, and walked away from the altar. The men talked in low voices. No one cheered. No music played. No favors flew.

There would be no celebratory banquet, no dancing, and no ale.

No, perhaps there should be ale.

You can find out more about R.L Syme and her books here: Website: http://bit.ly/1yMsOd0

# Being Ivan  
by Madeline Hunter

## Ivan

Ivan is the third cat I have owned. My 20 year old son came with me to the shelter when I picked him out. While we both peered into the big cage full of kittens, most of the little fur balls clamored for attention. In the back, however, a baby tabby could not be bothered. He yawned, curled up and took a nap.

My son's attention riveted on the sleeping tabby. I tried to dissuade him. I pointed out the lovely little calico and a gorgeous smoky gray sweetheart. My son, however, had become the little guy's champion.

The tabby came home with us. We named him Ivan.

I love Ivan, but a mom knows her fur babies. While I would fight for Ivan's honor if anyone else criticized him, between you and me, privately, I will admit that Ivan is not the brightest member of the feline community. I know of what I speak, because my last two cats were sharp as tacks. Ivan is, well, sort of blunt. Worse, he isn't very good at cat stuff. He is actually clumsy. Who ever heard of a clumsy cat?

For six years Ivan was a contented indoor cat, missing his mark when he jumped on furniture or pounced on toys, looking bewildered on the best of days. Then, for reasons I can't imagine, he decided that he wanted to go outside. I think it took him those six years to screw up the courage. Using what little stealth he could muster (see above, about him not being good at cat stuff), he snuck out one day.

I was worried for him. We live in a semi-rural area and the streets have little traffic and we all KNOW that cats can always find their ways home, but---this was Ivan. That night I waited for his meow or appearance. Nothing. I waited longer. No Ivan. I called for him, to no avail. I shook his bag of cat food. No luck. At 2:00 am I went to bed, heartsick. I began the sad process of preparing for the worst.

The next day, still no Ivan. That evening, my son went looking for him, calling up and down the street, but Ivan, the less than brilliant cat that I loved, had gotten lost. "Cats don't get lost," my husband reminded me. I know, I know, but---this was Ivan.

Late at night my son tried again. He took a flashlight and searched. And there, under some bushes on the side of the house, he found Ivan. The cat had probably been there the whole time. He had been waiting, I think, for someone to come and get him. He had not figured out that he only had to come to the door and make some noise in order to get inside again.

Ivan still gets out sometimes. He usually waits for us to come and get him. Maybe he likes the escort service. Maybe he isn't sure he wants to come in. Maybe he is busy watching a mouse. Or maybe he is just. . . .being Ivan.

## His Wicked Reputation

## by Madeline Hunter

Blurb:

Gareth Fitzallen is celebrated for four things: his handsome face, his notable charm, his aristocratic connections, and an ability to give the kind of pleasure that has women begging for more. Normally he bestows his talents on experienced, worldly women. But when he heads to Langdon's End to restore a property he inherited—and to investigate a massive art theft—he lays plans to seduce a most unlikely lady.

Eva Russell lives a spinster's life of precarious finances and limited dreams while clinging to her family's old gentry status. She supports herself by copying paintings while she plots to marry her lovely sister to a well-established man. Everyone warns her of Gareth's reputation, and advises her to lock her sister away. Only it is not her sister Gareth desires. One look, and she knows he is trouble. One kiss, however, proves she is no match for this master of seduction.

Excerpt:

Cool moisture gathered around her feet and ankles. She looked down to see she had stepped right into a deep puddle. She cursed again. Her shoes would probably be ruined.

"My sincere apologies." The voice came from on high while she lifted one foot to determine the damage. Soaked. Ruined for sure.

"It is a little late for courtesy," she snapped. She concentrated on placing her feet in such a way as to exit the puddle without stepping in it yet again. The burden she carried did not make it any easier. She could barely see over it. Perhaps if she lifted it above her head . . .

"The house distracted me. I know coming upon you so fast was inexcusable, but it appeared no one was about."

"If you had been watching the road, you would know it appeared no such way." Her skirt proved too narrow for the long strides she needed. She had no choice except to slosh through the puddle to its edge.

A hand jutted in front of her face, grabbing for the painting. "Allow me to relieve you of this so you do not drop it."

She smacked the hand away and made her way to dry grass.

The horse panted and quivered, probably deciding whether to take a bite out of her. She looked up its considerable flank and the long legs and handsome boots that gripped it. She looked higher, up the dashing garnet riding coat to the casually tied cravat. Finally her gaze rose to the face of the man who had addressed her.

Her fury momentarily left her. It lasted no longer than a three count, she was sure, but in that tiny pause, not only her anger ceased. Her breath did, too, and the movement of the leaves in the breeze, and perhaps even the revolution of the earth.

The rider was beautiful. No other word would do. Handsome would be too vague a description. Attractive would be inadequate. Thick black hair, dark eyes and eyebrows that arched perfectly, all graced features both regular and precise. The only flaw, a rather wide mouth, could hardly be called a disadvantage, seeing as how it gave the man both expressive possibilities and an undeniable sensual quality.

Then again, he did not need the mouth for that. His air and manner, the very way he sat on that horse, announced he would be nothing but trouble for a woman. Of course, most women would find him too delicious to resist. She suspected he knew that. How could he not when fools like she stared gape-mouthed upon seeing him?

Those dark eyes scrutinized her as surely as she did him, only with much more amusement than she experienced in her own study. He had probably noticed that three count. She doubted he found it a novel reaction to himself.

"I have ruined your shoes. I insist that I pay for another pair."

It had been his fault and he should pay, but she reacted badly to the offer. She resented that he noticed she could ill afford the loss of the shoes. She hated that he sought to subject her to his charity.

"The only payment I ask is that you not gallop that horse on this road while you are admiring architecture. You are too easily impressed by the latter, if that house distracted you."

He turned to look at the house. "I think it handsome."

She rearranged her bundle in her arms. "On the outside, perhaps it would appeal to those who favor sentimentality over sophistication. Inside it is derelict, however. No one has lived there in my memory, and its owner does not maintain it. It is a haven for vagrants and thieves, and the people of the local town would be glad if it burned down. Perhaps one day it will." She hoped not. That house had been very useful to her the last five years.

Hitching up her painting again, she began walking down the road. She heard the horse move. Then she felt its breath on her shoulder. She started, and almost jumped aside again.

"Won't you allow me to help you carry that? Or better yet, give you a ride to where you are going? It looks to be a heavy package, and those shoes must be uncomfortable now."

She looked back over her shoulder, up at the stunning face now marked by a winning smile. No, that mouth was no flaw. Masculine and firm, it turned him from merely beautiful to seductive. He gazed down at her warmly. Perhaps a little too warmly. That should have alarmed her anew. Instead little flutters beat inside her. It was all she could do not to blush and mew.

"No, thank you. I will manage."

"You do not have to be afraid. I promise to behave myself. I am utterly harmless." His expression, most amused by his own words, put the lie to his reassurance. Come with me and I will show you the most wicked delights, those teasing eyes promised.

"I am not afraid of you, sir. Your horse, however, terrifies me. Could you keep back a bit more?"

He held back, but still followed. "Are you going to the town? It is some distance. At least a mile."

"I would not accept a ride with you, even if I had five miles to walk. Please, be on your way, and I will be on mine."

A nod of acquiescence. He turned the black beast, trotted down the lane, then halfway up the drive to the house. He then sat there looking at it. He had given up the game because something interested him more than dallying with her.

Eva looked back one more time before the bend in the road took the rider out of her view. He appeared magnificent, with the breeze blowing back his hair so his fine profile cut the sky, his gaze absorbed and pensive. If she were a good artist and not just a middling copyist, she would feature him in a grand composition full of dashing action. Instead, she painted his image on her memory.

Her ruined shoes did not bother her on the half mile to her family home. Nor did the clumsy weight of the painting. She smiled all the way. How bad can a poor spinster's day be when the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life flirts with her?

You can find out more about Madeline Hunter and her books here: http://www.MadelineHunter.com

# Lost and Found  
by Ally Broadfield

## Rudy

The first time I saw Evinrude (Rudy) was at the veterinarian's office. I had taken my dog in for his yearly visit, and right there in the front entrance was a cage full of eight week old kittens from the local Humane Society.

Rudy caught my eye immediately because he was scaling the side of the cage like a mountain climber. It also didn't hurt that he was the same color as my dog and the cat I already had at home. I asked to see him, and they brought him into an exam room so we could interact with him. The first thing he did was rub up against my dog; the second was to climb all the way up the brick covered wall to the ceiling, where he became stuck and meowed for help getting down. He went home with us that day.

Fast forward ten years, two more dogs and cats, and three kids later, when we moved halfway across the country from Virginia to Texas. The movers arrived the day after we did, and we decided the safest thing was to lock the cats in the garage so they wouldn't escape through one of the open doors while the movers unloaded. Somehow, one of the garage doors was opened, and Rudy escaped.

We searched the neighborhood dozens of times, posted "lost" signs with his picture and our phone number, and contacted the municipal shelter and every rescue group in the area for weeks after he went missing, but there was no sign of him. After nine weeks, I assumed the worst (we have a pack of coyotes that live behind the brick wall at the edge of our back yard), but in my heart hope still burned that someone else had found him and taken him in, unaware that we were searching for him.

One afternoon I was reading to the kids when we heard a meow. We glanced around the room at all three of our cats, but none of them were making any noise. I went to the door that exited onto the patio and there was Rudy, sitting outside the door as if it was an everyday occurrence. Never the most fastidious of cats, he was caked with dirt and covered with mats, and though he had always been a bit chubby, was extremely thin. I scooped him up and he started purring immediately. We were astounded that he had been lost out there all that time and not only survived, but finally managed to find his way home. We spoiled him after his harrowing experience, and he lived a long, happy life. Inside.

## How to Beguile a Duke

## by Ally Broadfield

Blurb:

The spirited Catherine Malboeuf has just arrived in England to reclaim her ancestral home, Walsley Manor, and a valuable missing heirloom. Nicholas Adair, the attractive and frustratingly inflexible Duke of Boulstridge, however, is quite unwilling to sell the estate back to Catherine. Unless, of course, she accepts a small wager...

Nick will sell Walsley Manor if—and only if—Catherine secures an offer of marriage from an eligible member of the ton before the end of the London season.

Of course, Nick is certain he'll win. After all, no proper gentleman would ever marry a woman who conceals a cutlass in her skirts. Yet something about Catherine's unconventional disposition seems to ignite a need deep inside him. A need that won't just cost him the wager, but the very heart he swore to never give away...

Excerpt:

She crossed her arms. "Your Grace. I have never been so insulted. I am not accustomed to having my word questioned."

"Well you must become accustomed to it if you are going to continue to break into other people's homes at your whim."

"You should as well if you are going to lie to your guests about your whereabouts."

He took a step forward and looked down his nose at her. Every part of her body awakened to his proximity. A whiff of cedar tickled her nose.

"Miss Malboeuf, you would do well to learn the customs of English society. It is my prerogative to turn away callers I do not wish to see. When my butler told you I was not at home, you should have understood it meant I did not wish to give you audience."

She took a step back, hoping her mind would reengage. "It is still an untruth, which is the same thing as a lie. Why not tell the truth? Then I would have known your intentions from the start."

The duke clenched his jaw. "Perhaps you should seek out someone who can provide you lessons in deportment."

"That won't be necessary, Your Grace. I attended a class on deportment in New Orleans."

His gaze dropped to her unshod feet. "It's a pity you weren't able to complete the course."

You can find out more about Ally Broadfield and her books at: http://allybroadfield.com

# Ride, Vaquero  
by Mark Orzeroff

## Young Pancho

As a struggling writer, I used to supplement my income by house and pet sitting. That's how I was invited to watch the house and critter of Ted and Mary for several weeks. Ted greeted me, carrying in the crook of his arm what at first glance appeared to be a hairy raisin, but turned out to be a cat. I thought my cat was long in the tooth at seventeen, but the raisin was nineteen, and in the hour we spent talking in the living room he barely moved. The three of them must have come to the unspoken conclusion I was an all right guy, because Mary led me into the kitchen to show me the ropes for Pancho Villa's care and feeding.

First came the refrigerator, one shelf of which was filled with cans of prescription food. Pancho liked his food cold, which meant frequent small feedings, since he turned his nose up at warm leftovers. Next stop was the wine cooler, where Mary produced a tube of Petromalt, necessary because Pancho suffered from the heartbreak of constipation. Apparently, this refined kitty liked his meds chilled to the temperature of fine Chablis. Pancho's water and cat box had to be freshened thrice daily. But Mary saved the best for last, producing the only veterinary living will I'd ever seen, stating that no heroic measures were to be taken if Pancho fell ill. I tried hard to keep my jaw from dropping, because everything she'd shown me seemed to be a heroic action.

Ted joined us in the kitchen, explaining that all this rigmarole was necessary because Pancho had suffered a stroke. His sense of smell and taste were affected. He couldn't see very well, either, which explained why he'd been doing a Stevie Wonder thing with his head every time I spoke.

He'd suffered more serious effects, though – Pancho's right side was mostly paralyzed. Ted put him down, and Pancho stood swaying. Ted explained that he had developed a remarkable coping mechanism; he'd learned to use the wall as a sort of walker. As if the cat understood his human, he leaned against the wall and started shuffling along it. When he came to a corner he took it, and when a chair blocked his way he followed the outline of that.

One additional idiosyncrasy was that Pancho had been rendered largely nocturnal, and that many of his meals were served at night. I asked whether they set an alarm every couple of hours, but Ted replied that wasn't necessary – Pancho would cry when he was hungry. Now I'm a sound sleeper, but Ted said it would be impossible to sleep through a request for food. Again as if he understood his human, Pancho now spoke up. But you couldn't call the sound he made a meow – it was an incredibly loud bovine mooing: "RRRAWWRR! RRRAWWRR!" I couldn't believe the volume he achieved. I was to find that the cat had a huge vocabulary, one he was only too happy to teach me. His most amusing sound was one he made when he'd finished eating and was headed for a nap, a very credible imitation of a two-tone British siren; "Raa-aa, raa-aa."

I always made it clear to folks that when you got me, you got my cat (also coincidentally named Pancho). To keep these two oldsters from staging geriatric wrestling matches, I closed off the hallway to the guest bedroom with a folding gate.

About a week into my stay, Old Pancho went off his feed. For most of that day he didn't eat a single bite, and by late afternoon he was visibly weakening. I finally picked him up and carried him around like Ted had done, explaining – like an idiot – that a cat his age required regular sustenance. Young Pancho heard me and came out to see with whom I was speaking, spotted Old Pancho, and started to cry. That got Old Pancho's attention; his head came up like a periscope, and he started doing that Stevie Wonder thing again. He seemed so interested that I put him down on his side of the gate, where he realized for the first time there was a strange cat in his house. And he became aggressive.

Well, as aggressive as a hundred-year-old can get. His back arched...arthritically; his tail bristled...baldly; he started spitting (except it came out, "Paaah, pah!"). Old Pancho was working himself into such a state I worried he'd have another stroke, so I took him back across the house to his sleeping rug, then returned to my computer to take up writing again. I didn't even get the through the second sentence before again I heard, "Pah, paaaaaah!" Old Pancho had navigated the house in record time and was back at gate, spitting threateningly into empty air now because Young Pancho had gotten bored and gone off to nap. I carried him back to his room again, assuring him that he'd scared the intruder so badly she'd never again need a dose of Petromalt. But this time I stayed just outside the door to see what would happen.

I didn't have long to wait. He came boiling through the doorway, all but galloped along the walls of three rooms to arrive back at the gate, wheezing asthmatically. I picked him up, laughing this time, but on a hunch took him over to his food dish. Sure enough, all the activity had made him hungry and he wolfed everything down, even though it was warm and crusty. When I dished up a big helping of cold seconds he ate that too, then washed it all down with half a bowl of water. The last I saw of him for several hours, Pancho was moving off down the cabinets saying, "Raa-aa, raa-aa."

Now, some of you are probably thinking along the same lines as I initially did – that a cat this old and sick should have been put down. All I can say is that I changed my mind the very first day. This cat was simply not ready to "go gentle into that good night," as Dylan Thomas so aptly wrote. No, Pancho Villa was a fierce old lion, howling at the fate that had left him infirm but completely unbowed.

I just hope I can hang on to that zest for life half as long into my sunset years.

## Days of Smoke

## by Mark Ozeroff

Blurb:

DAYS OF SMOKE looks at war and Holocaust through the eyes of Hans Udet, a flyer involved from the earliest days with Hitler's air force. Across battlefields raging over much of Europe, Hans progresses from naïve young fighter pilot to ace of increasing rank and responsibility. But unfolding events pit Hans' love of the Fatherland against his natural compassion for humanity, after he saves a young Jewish woman from brutal assault. As growing feelings for Rachel sensitize him to the so-called "Jewish problem," Hans is torn between mounting disdain for the Nazis and his sense of duty to Germany.

Excerpt:

It was a magnificent day to fly. The temperature was in the low seventies and the air clear, with a few cumulus clouds scattered about at two thousand feet. It was almost as if God were apologizing to Rachel for the injustice of having permitted the attack upon her. She tossed a look back over her shoulder, bright eyes framed in goggled lenses, bestowing a radiant smile. No pilot could ever have been better rewarded.

I lifted Rachel up to the clouds and let her play. We stirred the mist with our wingtips, and I briefly stood the world on end for her amusement. We dove down to skim the grass tops, like dolphin to kelp. I felt as Charles Lindbergh must have in giving Anne Morrow her first hop. I could hear an occasional faint ripple of laughter over the engine song, borne on the ninety mile per hour breeze.

I now know it is possible to get drunk without alcohol – I was so inebriated. I waggled the wings to get Rachel's attention, and when she looked back I made a looping motion with my hand, a questioning look on my face. She understood instantly, nodding her head. I gained some altitude, then put the Bücker into a gentle dive to build up airspeed. I pulled the stick back and executed a smooth easy loop – now I heard a definite screech of thrill from Rachel.

This woman was incredible. Intelligent, attractive, she found the things I loved to do fascinating. The delight in discovery she exhibited was child-like, her appreciation of those discoveries anything but. Rachel was an unspoiled free spirit.

We dogfought a hawk and lost. Rachel tried her hand at flying and proved an adept student. We even did a couple of spins in the maneuverable little biplane – Rachel was fearless.

Regretfully I turned back for the field and, making as unobtrusive a landing as possible, taxied to the rear hangar. I cut the engine and climbed from the rear cockpit to assist Rachel. She leapt down from the wing root and I could see that her feet were not yet firmly planted on the ground. She bounced up to give me a quick kiss just as Werner exited the hangar door.

"Excuse me, young people," he laughed.

"That was...was..."

"That was the only time I've ever heard Rachel at a loss for words, is what that was," I interjected, earning a narrowed glance from her. She tossed her shoulders at me, but gave Werner a hug for his complicity in the flight.

The frivolous use of military equipment would have been viewed in an extremely poor light by the higher echelons. But the motor pool sergeant wasn't going to talk. The gate guard and Werner would remain silent. Neither Rachel nor I would speak of it.

And Captain Rintel, inconspicuously peering around the corner of a nearby hangar, apparently had no plans to discuss the matter, not if the grin he wore was any indication.

You can find out more about Mark Ozeroff and his books here:  http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Ozeroff/e/B00383N6DO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1421419598&sr=8-1

# Whisky, the Organizing Cat  
by Louise Clark

## Whisky

Once upon a time, there was a family that consisted of a man and wife, two small children, two cats, and a guinea pig with a clubfoot. The guinea pig liked to roam the living room floor; the children poked and prodded, squealed and pounced. It was chaos.

It was a household that required order.

The parents didn't seem motivated to do the job. Sure, occasionally they picked up the pig and put him in his cage. The mom shooed the kids off to school in the morning, providing some quiet for drowsing in the sun. Then the kids came home and chaos reigned again.

Someone had to step in and sort it all out.

Since no one else seemed willing to do it, Whisky the Cat took on the job.

He set himself up at the top of the family hierarchy, then debated who should be his second-in-command.

The dad, another male, was a reasonable option, but he left each morning and didn't return home until late in the day. A lot of annoying activity happened while he was out. No, male or not, the dad couldn't have second spot.

That left the mom. She wasn't great at controlling things, but perhaps she could be trained. And she fed him—and everybody else for that matter—so she did have some value. Yes, Whisky decided, the mom would be his deputy. That pushed the dad to third place.

Four places were left. The guinea pig, of course, was the bottom of the heap. That left the two kids and the other cat: his sister, Brandy.

He considered Brandy. She was useful. She snuggled close to him at night and kept him warm. And she was easy to tease. He'd hide somewhere and when she came by, he'd swipe her with a paw or pounce on her. She never saw it coming. She was such a sucker.

Clearly she didn't deserve to be number four. He moved on to his next option, one of the kids. The boy was older and poked less, but he was Brandy's pal, not Whisky's.

The second child, a girl, was full of energy and liked to touch. Him especially. She was a big part of the family chaos and he'd been training her to mind him for some time now. At one point, he had to hiss and raise his paw to get her attention, but just the other day all he'd had to do was glare at her and she'd run to the mom, screaming, Whisky is going to get me! It had been a moment of great satisfaction.

She was learning, but she still poked. The boy was calmer, but he tended to side with Brandy. A happy thought occurred. Maybe, if he worked it right, he could convince the boy to abandon Brandy and start cuddling him.

Brilliant. The boy would be number four.

That left Brandy and the girl fighting for five and six. Brandy let him eat her dinner at night. The girl was still far away from true respect.

There really was no contest. Brandy got fifth spot, with the girl at six and only a short step above the guinea pig she loved so well.

With order established and chaos defeated, Whisky settled down for a nap.

He'd let the mom, his apprentice assistant, handle the implementation.

Whisky the organizing cat was part of our family for twenty years. We called him our house tiger, because of his big bones, heavy muscles and striped markings. He's the prototype for Stormy, the cat in my upcoming mystery romance, The Cat Came Back.

And yes, he did create a social hierarchy in our family, with himself at the top.

## Pretender's Games

## by Louise Clark

Blurb:

Scotland, 1750

James MacLonan, exiled for his part in the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, is offered a pardon that will allow him to return to Scotland, but the terms require him to marry a woman with ties to the English king. If he does not he will remain in exile—forever.

Theadora Tilton is the daughter of an English general. She is deeply attracted to James, but he is a Jacobite and she has always been loyal to King George. As Thea's attraction deepens into love, she learns to trust James and when he tells her that he will never rise in rebellion again, she believes him

Their marriage fulfills the terms of James's pardon, but when an English soldier kills a MacLonan clanswoman and the Jacobite leader, Bonnie Prince Charlie, is rumored to be in Scotland, will James abandon his promise to Thea and follow the Pretender in rebellion again? Or is he the victim of political games he cannot control?

Excerpt:

Thea observed him thoughtfully. James MacLonan, it seemed, was willing to make an effort to begin again, just as she was. "Mr. MacLonan, what we are we will always be. You are a Scot and a follower of the Stuarts. I am the daughter of an English general and the sister of a captain. By birth and belief I am loyal to King George."

He caught her hand again. This time he gently rubbed his thumb along the soft skin on her knuckles. Pleasant sensations rippled through Thea.

"I have nothing against the English," he remarked. "I have been friends with the Viscount Staverton for years."

He paused. Thea found herself holding her breath, and had to deliberately remember to let it go. Finally he continued. "It is the politics that divides us, is it not?"

"King George and his enemy, the Young Pretender. You are right, Mr. MacLonan, it is the politics that places the true barrier between us."

After one final silken stroke, he released her hand. Thea wanted to sigh with disappointment. His very public caress had given her sensual pleasure, but even more, it had given her hope.

"And yet, what place does politics have between a man and a woman?" He watched her through hooded eyes, waiting for her reaction.

The common answer would be none. Women had been used to solidify alliances between people of different political beliefs for time immemorial.

Thea, however, was far from the marriageable pawn of tradition.

"Beliefs, strongly held, are the essence of men and women. Since meeting you, sir, I have heard stories of your conduct during the rebellion." Her lips curled into a rueful smile and her impish dimple peeped out. "I know I should not be listening to gossip, but...alas, I could not resist. I wanted to know what kind of man you were."

He raised his brows, somewhat cynically. "And common gossip gave you the answer?"

She should have been offended. Instead she laughed. "Mr. MacLonan, you are not kind! Did I not hint to you that I was deeply ashamed of myself?" She tapped his wrist gently with her closed fan, her dimple very much in evidence. "You should not force a lady to admit outright that she has erred in listening to gossip. It just is not done!"

He laughed, a deep appreciative chuckle that caused Thea's spirits to soar in a mercurial way.

"Miss Tilton, I beg your forgiveness."

"It is gladly given, sir."

James looked down at her, a faint smile still curling his lips. "I am intrigued, Miss Tilton, how the daughter of a good Whig general overcame her perfectly natural distaste for a man who was a traitor to England through listening to gossip. I think you were about to explain that deep dark mystery to me."

"You are a most determined man, Mr. MacLonan." She pouted, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "You refuse to allow me to divert the subject away from my transgression."

"Others have made the same complaint, madam," he said rather ruefully.

Thea sighed in an exaggerated way. "Alas, I fear I must confess all." She looked up at him again, her head cocked, and her eyes twinkling. "The truth be known, there is not much to tell. I was persuaded to listen to the history of the rebellion from the point of view of the other side. I began to see that you were an honorable man, acting according to your beliefs. In truth, I do not think you could have done other than to pledge your sword to Charles James Stuart when he raised the clans. You were only doing what your honor demanded."

Complete silence followed her words. Thea found herself searching his face, far too anxiously for her peace of mind.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he said very slowly, "Miss Tilton, I do not know how to reply."

She turned her head away. Gently he caught her chin, uncaring who might be watching them, then turned it so that she had to look up into his eyes. Briefly, his thumb stroked lightly, temptingly, along her skin.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said softly, "but your words left me mute. It is rarely that a man receives a confession and a compliment phrased so gracefully. I only wish that my own explanation could be as elegant."

He caught her hands and squeezed them gently. Thea's fingers tightened in his and something flared in his eyes, deepening the blue. Her heart pounded in response and she took a deep breath. Being near to James MacLonan was causing her body to react very strangely, in ways that she decided she liked very much.

"Your own explanation, sir? I do not understand."

"Why I agreed to come to your party, Miss Tilton," he said gently. "Why I borrowed Staverton's snuff box so I would have a way of approaching you that ensured that you would be willing to speak to me."

"Oh," Thea said, feeling quite silly, but wonderfully flattered. Her voice sounded breathy to her own ears. She wondered if James MacLonan had noticed her lack of composure. "Why did you do those things, Mr. MacLonan?"

His eyes caressed her face. Slowly, he turned her hands so that the palms lay upward. "I could not get you out of my mind," he said simply. Then he bent and kissed first one palm and then the other with a graceful flourish that spoke of the Continent.

Thea's breath caught as her heart began to pound, and a strange longing made her want to drift forever in the pleasure of his touch. "James," she whispered.

He looked up at her and smiled, then dropped her hands. Some of the tension that had kept Thea tight with anticipation eased, but not all. Her whole body continued to tingle with awareness of him.

"I think, Miss Tilton, that we should join the dancing, or people will accuse me of monopolizing your company."

Thea's lovely rippling laugh rang out. "One of the prerogatives of holding your own party, sir, is that you may bend, and even break, the rules. No one will condemn either of us for talking overlong tonight."

"Then I will not hesitate to monopolize you." He took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Is there a place where we can be more private than this? Do you have any suggestions?"

"My father's study," she said a little breathlessly, knowing that after the intensity of their conversation, she was not just breaking, but shattering, all of the rules. "We did not open it for the party tonight. We can be alone there."

Briefly, he hesitated. Then he smiled down at her in a way that was almost possessive. "An excellent suggestion, Theadora. I am yours to command."

She swallowed, then whispered, "Thea. I am Thea to my family."

His smile only deepened.

You can find out more about Louise Clark and her books at: http://www.louiseclarkauthor.com
