

FIRST CHAPTERS:

Compiled by the editors of

eNovel Authors at Work

www.enovelauthorsatwork.com

Published by eNovel Authors at Work at Smashwords.

Compilation Copyright 2014 eNovel Authors at Work.

Individual novel excerpts copyrighted 2014 as noted by their respective authors.

Compendium cover art by Rich Meyer.

Interior cover art copyright their respective authors and artists.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

_First Chapters_ is a selection of sleeper gems by new and talented indie authors brought to you by:

eNovel Authors at Work

In _First Chapters_ you will discover:

  * Pete Barber's sweeping thriller, _NanoStrike_. The pages turn themselves.

  * _The Broken Saint_ by Mike Markel, is a police procedural that will knock your socks off.

  * _Hoodoo Money_ by Sharon Pennington, a romantic mystery set in New Orleans, is so finely crafted you will taste the Beignets at the Café du Monde, fall in love with Zydeco and never set foot in a graveyard again.

  * Dianne Greenlay's _Quintspinner - a Pirate's Quest_ will keep you enthralled in High Seas adventure and action that treks across two continents.

  * Lorrie Farrelly's _Terms of Surrender_ is a Civil War tale that will wrench your heart and have you taking sides.

  * _Trucking in English_ is the true story of a single mother's moxie and humor as she learns to man-handle semi-tractors and trailers in order to take care of her own.

  * More laughter comes your way in Jackie Weger's romantic adventure, _The Reluctant Hero_ who cannot abide women and children, but finds himself responsible for their safety in this wintery romance that will warm your heart.

  * _Sisters of the Night_ by Linda Lee Williams is a strikingly unusual paranormal romance.

  * Return of the Runaway Bride by Donna Fasano is a masterful romance of love gone awry, funny and realistic.

  * _Mazie Baby_ , by Julie Frayn will keep you rooting for the heroine as she outwits and escapes an abusive relationship.

  * For wonderful family fun for all ages and hours of entertainment dip into Rich Meyer's _Five Star Trivia_ , 600 fab questions with all of the answers at your fingertips.

Please press "Next Page" to start your journey of discovery...

(Please note that due to unfathomable problems with Smashwords, the formatting in this book is not the way it should be at the moment. We are working to fix this situation. Please don't hold this against these fine authors.)

NanoStrike

By

Pete Barber

Copyright @ Pete Barber, 2014

Editor: Carolyn Steele

Cover by: The Cover Collection

Two hundred civilians are slaughtered with a nanotech weapon small enough to hide in a hint of perfume. Detective Quinnborne hunts for the weapon's unhinged, genius creator. But when the technology spirals out of control, Quinn becomes humankind's last, thin hope for survival.

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _NanoStrike_.

NanoStrike

by Pete Barber

CHAPTER ONE

In his makeshift laboratory in a bombed-out Israeli medical facility, Dawud dipped his hand into a small glass vivarium and selected a white rat with an orange stripe spray-painted on its back. He held the wriggling rodent by the tail, swung it away from the cage, and squirted two puffs from an asthma inhaler into its snout. When he was satisfied that the mist had dissipated, he returned the rat to the vivarium, setting it next to its brother. The rats touched noses and sniffed each other before recommencing their search for escape.

"Was that enough?" Firman asked. He spoke English with a slight French accent.

Dawud looked up at the tall, dark assassin—an infidel, yes, but also a useful tool for Allah. "Even a trace of inhibitor in the airway is sufficient to provide immunity from the weapon." Dawud took a puff from the inhaler and passed it to Firman, who sucked in a dose before moving to the end of the table, next to the rats.

Dawud sealed a lid on the vivarium, opened the valve on a straw-sized plastic tube connected to a compressed-air cylinder, and released the nanoweapon into the rats' habitat.

The untreated rat shuddered as if shot through with an electric current. Then it charged and slammed and bounced off the glass walls, legs pumping in a futile attempt to flee. Black-bead eyes sprung wide. Lips snarled back, baring pink gums and white teeth. The rodent flipped on its side, jerked and spasmed for five seconds, and then became still.

The orange-marked rat edged forward and inspected a hard black column of charcoal that protruded one inch from the dead rat's throat, distending its jaws.

Firman's eyes stretched wide and a slow smile spread across his thin lips. "Damn! That was fast," he said.

~~~~

Two weeks later, sixteen hundred strangers barreled through dark tunnels beneath London's nightly bustle. Brought together by chance and circumstance, homeward-bound workers, uneasy tourists, uniformed schoolchildren, and sated shoppers rocked and bobbed like marionettes with the motion of the train.

The tube train was well named: eight metal cylinders, each sixty feet long and eight feet wide, linked together in a chain.

At the center of the fifth car, holding a chrome rail, Firman peered between crammed bodies at the fortunate few with seats, lost in their books, smart phones, and tablet computers. His hands were damp with sweat inside thin, transparent latex gloves.

Firman pulled an inhaler from his inside pocket. Three times he sprayed the inhibitor, held, and then exhaled through his nose, coating his airways with immunity. His reserved English neighbors averted their eyes.

He lifted a black shoulder bag above his head and depressed a button embedded in the base. A high-pitched hiss signaled the release of compressed death from the canister within. Lethal molecules streamed into the car. Their unique, seeking nature found fuel in abundance: tongue and throat and lung.

It was a feeding frenzy.

Passengers, eyes stretched wide with terror, gasped and flailed before flopping to the ground, mouths gaped wide and crammed full of black charcoal.

In seconds, corpses surrounded him. A tragic barrier of unwitting protectors in case the car contained a hero.

It didn't.

Cheeks flushed with excitement, he pulled a video camera from his pocket and held it high, panning the scene.

When Firman's car burst into the stark light of Oxford Circus, central London's busiest Underground train station, he stayed below the window line, face hidden now in the shadow of a gray sweatshirt hood. Back pressed hard against the sliding doors, he knelt on a young woman's chest. The thin beat from her iPod was audible in the deathly silent carriage. Firman pulled an envelope from his side pocket, exposed an adhesive strip, and pressed the sticky message over the acne spots on her forehead, covering her stone-dead eyes.

At 5:09 p.m., rush-hour passengers stood six deep on the Central Line platform. They blinked away the rush of warm, stale air pushed from the tunnel by the slowing train. Tired eyes hunted for signs of space, and the death-car's windows showed empty. Hopefuls at the rear shuffled forward, sensing the possibility of an early escape.

The train stopped, doors hissed open, and Firman sprang backward, merging with the pressing crowd as it surged into the seemingly empty carriage.

A silent beat of awareness preceded screaming chaos when the potential riders nearest the train pushed and fought against the press of the crowd behind them, desperate to escape the macabre scene of bodies strewn like discarded laundry, frozen eyes crazed with terror and gaping mouths crammed with charcoal.

"They're all dead."

"Oh, my God!"

"What's happening?"

"Out of my way!"

Firman blended with the crowd, crouching low to avoid the station's closed-circuit TV cameras, digital witnesses to his work, the worst train disaster in London's storied history, the most callous terrorist act since that terrible September day in New York.

The crowd surged along the platform toward the exit stairs. In front of him, an elderly woman lost her footing. The frantic mob parted and washed around her prone body like a stream skirting a rock.

His section of the crowd squeezed up the final twenty steps and spilled onto Oxford Street's broad sidewalk. He sucked in a deep breath. The street was jammed with vehicles. Low-hanging exhaust fumes stung his nose.

After peeling off the gloves, Firman slipped them in the pocket of his hoodie, and walked three blocks. He stepped into a souvenir shop, slid hangers along their circular rail and selected an extra-large "Mind the Gap" T-shirt. He snapped off the price tag, removed his hoodie, and pulled on the shirt. The clerk watched him on a TV monitor.

Firman handed him a bill. "I'll wear it if you don't mind."

The shopkeeper wore a white turban. He smiled. "You American?"

"Yes."

He nodded his acceptance of Firman's lie and handed over the change.

"Could I have a bag for my old clothes?"

"Ten pence, please."

Firman grinned at the ludicrous request and passed over the coin. He stuffed his shoulder bag and hoodie in the plastic carrier.

"Have a nice day," he said as he left.

In two blocks, he turned down an alley and tossed the bag into a stinking Dumpster.

At 5:30 p.m., he crossed the road to a corner pub packed with white-collar workers. Instead of the welcoming harmonics of an after-office crowd, a church-like quiet prevailed. The congregation stared openmouthed at a wall-mounted flat-screen that displayed a repeating loop of the train as it entered the station and its doors slid back to reveal a carriage full of corpses. They had all traveled on underground rail. There, but for the grace of God...

Firman laid a hand on the bar. "Pint of lager, please."

The bartender dragged his eyes from the TV. He poured, and pushed the glass across the counter. "Fuckin' Arabs."

Firman nodded, paid, and settled in at the end of the bar, an incognito star reveling in the impact of his triumphant opening-night performance.

~~~~

The following day, Detective Chief Inspector Steven Quinnborne of Metropolitan Police's Murder Division and Frank Browning—point man for the British Special Branch Terrorism Response Team—stood on either side of a pasty-faced young computer operator in the London Transport Control Center. The technician had access to the largest dynamic network management system in the world, but Quinn couldn't get what he wanted.

Quinn's shoulders stretched his shirt tightly across his back as he hunched forward and peered over the operator's shoulder at the computer screen. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he spat out his words. "Run it again, and keep the camera on the doors." He'd viewed the footage a half-dozen times. Every time the train doors opened, the camera viewpoint shifted to another part of the platform.

"It's not that simple," the operator said. "You asked for the program to lock on the doors from the minute they exit the tunnel. The doors aren't always in shot, so the software loses track."

Quinn sounded out his words as if he were speaking to a child. "I... need... to... see... as much footage of the fifth carriage and its central doors as possible. I don't care about your program."

"Okay, why didn't you say? Damned pushy Yank." This was spoken under the technician's breath.

Quinn heard. Anger always made his accent more pronounced, but the kid just wasn't getting it.

The operator tapped at the keyboard, and again the screen showed commuters crowded along the platform, necks craning, focused on the lights of the approaching train as they grew larger in the dark tunnel.

When the train entered the station, the driver's face was a mask of concentration. Quinn knew he'd be watching for jumpers and making sure to hit his marks so the doors would align with the exits.

"Can you slow it down?" Quinn asked.

The operator tapped at a key. "Tell me when."

The train slowed to a crawl. "Like that, good." He leaned in closer, his earlier annoyance replaced by intense concentration. The footage switched, smoothly this time, to the key camera mounted at the center of the platform and looking down from behind the heads of the waiting crowd. The fourth car rolled past, crammed with passengers. The fifth came into the shot. From this angle, the screen showed bodies two and three deep across the floor, some draped over seat backs like discarded coats.

Quinn's gut clenched at the sight. He straightened slightly.

The train stopped. This time, the camera remained on the doors as they slid open and the crowd surged forward.

"Can you rewind to before the doors open? Then go as slowly as possible?"

The operator's fingers flicked across the keyboard, and the doors were closed again. They began to inch open.

"That's as slow as I can go. Any less and we'll be looking at a series of stills."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Quinn looked at the operator. "You can do that?"

"Sure, you want?"

Quinn rested a hand on the operator's shoulder. "Not yet, thanks."

The doors slid open, five inches, six, seven. The passengers waiting on the platform closed in, blocking the camera's view of the interior. Then, as if a bomb had detonated, the front row recoiled, a dramatic response even in slow motion.

Quinn's finger leaped forward and indented the computer's flexible screen. "There!"

The technician knocked Quinn's hand away.

Quinn ignored the move. "Okay, once more? Begin when the doors start to open and continue until that guy..." Without touching the screen this time, Quinn pointed to a bald businessman in a blue suit standing at the platform's edge, "... falls back into the woman in the green jacket."

The technician worked his magic. "Ready, should I run?"

"Yes, please. What's your name, by the way?"

They had been introduced forty minutes earlier when he and Frank arrived at the Operations Center, but Quinn hadn't paid attention.

"Austin, most folk call me Aussie."

"Okay, Aussie. Let's go."

The doors opened. The crowd pushed in. They lurched back. The bald man lost his balance and started to fall.

Quinn didn't blink, but it happened so fast he couldn't be sure. He turned to his right. "Frank, are you seeing this?"

Frank nodded. "Someone dived out of the train."

"Aussie, can you enhance it?" Quinn asked.

The screen split in two. On the right, the action replayed again frame by frame, but all they saw was a gray blur. Aussie shook his head. "Too fast. Not enough definition."

On the left, the next camera showed a mass of heads crammed together on the narrow platform and moving as one. Quinn leaned over Aussie's shoulder, straining to catch a glimpse of the lone survivor, but it was impossible in the dense crowd.

"Perhaps we can track his group," Aussie said. "I'll set markers to circle twenty or thirty people." Aussie tapped away as he spoke. "The man in the blue suit's behind him. The blond woman will stand out."

Quinn got the idea. "Use the tall kid with the baseball cap?"

Aussie clicked the target. A red arrow appeared above the kid and, along with another five arrows, moved across the screen, floating above the crowd. The pinpointed group reached the top of the stairs leading out of the platform and started to break apart.

Quinn pointed at the screen, careful not to touch now he considered Aussie a colleague rather than a smart-ass. "What's happening? What's that?"

"Someone's fallen. They're going around," Aussie said. The arrows flowed past the obstacle and reformed into a group.

"What's ahead?" Quinn asked.

"The ticket barriers; once they pass through they'll have to pick an exit."

The gates had been swung aside so the panicked crowd could get out as fast as possible.

Quinn kept his eyes on the screen. "Frank, if you were the perp, which exit would you choose?"

"The first I could."

Quinn smiled. "Me, too. Aussie, let's work on that assumption."

Aussie split the screen again.

On the left, the group passed through the barriers and scattered. On the right, Aussie displayed video from a camera mounted outside, high on a pole and trained on the Oxford Street south exit. Commuters streamed out of the stairwell. Many stopped a few feet after reaching the pavement, blinking in the sunlight, and causing a backup.

"God, people are stupid. Can't they get out of the way?" Frank said.

Two red-arrowed passengers emerged. Behind them, someone wearing a gray sweatshirt, face obscured by a hood, pulled off his gloves and strode along Oxford Street and out of camera shot.

"There! The gray hoodie. Male!" Quinn said, stating the obvious. "Only one reason to wear a hood and gloves in July."

Aussie backed the footage up, tapped at his keyboard, and a blue arrow hovered above the hoodie's head. "We can't see his face, but the software will map his body shape. The longer he's in the shot, the more attributes to scan. Give me enough time and I'll be able to spot him anywhere."

"Clever," Quinn said. "Where's the next camera?"

"A hundred yards along Oxford Street."

Quinn rubbed at his cheek, as though he was trying to erase a mark. "With eleven thousand cameras in London, they should have this area blanketed, not one every hundred bloody yards."

Between cameras, they lost the killer for over a minute. When he reappeared, the hood still shadowed his face. He walked left to right across the screen.

"Big man, fit-lookin' bugger, too," Frank said.

"Two hundred yards to the next camera," Aussie said, anticipating Quinn's question.

The detective glared at the back of the technician's head as if he were to blame for the camera locations. Time clicked away at the bottom of the screen.

"He should be here by now," Quinn said.

They waited two minutes, three, still nothing. A few business types passed, but no hooded terrorist.

Frank straightened and rubbed the small of his back. "Lost him."

"Let's wait," Quinn remained bent forward, staring at the screen, willing the man to show. The timer showed five minutes, fourteen seconds when a tall tourist in a T-shirt strode along the sidewalk.

He had a blue arrow over his head.

"Come on, you prick, smile for the camera," Quinn said.

As if he had heard, the man looked up. Aussie tapped a key. The screen split, and a face appeared on the left. Dark hair and eyes, well groomed, tanned, and clean-shaven.

"Handsome bastard," Frank said.

"Check his physique, the way he holds himself, the way he walks," Quinn said as the killer strode out of the shot. "That's no brainwashed Arab fanatic. He's a pro."

Their quarry didn't show at the next camera. After ten minutes staring at the screen, Quinn straightened, and rolled and cricked his back.

"Good job, Aussie. Can you extract the piece we viewed and send it to my desk along with the cleanest mug shot you can manage?" Quinn handed him a business card.

"Send it here as well." Frank produced his card.

"Be glad to."

"Thanks," Quinn said. "If you see anything else, call my cell." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frank glaring at him and about to speak. Quinn's phone rang and postponed the confrontation.

"It's Mike Mitchell, Quinn. Can you come to the staging area and look at something?"

"What?"

"It's... you need to see this for yourself."

"Give me thirty minutes." Quinn closed his phone and turned to Frank. "That was Mike Mitchell."

"The City Coroner, has he got something for me?"

"Dunno, let's go find out."

~~~~

Frank pulled into traffic. His face was hard and set. "Quinn, this is my jurisdiction."

"We both want to catch the bastard, Frank."

"I know you were first responder, Quinn, but terrorism is my patch. Back off, or I'll make you."

Frank Browning had been Quinn's partner in the Met's Murder Division before his recent move to Special Branch. He knew Frank's limitations, and watching him pissing on a pole to mark his territory was all the proof Quinn needed—Frank wasn't up for a job this big. Uncomfortable silence settled over the remainder of their journey.

Processing two hundred and four bodies was far beyond the resources of the City of London Coroner's Office. The Met had commandeered a local school as a temporary mortuary.

Once they'd passed through the rigorous security procedures at the entrance to the school's gymnasium, Quinn spotted Mike Mitchell observing a pathologist who was bent over a gurney, working on a corpse. Mike had been City of London coroner for twelve years. He and Quinn first met professionally, but their relationship had morphed into friendship, and they got together at least once a month for a beer. Mike joked that he felt obligated to buy for his best customer.

Quinn scanned the room. Sixty or more white-sheeted gurneys were double-parked along the walls. Quinn couldn't tell whether they'd been autopsied or still waited. It brought home the human tragedy of what, until now, he'd been dealing with as hunt-the-hoodie. These people had families and jobs and lives. But now, all they were was dead. Anger surged through him. He forced it down. To catch this murderer he needed focus, not fury.

Quinn tapped the tall, thin doctor on the shoulder. "So what's the big secret, Mike?"

Mike spoke without looking around. "Give me a minute, Quinn." The female pathologist he was observing was bent over a corpse, and speaking in a low, fast voice into a handheld Dictaphone. Once finished, she stepped back, revealing a woman's body. Quinn checked the corpse's face: thirty maybe, no more. No rings, perhaps they'd already been sealed in her personal baggie.

"Damned shame," Quinn said.

"Tell me about it. We've pulled in staff from five counties, and it'll still take us three or four days to process them all. Anyway, thanks for coming, Quinn." Mike nodded to Quinn's partner. "Hi, Frank. I thought you two had a lover's tiff and split up?"

"This is a Special Branch investigation," Frank said and handed Mike his card.

Mike turned to Quinn, who rolled his eyes.

"Oh. Right. Um, come with me." The Coroner led them past the gurneys to a small, windowless office. He closed the door behind them.

"What do you make of that?" Mike pointed to a three-foot-tall, black, headless, armless torso perched at the center of a battered, old metal desk.

"Don't tell me you brought me here to admire a new work of art," Quinn said.

"No, Dummy. What do you think it is?" He waited.

Frank laughed. "Did someone chop off ET's head and legs and leave him here?"

Quinn glared at his ex-partner. This was no time for jokes. "I'm not sure, but the ribs aren't sculpted correctly."

"Close, but no cigar." Mike stepped toward the bust and ran a gloved hand down the front of its neck as if the contact might give him inspiration, provide an explanation of how the object had come to be. "Not sculpted, molded," he said. As though someone poured quick-setting concrete down their throats... or, you know, the foam-in-a-can stuff that you squirt into gaps and it expands to fill them? Something entered through the airway, filled the lungs, expanded, and hardened to this black compound. Look here."

He ran his finger along the corrugated neck of the bust. "This is an exact impression of her trachea."

"That's why the ribs are indented. It's molded from the inside," Quinn said.

"Exactly, and that's not all. With this muck in their lungs you'd expect them to die of asphyxiation, right?"

Quinn and Frank nodded.

"Wrong again. See that?" The coroner pointed to a grapefruit-sized indentation midway down the left front of the casting.

"This stuff expanded so fast that her heart was crushed to a stop. I have two hundred and four heart-attack victims in my lab."

The coroner moved back from the bust to allow them an unobstructed view. He held out a box of latex gloves.

"Pick it up. Go ahead."

Quinn started to move but checked himself and let Frank take the lead. Frank pulled on gloves, put his hands either side of the ribcage, and raised the torso a few inches off the desk.

"Solid, but lighter than I expected." He rapped with his knuckles and rubbed the surface. "Feels like those charcoal briquettes you buy for the barbeque."

When Frank finished, Quinn also lifted and felt the material. He checked his hands. They were black. "Soot?"

"Have you seen anything like this before?" Quinn asked the coroner.

"Come on, Quinn... no one's seen anything like this before."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born into a blue-collar family in Liverpool, England, Pete Barber missed The Beatles but did go to The Cavern a few times. He immigrated to the US in the early 90s and became a citizen. After twenty years in the corporate madhouse, he moved to Western North Carolina where he lives with a couple llamas, two spoiled dogs, a brace of cookie-eating goats, one ferocious cat, and a wonderful wife who thankfully understands his obsessive need to write fiction.

The Broken Saint

A Detective Seagate and Miner Mystery

By

Mike Markel

Copyright 2014 by Mike Markel

In _The Broken Saint_ , Karen Seagate and Ryan Miner investigate the murder of Maricel Salizar, a young Filipino exchange student at Central Montana State. The most obvious suspect is the boyfriend, who happens to have gang connections. And then there's Amber Cunningham, a fellow student who's obviously incensed at Maricel for a sexual indiscretion involving Amber's boyfriend. But the evidence keeps leading Seagate and Miner back to the professor--and LDS bishop--who brought her into his dysfunctional home. Karen Seagate takes it in stride when she and her partner learn that the professor can't seem to tell the truth about his relationship with the victim. After all, Seagate's philosophy is, If he breathes, he lies. But to her devout partner, a high-ranking fellow Mormon who has violated every sacred trust deserves special punishment.

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _The Broken Saint_.

The Broken Saint

by Mike Markel

PROLOGUE

From the little stand of trees and shrubs between the river and the Greenpath, he gazed across the narrow river toward the municipal golf course. The moonlight, flickering behind the rushing clouds, outlined the rolling mound of a hazard beyond the silhouettes of the naked, gnarled black cottonwoods, mountain alders, and river birches on the far bank. The river ran fast, tossing invisible spray over the rocks that broke the shallow surface near the bank. Dead leaves scratched across the gravel and brush at his feet on a frigid February night.

No one was visible on the modest swell of the fairway near the fourteenth hole. He looked to his left and his right on the Greenpath. No one. He turned and scanned the parking lot adjoining the three-story corporate building in the small industrial park. There were no cars in the lot, no lights on in the building.

Reaching down and gently touching the artery in her neck, he felt a faint pulse. He kneeled down beside her body and placed his ear next to her mouth and nose. He felt a slight breath, warm in the frozen night.

He began to undress her. She was wearing no jacket or coat. He looked at her clothing, all of it tight fitting—the dark tee shirt with some indecipherable writing on it, the jeans that seemed too narrow to slide over her ankles. Even the socks seemed too small. Sweat forming on his upper lip, he strained to bend her arms so he could remove her shirt. He felt a slight release as it ripped when he pulled it over her shoulders.

Carefully he raised her shoulder and reached behind her back to unhook her dark bra, but he found no clasp there. He grasped the bra in the front, his trembling knuckles grazing her small, cold breasts as he lifted it and pulled it up toward her chin. It caught on her jaw, then on her nose, but finally it was over her shoulders. He disentangled it from her arms, the elbows stiff in the cold. He folded it and placed it next to her on the sandy gravel.

He stared at her breasts, the nipples dark smudges in the dim moonlight. His trembling finger touched a nipple, hard in the cold. He pulled his finger back. He held his hand in front of his face, the five fingers spread. Then he lowered his hand gently until each finger touched the soft breast, pressing it delicately, feeling it yield only slightly. With an unsteady hand, he slowly traced the delicate arc of her breast, from her sternum, downward, then beneath its gentle curve. Suddenly, horrified, he jerked his hand away from her body. For many months he had dreamed of her, but now he was choking on guilt, shame, and despair.

He unbuttoned her jeans, tugged at the zipper to lower it, and tried in vain to pull the denim over her hips, first one, and then the other. He pulled at the jeans from her knees, but the fabric was so tight against her skin that he could not gather enough in his fist to secure a grip. He placed a palm in the hollow above her hip to keep her from sliding across the gravelly dirt. With his other hand he pulled hard on the denim. Finally, the fabric moved, and he managed to release her hips. He looked up as he heard the growl of a passing motorcycle, its rider oblivious to the scene in the patch of trees and shrubs not ten yards from the Greenpath.

He reached down to remove her thong. He could not look away from the narrow, straight line of black hair that led down to her vagina. As he folded her jeans and thong and placed them next to her shirt and bra, he began to weep.

He crouched beside her and tried to lift her in his arms, to carry her to the river. Feeling the soles of his shoes sink into the sand and gravel, he studied the uneven, sloping surface, with its river rocks, tree roots, and stumps half-hidden beneath the tall brown grasses. He did not trust himself to carry her safely to the river. He lowered her carefully to the dirt and then stood straight and walked around to her head.

He grasped her arms, above the elbows, surprised by their thinness, and lifted her trunk. Now only her heels were touching the ground. He smelled coconut in her jet-black hair, thick and straight. He gazed at her breasts and her sex, indistinct in the flickering shadow cast by his body in the dim moonlight.

His hands gripping her slender arms, he walked backward, slowly and haltingly, hunched over, her hair pressed against his chest, down the bank toward the river. Struggling with unsteady steps, he walked backward into the water, dragging her silent body. His feet tingled as the water rose over the tops of his sneakers. The water rose higher and higher on his jeans, over his knees, until it reached his crotch and he gasped.

Her ankles and legs and buttocks now slid beneath the surface, and he felt her body shudder. He thought he heard her moan from the sudden chill. Although the water was warmer than the freezing air, it felt ten times colder.

He walked backward, deeper into the river, the water covering her truck. Now he was sure he heard moans of pain through the gurgle of the rushing water.

His left foot slid off a large river rock covered in a slick film and he lost his balance. Instinctively, he released her arms, watched them rise slightly in the cold night air, then fall, slapping the surface, as he tumbled backward into the river. The river enveloped him, the frigid water stabbing at his face and his neck. As the water began to penetrate his heavy coat, then his flannel shirt, he turned over onto his stomach and struggled to right himself, his hands grasping for something secure on the riverbed. The icy water rose inside his sleeves. Finally, his churning legs touched the riverbed, and he could extend his head, his arms, his trunk into the freezing air. The water had now soaked through his clothing. He gasped for breath, shivering. He scanned the rippling surface, panicking because he had lost her in the black river.

Then she appeared, fifteen feet away, half-floating on her back, with only her knees and breasts breaking the surface of the dark water. She was caught up on some rocks, her head invisible beneath the surface.

He fought to maintain his footing, his sodden clothing now weighing him down like anchors as he trudged over to her. He lifted her head out of the water, bending down to listen for a breath. But the lapping of the water against his chest and over her body was too loud. He placed one hand on her forehead, the other on her chin, and pushed her head beneath the surface. The weight of his jacket started to pull him over, but he pushed back with all his might against the flow, trying to maintain his footing.

He held her head beneath the surface for another long moment, feeling his tears against his frozen cheeks, hearing his teeth chattering in the night. "I am so sorry," he whispered as his body convulsed in the freezing river.

He grasped her arms, above the elbows, and walked backward toward the shore. His body shaking, numb from the water, he slowly pulled her from the river. Her breasts and her sex glistened in the faint moonlight. Pulled down by his wet clothing, he slowly made his way over the rough surface of the river bank, back toward where he had left her clothes. Exhausted, he carefully let her trunk sink until she was reclining on the ground. He was breathing heavily.

He lifted her again by the arms, and as his hands felt the sand on the back of her arms, he began to weep again for what he had done. He dragged the body farther until, finally, sheltered by the gnarled cottonwoods and the shrubs, he laid her softly on the scrub brush and gravel, next to where he had placed her clothing. Once again he tried to hear her breathe, tried to feel a pulse, but this time he was certain she was dead.

He struggled to shake off his own coat, heavy with river water. He started to dress her, but he struggled to get her thong, her jeans, her bra, her tee shirt, and her socks onto her wet, sandy body, rigid in the cold. He pulled and tugged at her clothing. It was necessary to cover her naked flesh. He worked in the faint silver moonlight that dodged the swift clouds down at the river on a frigid February night.

CHAPTER ONE

I eased my Honda into the lot at the Prairie Title Company, one of a few dozen companies in the East Rawlings Industrial Park, nestled next to the Greenpath and the Rawlings River, a few hundred yards upstream from the university. I parked between my partner Ryan's blue Mitsubishi and the old green minivan that Harold Breen, our Medical Examiner, has been driving since forever. A couple spots over sat the '68 Beetle, hand-painted black and white to look like a Holstein, that Robin, our Evidence Tech, drives.

The icy air hit me as I got out of my car. Up ahead I saw the yellow crime-scene tape wrapped around a bunch of trees, cordoning off an area a good thirty yards wide between the Greenpath and the river. I glanced over my shoulder at a bank of windows on the river side of the two-story Prairie Title offices. They were all dark except for one on the second floor. I checked my watch: 7:38 am. I hate it when I'm on the job before the cube dwellers. This time of year, a good rule of thumb is, if it's not light out, you started your day too early or you stayed too late.

Ryan was wearing his long charcoal wool coat, open, over a blue suit, with a white buttoned-down shirt and red striped tie. With his close-cropped hair, blue eyes with gold flecks, and a perpetual smile that showed off forty or fifty unblemished white teeth, he was just too damned good-looking and too well-dressed for our little city located quite close to the exact geographic center of nowhere in Montana. Ryan was also a no-kidding-around Mormon who was extremely married to an equally serious Mormon who, in their three years of wedded bliss, had already popped out forty percent of their five-kid quota.

I'm fifteen years older than Ryan, and I possess not a single one of his virtues. I routinely fail at almost everything I try in life, including my persistent attempts to dislike him. The best I can muster is to officially disapprove of him.

I am what they call a recovering alcoholic. It's a truly stupid phrase, and I despise it. I still have enough brain cells to understand why you don't want to call yourself a recovered alcoholic. After all, what's the point of tempting God or Fate or the Boss of All Shit That Happens? You tell Him you know you're not going to drink anymore, He'll make time in His busy schedule to stomp your sorry soul once more—and then hand you a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

You know that old saying, If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans? From where I sit, that's no compliment. It's one thing to be omniscient and therefore know that, for most people, things are going to turn to shit. But then to laugh about it? Guy in the next cubicle acts like that, everyone calls him an asshole.

So I'm a recovering alcoholic, which means I'll know I'm done drinking when they pump me full of formaldehyde. I go to AA almost every day, and most days I stay sober. Drinking cost me my family. Losing my ex-husband, Bruce, was inevitable anyway and probably goes in the Good Riddance column. Not being able to help keep my son, Tommy, out of some serious trouble because I was busy puking, pissing myself, passing out, and frequenting motels that charge by the hour—that one brings me to my knees quite often. But I know I'll get over that regret—as soon as I get that formaldehyde.

Ryan was talking with Harold Breen, our longtime Medical Examiner. At forty-eight, Harold is a little older than me. He's about five-seven, three-hundred and fifty pounds, and he walks by pushing the left side of his body forward a little, then his right, then his left. Finally, he builds up a rhythm and his body just keeps moving until he needs to slow it down and stop. He huffs and puffs when he walks, like a steam engine hauling too many cars up a steep incline. He dresses head-to-toe in polyester, shiny with wear, the more hideous the pattern and putrid the color, the merrier. He's got Velcro on his Hush Puppies, stubble in the folds of his chins, sweat on his shiny scalp, even out here—in Montana, in February, before the sun rises and the temp hits double digits. If I was a guy who eats like I used to drink, I'd look just like Harold. Because he is just about the kindest man in the world, I love him completely and expect to do so until I die or he does, whichever comes first.

The third party near the yellow tape was Robin, our Evidence Tech. To compensate for the indignity of being tall and slender, with good bones, smooth skin, faint freckles, and the kind of blond hair that recalls the early Beach Boys, Robin is on an endless quest to reject traditional ideas of feminine beauty. This week, her hair sports pink and aqua highlights, there's a new turquoise stone on the end of her silver eyebrow loop, and a second diamond stud has appeared in her left nostril. She's the only other female I work with routinely and, against all odds, the only person in the whole department who curses more than I do. Her eyes light up and she gets a big grin when she discusses a fan-fucking-tastic semen stain on a vic's skirt or a motherfucker of an orange pube she just yanked from some dead guy's crotch. Although I admire her skills and enthusiasm for the job, we don't socialize.

Ryan, Harold, and Robin were standing just outside the crime-scene tape that formed the perimeter of this little patch of gnarly trees, scrubby shrubs, and wild grasses. The river takes all kinds of weird curves down here, but the Greenpath was laid out a little straighter, presumably so bikers had a better chance of seeing and therefore not flattening any of the hundreds of doddering old bats out for a walk with Snowball. When the Greenpath was paved about twenty years ago, the city left the little patches of trees and brush as they were between the pavement and the river. And that's apparently where our vic was resting, presumably in peace.

I walked over to the three of them, buttoning up my coat against the icy breeze. It's always a few degrees cooler here on the river than it is among the buildings downtown, which can be pleasant in our six- or seven-week summer but isn't that wonderful when the sun hasn't appeared yet in the middle of a typically ferocious February. My feet crunched the patches of frost as I walked carefully over the uneven ground littered with exposed roots, brittle sagebrush, and river rocks the size of grapefruits.

I turned and looked back at the parking lot. Even though I didn't know anything except that there was a croaker in the area, my instinct was this was probably a drop site, not the murder scene. It was a little too exposed for killing someone. With the Greenpath and the company buildings within sight, it would be smarter to kill the vic in the comfort of your own home, then take him for a ride. If you knew what you were doing, you could carry a body from your car to the cottonwoods in less than thirty seconds, then be back on the road in another ten.

"Good morning, gang," I said to my three colleagues. Ryan gave me a good smile. Harold and Robin muttered something about morning. We all had our hands shoved in our pockets and were bobbing up and down on our toes.

Ryan said, "Female, eighteen to twenty-five. Three stab wounds in her abdomen. Some green slimy stuff from the river stuck to her body, and sand all over her back, her buttocks, and the backs of her legs. All underneath her clothing."

"Two sets of tracks on the ground, like heel prints," Robin said. "Like she was dragged down to the river and then back up to where she is now."

"She was stabbed and dunked?" I said.

Harold pulled his hands out of his pockets and shook them. He blew on one fist, then the other. "What it looks like. Can't tell what order. Robin might be able to figure it out by looking at the holes in her tee shirt."

"Yeah," Robin said. "I took a quick look at the shirt. The holes in the fabric don't exactly line up with the wounds."

"Come again?" I said. Did I mention it was early? And really cold?

"Follow me," Robin said. I lifted the tape so Robin could duck under it and lead me to the body, which was underneath a tent that had been set up earlier to protect the crime scene from shit falling onto it. The common-approach path had already been laid out with our new metal stepping-stone plates. We started using them a few months ago. Robin had put out the plates on a path she hoped didn't have any forensic evidence. Everyone who entered the scene had to walk on the plates. It was a pain in the ass, but worth it: we didn't waste as much time looking for a murderer wearing the shoes on Ryan's feet.

The vic was fifteen yards in. A young girl. Black hair, pretty. Asian or something. The copper skin on her arms and face was a mottled grey, the arms covered with goose bumps. She was wearing just a tee shirt, jeans, and socks. Looking at her, I felt a shiver run through my body.

Robin bent down, still standing on a metal plate. "She had her shirt on when she was stabbed," she said, pointing to the three identical slices through her shirt in an area maybe three inches square, stomach-high but a little to the left. "If you look close at the area, you can see the ridges on her skin through the cloth."

"Yeah." I crouched down. "I see it."

"The holes in the shirt don't line up with the wounds. Same pattern, but they're about an inch off."

"As in the killer took her shirt off and then put it on again."

Robin nodded, then stood up straight. It took me a little more effort to stand up. We walked back on the metal plates, out to the tape, and over to Ryan and Harold.

Ryan said, "For some reason the killer took the girl's clothes off, dunked her, getting the slimy green stuff on her, then brought her back on shore, laid her down on the sand, and dressed her."

Harold said, "I might be able to help you with the sequence when I put her on the table."

"When did she die?" I said.

"Rigor is just starting," Harold said, bobbing up and down on his toes. "I'd say ten pm to two am."

I looked at Ryan. "She didn't have a coat or anything?"

He shook his head. "I'll get some uniforms to do a grid search, but I didn't see anything when I did a quick once-over in the area here." He was pointing to the area inside the tape.

"You see it as a dump job?"

Robin said, "Looks like it. No blood under her or in the area."

"You got a purse or something?"

"Nothing yet. No ID. A twenty and three ones in cash folded in her pocket," Robin said. "A bandanna in her back left pocket."

"No keys, no phone?"

"Not that I'm seeing." She pointed her chin toward the river. "Maybe they're in there," she said. "Wanna roll up your pants?"

"Sounds like fun," I said. "Lemme see what we've got first. Who discovered the body?"

"A jogger," Ryan said, "about an hour ago. He saw her from the Greenpath."

"The jogger legit?"

Ryan nodded. "He stuck around for me to get here. I interviewed him." He patted his chest pocket, where he keeps his notebook. "I let him go a few minutes ago. He was all dressed up in spandex gear, complete with those shoes that look like feet. I got his contact information. He's a lawyer downtown."

"Okay," I said.

Ryan said, "Want to get the dive team to look for a phone?"

I shook my head. "There won't be anything in the river. He killed her somewhere else, dropped her here. All he's left here is the stuff he wanted us to find. If there's a phone, it's at his place or he tossed it somewhere else."

"Any thoughts on why he wanted her to be found here?"

"No idea." I shook my head. "There's a bunch of other places he could've dumped her if he didn't want us to find her. So he thought it through, a least a little bit." I paused. "Why don't we wait and see what Robin and Harold figure out. We'll probably be able to ID her easily enough from a Missing Persons, and we'll get her phone records. The only thing we'll miss out on from not having a phone is her speed dials and her pissed-off birds."

I looked over at Harold, who was gazing across the river at nothing in particular. "You okay?" I said.

He shook his head. "Hate it when I see a kid like this get killed. Young girl, I look at her and see my daughter."

We stood there a moment, and I squeezed his arm gently through his puffy coat. "Okay, Harold, anything you need from us before we head back?"

"No, the scene is secure." He gestured to the tent. There was one officer there, and two protecting the perimeter. "The wagon will be here in a couple of minutes. I'll get together with Robin when we get the girl back to the station. We'll talk to you later this morning."

"Thanks, Harold." I turned to Ryan. "Think it might be time to figure out who this girl was."

He nodded. "See you back at headquarters." He started walking toward his car.

I pulled my coat tighter against my body and walked back toward the tape. I ducked under it and followed the steel plates to the tent. I looked down at the girl's body. "What happened to you?" I said softly.

"Did you say something to me, Detective?"

I looked up, startled, at the uniform on duty, a woman whose name tag said Brown.

"No, I just... No, I didn't say anything." I turned and headed back on the steel plates.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Markel teaches writing at Boise State University and is the author of many articles and eight books about writing and literature.

He also writes the Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery series, which is set in the fictional small city of Rawlings, Montana, home of Central Montana State University. That university is somewhat like Boise State University, but in Rawlings the weather is colder, the football team less successful, and the murder rate much, much higher.

Mike lives with his wife in Boise.

Follow Mike Markel on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/1kyJHFE

Read Mike's tweets: https://twitter.com/mikemarkel

Visit Mike's website: http://mikemarkel.com

HOODOO MONEY

Book One inThe Stolen Nickel Series

by

Sharon Cupp Pennington

Copyright © 2014 Sharon Cupp Pennington

Cover design by Sharon Cupp Pennington

A vicious mugging outside a New Orleans cemetery shakes up author Braeden McKay's quiet, structured world \-- but that's only the beginning of her misfortune. Accident, betrayal, murder. Is Braeden's run of bad luck caused by the nickel her friend stole from the grave of a hoodoo woman? What can she do about it now? She has no idea where the confounded nickel is. Clearly someone or something is bent on harming Braeden McKay, and it's up to Detective Sanderson Montgomery to protect her while keeping his heart out of the mix. Can love, the very entanglement Braeden wants no part of, be the one force greater than any adversary -- even a hoodoo curse?

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Hoodoo Money_.

Hoodoo Money

by Sharon Cupp Pennington

PROLOGUE

Chicago, Illinois...

Sweating profusely, Lee Allen Dalrymple carted his 280-pounds up a second flight of stairs. "Damn elevator," he huffed. "Been on the fritz more times than not since I moved into this overpriced apartment." But a broke-down elevator was the least of his aggravation. Braeden McKay had flat refused to give him the crime scene photos from the Dodding murder. "Bitch."

New shoes pinched Dalrymple's swollen feet. His head ached. Perspiration stung his eyes and plastered his white shirt to his back under a suit jacket that cut into his shoulders.

"McKay's the cause of all my misery." He lumbered through the door of his darkened apartment juggling mail, his laptop and battered valise.

During this most recent trip to Texas, he called forth every ruse concocted in nineteen years of free-lance journalism. Three days of impromptu meetings, deep-fried meals and all-out groveling, and he hadn't worn her down a lick.

He kicked the door shut, and the vibration skewed the signed lithograph on the wall next to the framed dust jacket of _The Stoning of Renzo De Benedictis_ , his one and only bestseller. "Integrity's for Boy Scouts," he grumbled. People had lewd appetites, and satiating those appetites had made him a lot of money.

He couldn't recall any other time a woman looked him straight in the eyes and told him her conscience wasn't for sale. But McKay had leaned across a glass of expensive merlot, shook his hand and said in that irritating drawl of hers, "My decision is final, Mr. Dalrymple. Herbert Dodding is dead. I can't change that. But neither will I contribute to a tell-all book that will follow those boys for the rest of their lives. You understand, sir, I'm sure."

Like hell, he understood.

Why did she hold onto the photographs if she didn't plan to use them, or any of the research she'd done into the old pervert's murder? Her genre was children's books, and the "Platypus Pearl" mystery series had made her the newest darling of the preteen set.

Not that she bragged about it. McKay was too refined, too genteel. Too damn Southern.

He dropped the mail in the wastebasket -- nothing but bills from his accountant -- placed the laptop on his cluttered desk and his valise on the floor. Lamp on, he shrugged out of the torturous jacket and headed for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his kitchen cabinet. Frustration mothered an awful thirst, and Dalrymple was the thirstiest he'd been in forty-seven years of scandalous living.

He carried the bottle to the living room, grabbed the remote and switched on the television. He switched the set off just as quick. Today the news depressed him. Braeden McKay and her unwavering morality depressed him.

Anger surfaced in his shaking hands when he unscrewed Johnnie's cap, splashed two fingers in a glass and threw back the amber liquid.

The muffled pop never registered as a gunshot, but an explosion of white light inside his temple dropped Dalrymple to his knees. The last image his brain recorded as blood filled his mouth was a shadow lifting the laptop from his desk.

CHAPTER ONE

St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans, sixteen months later...

"What do you get when you bite a ghost?" Braeden McKay managed a weak smile and whispered, "A mouthful of sheet."

The joke wasn't any funnier now than it had been the first time her neighbor's nine-year old nephew told it. Neither was spending an entire morning of her vacation in a cemetery. But she had promised Angeline she'd be her guest during the Fournier Cosmetics photo shoot. With the lure of a decadent lunch and antique shopping afterward, she could hold out a bit longer.

Four hours spent in the merciless Gulf Coast humidity, and Braeden's natural curls resembled coppery cotton candy. She twisted her hair into a haphazard roll, fastened it with a large plastic clip, then fanned the back of her neck with the brochure from her pocket. Not that either helped.

Heading down the stone path dividing two rows of staggered sepulchers and patchwork grass, she was struck by the contrast between a century-old mausoleum and the camera crew packing their high-tech gear. She supposed the scene was no more odd than looking at a panoramic view of the cemetery with the city's modern skyline behind it, or the honking of car horns carried through the old iron gates on a July breeze. This glorious mix was one of the characteristics she loved most about New Orleans: the blending of past and present, with ample deference given both.

"Now what are you doing?" She found her supermodel friend standing before a small tomb they'd discovered on a break earlier in the day.

"I'm gettin' myself a souvenir." Angeline leaned over the rusted iron fence marking Simone Dubois' grave and plucked a coin off the mutilated brick. "You want me to get you one?"

Braeden eyed the coin with wariness. It was small, silver, round and dull-edged. "You lifted that nickel from the grave of a witch." She suppressed her shudder. "No, I don't want you to get me one."

Angeline straightened her five foot ten inch frame. "A gypsy, Brag. Simone Dubois was a Black Gypsy, a hoodoo woman."

"Same difference."

"Hardly, and don't make it sound so sinister." She buffed the coin against her blouse before holding it up to the light for closer inspection. "It's not like I'm snatchin' bodies, or pryin' gold from their teeth. There must be fifty coins here, nickels and dimes, pennies. People are expected to take a few."

"If you want a souvenir, I'll buy you some beads or a fancy Mardi Gras mask like the ones we saw in the hotel lobby." Appealing to her friend's flamboyant side wasn't working; Braeden tried the practical approach. "Okay, okay." She raised her arms in exaggerated surrender. "I'll buy the postcards this trip, for pity's sake, and stamps to mail them. Just put the nickel back, Angie, before somebody sees you."

Angeline's laugh dissipated into the fissures of the tomb. She rested her boxy sunglasses atop her blonde head and met Braeden's gaze beneath the black crystal frames. "No thanks," she said. "I think I'll keep my nickel. Besides, who's gonna see me? Cooper? We hired the man to drive, nothing more. The hoodoo woman supposedly buried beneath all this ... _finery_?" She reached through the rusted iron bars, tapped the base of Dubois' tomb with the toe of her strappy sandal and added matter-of-factly, "I think not."

Visions of campfires and burning effigies tumbled through Braeden's brain. "What if it's bad luck to take it, Angie. I mean, sacrilegious or something." The _or something_ worried her. "What if there's some kind of..."

It seemed ridiculous to even say the word out loud.

Angeline whirled, clapping her hands. "I can't believe it, Brag! You were gonna say 'curse,' weren't you?"

"S-Something like that."

The supermodel edged through the small gate hanging lop-sided from the rusted iron enclosure. An elusive breeze caught the hem of her silk crepe skirt, and a dance of yellow designer daisies swirled about her ankles as she planted her outrageously insured derriere on the tomb's narrow foundation ledge.

She motioned for Charlie Cooper, and the driver ambled over with a pucker on his face that reminded Braeden of tasting tart lemonade.

"Here, Cooper. Take a picture of us for posterity." Angeline shoved her camera at him, then patted the space next to her indicating Braeden should also sit. "Just me and Brag and little ol' Simone Dubois," she teased. "Black Gypsy."

Braeden stepped out of range of the shot. "Thanks, but no thanks."

The camera whirred and clicked, clicked and whirred. "Come on, Brag." Angeline struck another silly pose. "I mean, a curse. For heaven's sake, you don't really believe in such things. Do you?"

Braeden wanted to say no, but hesitated. She was three-quarters Irish after all. Wasn't she obligated to believe in leprechauns and cluricauns, and the kissin' of the Blarney? She even had the woven cross of Saint Brigid attached to the wall above her bed.

"Love potions, spells cast under a full moon, that ol' black magic?" Angeline tossed the coin one-handed and snatched it back in mid-air. "The walkin' dead?" she giggled.

She waved off the driver, stood, then shook gritty brick dust from the crisp folds of her skirt. Then she leaned over the decrepit little fence, smiled engagingly at the group of fans clustered around the tomb and signed a few more autographs.

Angeline St. Cyr, Braeden thought with unbound affection, the quintessential PR package. Fournier Cosmetics was lucky to have her.

"It's just a nickel, Brag." Angeline threw her head back, laughing out loud as she caressed the coin between her thumb and forefinger. "A plain old, honest to God, made in America nickel. And it's mine. Finders Keepers you know. Anyway, look at the date." She turned the coin, heads up this time, and thrust it within inches of Braeden's freckle-dusted nose. "How can there be a curse on the damn thing, sweetie? It's not even old enough to have collected a coat of tarnish. Now," she tapped the folded pamphlet in Braeden's hand a couple times with one bejeweled finger, "read that to me one more time, Brag. What the brochure says about this mean ol' gypsy who's gonna put the whammy on me for takin' her nickel."

Slipping on the reading glasses snagged along the neckline at the front of her shirt, Braeden unfolded a brochure procured from the hotel's concierge. According to the author, hoodoo folk magic blended the beliefs and traditions brought to America by African slaves with the botanical knowledge of Native Americans. Hoodoo was thought to involve clairvoyance, hexing, conjuring and the healing of spirit and body using roots, herbs and other natural elements. The brochure also referred to coins similar to those deposited on Dubois' grave as hoodoo money: coins left on specific tombs in exchange for favors from the dead.

_Or from the undead_.

Good magic, bad magic, lotions and potions. Braeden shivered in spite of the sultry Louisiana heat. It sounded more voodoo than hoodoo. Not that Angeline cared, or would even consider surrendering her prize souvenir on the chance it had been deposited on want and a promise.

~~~~

Hidden by A uniform row of tombs, a solitary man watched and waited, a canvas shopping bag on the ground near his feet. Unaccustomed to the contact lenses, he blinked several times, then squinted as he raised his camera.

He smiled. Today his eyes were umber, the color of shadow, how appropriate. Beneath the Orioles baseball cap, his thick sandalwood hair, a new shade and slightly grayed at the temples, added bogus years to his clever disguise.

Through the camera's viewfinder, he studied the somber tableau stretched out before him. A mortician's Valhalla, the rows of tombs seemed endless. Path upon narrow path, they formed a macabre latticework of dead-end streets and snaking avenues, permanent addresses to poets and pirates, paupers and pompous politicians.

He panned his camera left. Many of the burial chambers were large and ostentatious, with friezes sculpted into their deep sides and elaborate statuary embellishing their rooftops. The relentless sun bleached their white marble doors and half-dead grass breached the stone paths leading up to them.

They reminded him of poorly kept yards and poorly kept lives -- of long kept secrets at risk of being unraveled.

He tracked the camera forward, where the crypts appeared as shrunken, windowless replicas of local banks and civic buildings, the Garden District's grand mansions. Others resembled the gallant Bastille, surrounded by garish cast iron grillwork, rust staining their concrete foundations. Still others, low rent efficiencies and walk-ups of handmade brick, crumbling with age, corners jutted out as if to snag the attention of the next passerby.

Panning the camera right, he zoomed in until Simone Dubois' grave and the two women filled the viewfinder. Killing the arrogant journalist, Dalrymple, had been easy, even pleasurable. But he had never killed a woman.

The prospect of doing so left him both excited and nauseous.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 Sharon Cupp Pennington's love of mysteries is rooted in a gazillion bicycle excursions to her local library as a girl, and hours spent sitting on the floor in back aisles surrounded by books. Trying to decide which three or four would go home in her bike's basket. If a new Nancy Drew novel appeared on those shelves, all the better. She'd found the day's treasure.

Her short stories have appeared in numerous online and print venues, with anthology contributions to The Rocking Chair Reader (Coming Home, Family Gatherings), A Cup of Comfort for Weddings and Good Old Days Magazine. Second editions of her _Stolen Nickel_ Series, _Hoodoo Money_ (#1) and _Mangroves and Monsters_ (#2), were released in September 2013.

She resides in Texas with her husband, where she is busy finishing up her next novel.

QUINTSPINNER: A PIRATE'S QUEST

By

Dianne Greenlay

Copyright 2014 Dianne Greenlay

Cover design by Derek Murphy at CreativIndie Book Covers

As a young woman trapped on a merchant ship bound for the pirate infested waters of the 18th century West Indies, and forcibly betrothed to a man she has secretly seen commit a murder, 16 year old Tess Willoughby finds comfort and love for the first time, in the company of a handsome sailor even though this growing temptation will most certainly jeopardize both of their lives. When the merchant ship is overtaken by pirates and a fight-to-the-death rages onboard, Tess is confronted with the painful realization that her ruthless fiancé is the only one who can offer her any safety, and in that moment, her choices between loyalty to her heart or to her head erupt in their own battle.

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Quintspinner – A Pirate's Quest_.

Quintspinner: A Pirate's Quest

by Dianne Greenlay

PROLOGUE

He would have retched, had his mouth not already been open in a strangled scream. He hoped the thickness of the stone walls would prevent the others from hearing him. It would not do for a man of his ranking to be caught in such a compromising position. Performing such a compromising act. It was revolting to him yet had to be done.

Sitting erect on a chair in front of the fireplace's bed of embers, he swiped at a bead of sweat that ran down his cheek and into his carefully groomed beard. His legs, powerfully built from past years of required training, nonetheless shook uncontrollably. Exhaling a long steadying breath, he began. It was time.

The tip of the iron rod glowed crimson and sizzled as it seared into his flesh, melting skin then muscle. He pressed it deeper into his own upper chest. Hot tendrils of smoke curled up into his nostrils.

The brand would make the difference. He was certain of that.

He was alone in the bed chamber and had secured its great wooden door shut against any intrusion. This was not a procedure for the uninitiated to witness. He had had to do it on his own. He had considered taking a stiff drink beforehand to help numb the anticipated pain but had wisely decided against it. There could be no room for error.

It had to be perfect in its placement.

Perfect in its outline.

Was it any wonder he'd had no results with the ring before this? The bejeweled circle sat just above the middle knuckle on his little finger and could be pushed down no further. It was too small for him to wear it properly.

And he'd not been born with the mark.

Without one, it was said, the power of the ring's verdurous emerald stones would be minimal. Ineffectual. Obtainable, to be sure, but not without months, maybe years of practice. But now....

He could hardly wait for his burnt flesh to heal.

~~~~

Deeper in the bowels of London, tucked down a narrow cobbled alleyway, the sharp bouquet of smoldering herbs permeated a shuttered room. Its lone occupant sat at a table, inhaling the vapors as they rose from her infusion dish. As she peered at the flame of the lone candle burning in a holder beside her clay dish, its tip flickered and danced, probing the darkness of the room.

She owned only one item of any value–its real worth was known to only a few–and she manipulated it with her fingers, breathing slowly and deeply, willing the visions to visit. There were many things that she wanted to know. Things that had been asked of her by others. Things she needed to know for herself. The visions would come–they always did. The visions would tell her.

Something pushed into the edge of her thoughts. An intrusion. An unbidden presence challenged. She tilted her head. No, not challenging. _Seeking_. A faint pulsing energy... growing stronger. She caught her breath and began to tremble. _A Spinner?_ Why now? Had the time truly come to prepare a successor?

The suddenness of the first vision's arrival made her gasp. This time there were horrific flashes–terrifying and grotesque clips of violence and pain–and she whimpered as they slammed through her mind. It was not the first time that the visions had touched her with fear but now they announced that the inevitable would soon be forced upon her.

CHAPTER ONE

William would never forget the last day of his life as he knew it.

He was being attacked for the first time that morning. The rough grip clutching him dug into his shoulder and shook him hard. His heart bolted into a sudden pounding frenzy.

"William! Wake now!" The voice was shrill and pierced his sleep. His eyes shot open and focused on the face hovering above him.

His mother. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, he could see a deep furrow of worry lacing her eyebrows together. Her lips were pressed into a narrow frown and he couldn't quite read the emotion fueling her painful grasp on him.

_Worry or anger?_ It didn't matter. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good.

"C'mon lad! Up with you. Your father and brother didna' return from the pub last evening–still drunk as mice in the dregs of a brandy barrel, I 'spect–but that's no relief to Millie, will it be, with her bag near ready to burst, nor to those of us needin' kindling to have kept the flame tucked overnight. Sometimes I curse the day John Robert discovered his dammed drink!"

His confusion at being woken well before sun up was quickly replaced with alarm. Not home? Neither one? William wearily struggled to sit up on his straw-filled mat. A tangled lock of sandy colored hair swung down into his face and he tucked it behind his ear. He recognized his mother's angry use of his father's proper names.

"Bring us wood and dung as fast as you can, lad, and I'll set to save what embers I can. Your sister will start the milkin'. Quickly! Off with you now!"

He could hear the strain in her voice. His Da' not home? Nor Johnny? His mother's worry was well placed then. His father would never have left the evening milking undone. At the very least his older brother, John, would have been sent back to help do the chores. And no wood for the overnight or morning fire!

He quickly slid both feet into the boots lying on the floor beside him. The worn leather had molded to his feet like a second layer of calloused skin. Throwing his woolen tunic on over top of his night shirt and trousers, he quickly lashed it around his waist, and called out.

"Lucas! C'mon boy, let's have a look." From a woven floor pad, the grizzled hound lifted his head in response to his name, but the relative warmth of the house called more strongly to his arthritic joints than his master's voice, and he merely yawned and laid his head back down upon his front paws. "Fine then, you old fart! Stay here while I go looking." Lucas simply closed his eyes and exhaled a contented sigh. William didn't blame him. The dog was nearly as old as William was now and the past winter's ache had settled and stayed in his bones. Being allowed to stay inside was a special treat. Giving his dog a fond scratch between the animal's ears, William pulled the tunic's hood up over his own head, and stepped through the hut's doorway into the chill of the damp air.

An urgent lowing greeted him as he strode the few steps it took to reach the livestock shed's doorway. Running footsteps from behind told him that Abbey was already on her way to milk the cow. For a heartbeat William felt a pang of guilt for his little sister _._ The cow's bag would be swollen hard and the animal would be more miserable and uncooperative than usual. Millie was calmer with a female's handling of her teats at the best of times, it seemed to him. _Probably comes_ _from having the same kind of equipment, and knowing how to handle 'em without harm._

William trotted silently further down the rutted path, its surface having been torn into parallel troughs by years of foot traffic and cart wheels. Anything useful as kindling had long since been picked clean near the buildings. His keen eyes gradually adjusted to the dim pre-dawn light. He preferred to find branches and twigs to burn, rather than to have to return with an armful of dung from the cowshed. Although the manure burned slowly and gave off decent warmth, its smoke was thick and noxious.

He was closer to the village than to his home by the time he came across anything worth picking up. Skirting around the edges of the underbrush that lined both sides of the path, he gathered a small armful of dried twigs. They would burn up in no time, he knew. He continued to scour the bushes deeper into the underbrush in hopes of discovering a few decently sized branches.

Just a bit more and I'll have enough to make the porridge fire, anyway.

He realized it was the wrong time of year to be finding much dead wood. Everything was leafed out and no limbs on the trees or bushes were dry enough to have been shaken down by wind passing through the thickets and forest.

Scrambling out of the underbrush he clutched the twigs and a few skinny branches to his chest. Reaching the road once more, he stumbled in one of the ruts and pitched forward onto his knees, dropping his kindling. An intense bolt of pain shot through his leg as his kneecap cracked against an exposed cobble rock. William ground his teeth together in quiet agony.

Goddamn these ruts! Where in the hell are Johnny and Da' anyway?

Still on his hands and knees, he lifted his head and glanced down the road. Something off to the side glowed eerily white, lying in an area of dark trampled grasses. He squinted in the semi-light and cursed the rut again for being the cause of his knee pain. _Damned stupid stumble–_

William strained his eyes on the strange discoloration ahead, his knee pain immediately forgotten.

_What in the hell_ _is that?_

~~~~

A branch! A large friggin' branch!

He struggled to his feet and fixing his gaze on it, lurched towards it. Living at the edge of the forest as his family did, William knew the different woods on sight, and he also knew their properties–which smelled sweetest when burning, which was strongest for fences, and which wood was flexible enough for bows. Even so, in this dim predawn gray, he could not place from which kind of tree it was. The shape was unlike anything that he was familiar with. He kept his eye on the precious branch as he hurried onward. Upon reaching it, he bent down and froze in mid-reach.

Not a branch.

Wood, yes to be sure, but it was the splintered remains of a broken club, its shattered end darkly stained. William's nostrils flared as the faint metallic scent wafted up from the dark patch of grass.

'Heme' they had called it in the slaughter shed. "It's the heme 'o the blood what gives the smell," his father had once told the boys. Johnny had declared that he smelled only the pigs' shit, but William had been blessed with a sense of smell more keen than most, and to him the warm blood smelled vaguely like the hot metal in the blacksmith's shop.

"You're part wolf, I swear," his father had declared. "Ya' see and smell things the rest of us can't. Whatever use that will come to though, I can't declare."

William held the broken club to his nose and sniffed. It was the heme alright. Alarmed, he threw it down and it landed with a soft wet thud onto a saturated piece of cloth lying in the crushed grass. William bent closer and peered at the spot. His stomach lurched.

Da's cap!

Wet with the heavy morning dew. Wet with blood. It laid in the grasses as though already part of the earth.

_Oh Jesus! It can't be!_ His heart hammered in his chest as cold panic washed over him. _Oh God! Wha–what happened?_ His father was a large man. Determined. Stronger than most. _What could possibly have gotten the best of him?_

William dropped onto his hands and knees, oblivious to the shrieking pain in his knee. His stomach was heaving. The burn of the bile in his empty stomach filled his mouth and his shoulders hunched high under his ears as he heaved, choking and spitting.

Then suddenly, horribly, his eyes came to rest on a calloused pale hand protruding from the tangled roots of the hawthorn bush beside him, the broken wrist bent at an odd angle, the entire arm awash with blood.

Oh Christ Almighty!

William strangled a cry in his throat and his stomach heaved anew. The dry heaves tore at his insides and he gasped for breath. The curl of the fingers, the shape of the broad thumb, so much like his own–

Dear God! Let him be alive!

Jerking his head up from the sight of his grisly find, William scanned the area around him. His breath came in ragged gasps. _Am I alone? Oh God! Lucas! I need you here, boy! Who did this? A club? It wasn't an animal!_ _Bandits? Are the attackers still around?_

Self-preservation instincts took over. Seeing no one and hearing only his own blood roar in a frantic whoosh in his ears, William reached out for the protruding fingers.

"Da'?" he whispered in the semi-darkness. Clasping the cold finger, he shook it as though to wake its owner. The hand was already stiffening in death.

"Da _'_!" William's silent scream was punctuated by the whoosh in his head. His breath came in burning gulps as he reached out and parted the bushes. His eyes travelled from the hand, up the bloodied forearm, to the body, then upward to the face. His vision blurred with hot tears. _Oh Da' –_

The words died in his throat. The sightless blue eyes were not his father's.

The roaring inside his head increased to a high pitched squeal. He felt his thoughts spinning, spinning, as he sank mercifully into blackness. The void sucked him down into nothingness, away from the terror of his discovery.

His head dropped with a soft thump onto the cold chest of his brother's stiffening corpse.

~~~~

William never felt the rough hands that pulled him from the bush, nor felt the coils of rope splitting his skin as the strands were tightened, cutting into his wrists and ankles, binding them together.

~~~~

To the girl on the stool, the scream was at once both ear-shattering and guttural. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end and her heart pounded furiously against her chest wall. The woman on the low bed beside her moaned and writhed in agony, gripped in a contraction beyond her control.

"Tess!" The woman hissed, the contraction slowly ebbing away. Her eyes clenched shut in fear and pain.

"I'm here," Tess responded and shifted her weight forward on the stool, gently wiping the woman's brow. In spite of the fire burning in the hearth, cold rivulets of her own sweat trickled down between Tess's shoulder blades.

Being the daughter of the much sought after London physician, Dr. Charles Thomas Willoughby, Tess had heard similar cries of distress coming from the many pregnant patients her father attended to. She had, on several occasions, accompanied him into the bed chambers of these laboring women for their deliveries, handing him whatever linens, medical potions, and tools that he required. However, this time, the screams burst forth from her mother, and it was horrifyingly different.

Elizabeth Willoughby lay on the cot, her nightshift pasted with sweat to her chest. A thin sheet draped her lower body. As her eyes slowly opened, she fixed Tess in a glassy stare. She breathed a series of shallow gasps behind chattering teeth.

"C'mon, Mum," Tess encouraged, in a voice that she hoped did not relay her own fear. "Squeeze my hand and bite down on this linen when the next pain comes–"

Another wrenching scream cut Tess off as her mother's body tensed then arched with the fury of the contraction.

Something is very wrong!

Tess again mopped the sweat from her mother's forehead, and wiped a sliver of drool which slid down from the corner of her mother's mouth. She tried to keep her voice low and soothing.

"Cassie's gone to find Father! Father went to tend to a mishap down on the docks but they'll be back any minute."

Cassie would be able to find Dr Willoughby as quickly as anyone, but being labeled a "nigger servant", she might have been subject to interference by any number of London's citizens. Tess fervently hoped that Cassie had been able to make her way to the waterfront unimpeded.

"Any minute now, they'll be here–do you hear me? Elizabeth Willoughby, answer me!" she scolded, but her mother did not respond. Not even to the use of her formal name.

"Packing, Tess." Her mother's cracked whisper was barely audible.

What did she say?

"Packing? But you've not had the child yet, Mum–" Tess stopped short as her mother weakly pulled back the sheet covering her abdomen. Tess's eyes widened in fright. A dark spreading stain was seeping along the bedding between her mother's legs.

"Oh my God, _Mum_!" Tess shrieked and sprang to her feet. She raced across the room to the barrel that held the cleaned battings of raw cotton. Jamming an armful of the yellow fluff between her mother's thighs she pressed with both hands.

"Father says steady pressure is the key to stopping any bleeding," she gasped. "You'll be alright, you'll see, Mum!'

_What is keeping Father? He should have been back by now! How long can bleeding like this continue?_ Tess sent up a silent prayer. _Please, God, don't let her die! Don't let_ them _die!_

She felt stiff with building panic. She wasn't sure if it was being fuelled by her mother's impending doom or the thought of bearing the brunt of her father's quick temper. She adjusted her pressure on the cotton wad and felt a small hard knob push back into the palm of her hand.

What is that?

Sweat dripped freely from the tip of Tess's nose and chin now; droplets slid from her forehead and burned her eyes as she blinked fiercely to clear the sting.

It feels like a –it can't be! Please, Dear God, don't let it be!

Tess pulled the edge of the sodden cotton bundle back and quickly felt for the knob again.

_There it is!_ _A heel!_ Slippery with warm blood and birth fluids, it was definitely a tiny foot.

Dear Mary in Heaven, the baby is coming the wrong way!

A sanguineous effluence announced another contraction's arrival, but this time her mother was silent.

"Mum?" Tess anxiously scanned her mother's face. No reply.

" _Mum!_ " It was Tess's turn to scream. "Don't you leave me! Father's coming! This baby needs you! Stay with me!"

_What to do? What to do?_ Her thoughts crashed and collided with each other. _Get the baby out!_ a voice inside her instructed. It sounded vaguely detached yet familiar and comforting.

Tess positioned herself with one hand on her mother's swollen belly and began pushing towards her mother's feet. With her other hand, she grabbed the baby's foot and gently pulled. Another nub protruded from the birth canal, announcing the arrival of the second foot. Her mother's swollen torso hardened again and again. Tess lost count of the contractions before the baby's tiny body finally emerged with one horrible bloody gush.

_A boy! I have a brother!_ Tess had not thought of the child in terms of a sibling until this moment.

"God, spare him!" she pleaded in audible prayer. As if in answer, the baby's head emerged with the next contraction. The tiny boy laid ominously still in Tess's hands, his face and body quickly deepening to a dusky purple.

Too long! It took too long!

Frantically Tess swiped the mucous from her new brother's face then grasped and squeezed his rib cage with her hands.

"Breathe!" she screamed into the still blue face. The shock of her scream had its desired effect. At once, the curled up arms and legs flew open and the baby sucked in a gurgling breath, then emitted a high pitched squeal of indignant newborn rage. Tess had never heard a more beautiful sound. A sob of relief escaped from her chest. _He's alive!_

"Tess!" a voice roared. "What in God's name have you done?"

The angry words thundered from the doorway. Tess gasped, nearly dropping the infant in her panic. Reflexively clutching the screaming bundle to her chest, she whirled around to meet her accuser. Her father's imposing frame charged into the room.

~~~~

A foul musky rot.

William's semiconscious brain attempted to sort the two scents out. A soft sniffing sound and a quick brush of fur against his chin startled William into full wakefulness. Darkness engulfed him, his surroundings unfamiliar and threatening. He tried to remember where he was. Not on his own sleeping mat, tucked under his warm woolen bedding, that was for sure. _How did I get here?_ He lay still for a few seconds, the sour taste of vomit still strong in his mouth. For a moment, his own blue eyes fluttered open but he could see only dim outlines in the lantern lit darkness.

_Lanterns!_ At once all of his senses screamed high alert.

Many more strong odors filled his nostrils. Pitch. Rot. Animal dung. Shit and sweat. He closed his eyes to mere slits and took stock of his predicament. He was lying on his side, rough plank flooring beneath him, his wrists and ankles bound. _My knee is aching like a sonofabitch_. _What–_

A low rumble of voices cut his thought off short. The odor of unwashed flesh grew stronger with the approach of another lantern. He mentally separated it out from another, less prevalent stench, but one which seemed to lie in an invisible ribbon at floor level. Old rotted meat. Kerosene. Something fermenting.

He could hear the soft swoosh of his own blood in his ears again and nausea returned. His shoulders had begun to ache fiercely as well, though he could not feel his wrists or his hands.

_How long have I been lying here,_ _and where is here?_

He could feel in his cheek, really, more than he could hear the vibration of the creaking floor planks that he was lying upon. Was that the faint calling of gulls? He couldn't be sure. _Am I near the shoreline then? Am I in a waterfront shop somewhere?_ He thought of the smell of rotting meat. _A butcher shop? Or is it rotting fish? Definitely near the wharf then._ As he slowly recalled his thoughts, panic and confusion rose again.

_Johnny! Is Da' dead too? They would have fought to the death to save one another._ He struggled to hold back tears. _And Mum –she'll be worried out of her mind! All three of us gone; Da' and Johnny aren't ever comin' back!_

William _had_ to get home, back to her. _What will happen to her and Abbey? And Lucas._ William couldn't remember a single day in his life without his beloved dog.

The lantern light was moving closer. William fought to keep his breathing slow and even. The lantern hovered close, just above his face. A booted foot thudded him forcefully in his mid thigh. William did not move.

"Get this one loose and movin' about, 'afore he shits himself, too," a gravelly voice commanded.

"Yessir!"

More voices. Younger than the gravelly one, William guessed. He strained his memory to recognize any of them as belonging to any of the merchants that his father had done business with. He could not place a single one.

William felt hands grab him and haul him to his feet. At least he thought he was standing on them. His feet were really too numb to tell. With eyes wide open now, he saw the glint of metal in the lantern light, as a dagger blade flashed in front of his face. With one quick slash from his captor, his wrists were cut free, and with a second, his feet.

"What's yer name, lad?" the gravelly voice asked. William tried to speak but his tongue felt furry and thick.

"Answer me now, piss-pants," Gravelly Voice commanded, "or I'll flog it outta' ya'!"

William was suddenly aware of a cool wetness in the crotch of his trousers. The pungent smell of urine rose above the cornucopia of so many other strange smells. For a moment his fear was squelched by a stab of hot shame in the realization that he had indeed pissed himself.

He licked his dry lips and croaked, "William."

"William,eh? That's a fine name fer a tar. Welcome aboard the _HMS Argus_ , Piss-Pants William. Follow Mr. Smith, here. "He'll get you something to eat and show you to yer work station and yer hammock, in that order. Yer duties start this evenin' before tomorrow's first light. Mr. Smith, Piss-Pants William is yer charge fer today. We're doin' one on one fer all the new recruits in case they get any frisky ideas.

"Wait! Duties? I don't understand–" William began to protest, but Gravelly Voice had moved on, kicking at the next unfortunate body lying in bondage a few feet away.

Smith tugged at William's sleeve. "C'mon," he said quietly, "Ya' wanna' eat or not?" William stared at the one called Mr. Smith. Brown eyes stared back at him from a face that was laced with a network of fine scars over high cheekbones and forehead. The boy's hair appeared to be a coppery brown in the dim light of the lanterns; it was tied back in a braided plait that reached just past his thin shoulders. Smith was a head taller and appeared to be somewhat older. William guessed Smith was probably around John's age– _Johnny!_ His mind filled with an unspeakable sorrow. He pushed the ache aside, trying to make sense of this living nightmare.

"Wha–what is this place? I don't understand what's happened–"

Smith turned and looked at him. "How old are ya' anyway?" He peered closer. William could see a faint scar running across Smith's cheek from his ear to the corner of his mouth. "You've not even many whiskers, do ya'?"

Pride forced the truth from William. "I'm sixteen. Nearly seventeen."

"Sixteen? Hah!" Smith snorted, "Not a boy anymore, but a helluva' long ways out from being the eighteen that the friggin' Navy Proclamation states we must be before volunteerin'...."

_The Navy? What the hell?_ "But I didn't volunteer!" William protested, "I–"

"Ya' did as far as the Navy's concerned."

"But I didn't! I'm not doing this!" William hissed, "I'll leave–"

The sting of Smith's sharp slap across William's mouth caught him in mid sentence. "See here, now," Smith whispered menacingly, "there is no leavin' this hell hole, 'cept overboard in a tarp with a stitch through yer nose. Ya' hear? Leaving alive is _not_ a choice ya' have. We're already near a day out to sea."

William took in this new information in stunned silence. Feeling was beginning to return to his feet and he stumbled painfully along as though walking in oversize wooden clogs.

_So I'm on a ship! And in its belly at that._ He followed behind Smith, as they made their way through a narrow pathway lined on each side with boxes and barrels of all sizes piled to shoulder height. By now William's eyes had adjusted to the low light and he caught a brief glance of a small flash of movement at the base of a barrel. _Rat! And judging from the smell, more than one._ He shuddered to think that the sniff and brush of something soft against his face that had awoken him a few minutes earlier had likely been one of its cousins.

Filthy damn creatures.

A rat bite almost always brought on the fevers, William knew. Problem was, most rats snuck up on a lad when he was lying down, asleep. He had not suffered a bite from one himself, but had heard of the livery owner and all who worked there routinely getting bitten. One of the livery boys had even died of the fevers last winter. William had not known the boy personally, but he had seen him once, when William had accompanied his Da' into town for supplies. He remembered the lad, a scrawny, shy boy, small even for his age of ten, forking old bedding out of the stalls into a wagon. Talk had been last winter that he had died a fitful death, his vision clouded with demons, such as the fevers often brought on, and him yelling out till his last hours.

_Would the demons have followed the boy into the afterlife?_ William hoped that when it was his time, his death would be quick, and not drawn out in the unseen horrors that seemed to afflict all who died a feverish end.

Smith stopped at a long narrow wooden table. "Sit. Cook'll get us some chowder." He planted himself on a low wooden bench and motioned for William to do the same. "So, you'll work as yer told, ya' see," he continued, "or you'll die." It was a simple statement. Smith shrugged as though to emphasize such inevitability.

William stared at Smith in frank astonishment. _Has he been reading my thoughts?_

William's eyes, wide in surprise, did not escape Smith's notice, and the corner of his scar-licked mouth pulled into a thin, sad smile. "Ya' survived the pressin', didn'cha? Many don't."

Glancing over his shoulder, Smith squinted into the ship's murky semi-darkness and cocking a thumb back towards the other sailors, he continued in a low whisper. "And I'll tell ya' now, they don't see no point in feedin' a body what won't haul and scrub, ya' see," he explained quietly.

"Work, or die, Mr. Taylor," he sat back and nodded. "That's yer only choice now."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born and raised on the Canadian prairies, Dianne Greenlay is the author of multiple award winning novels QUINTSPINNER – A PIRATE'S QUEST and DEADLY MISFORTUNE, Books One and Two in a fast-paced adventure series, set in the 1700's, in the pirate-infested waters of the West Indies. Straying into the genre of humor/comedy, Dianne is also the author of THE CAMPING GUY, which is available as both a one act comedy (live theater script) and a short story.

Greenlay is also a playwright, producer, and Creative Director of the long-running community theater group, Darkhorse Theatre. She is fluent in at least her mother tongue and she thanks her fierce English teachers for that. More of her thoughts on life can be found at www.diannegreenlay.com .

TERMS OF SURRENDER

By

Lorrie Farrelly

Copyright 2014 by Lorrie Farrelly. All rights reserved.

Cover photo by Lorrie Farrelly.

Cover design by Wallace Farrelly.

Former Confederate cavalry Captain Michael Cantrell has lost his home and everyone he loved. He roams the western frontier, trying to outrun his demons and find some purpose to his life. One spring day along the Wind River in Wyoming, a violent encounter lands him smack in the middle of Annie Devlin's war. Standing with the determined young rancher will test the limits of Michael's courage – and his passion. _Terms of Surrender_ is an Orange Rose Award finalist and the recipient of Readers' Favorite 5 Stars.

VIDEO TRAILER: http://bit.ly/1o7MXc4

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Terms of Surrender_.

Terms of Surrender

by Lorrie Farrelly

CHAPTER ONE

Wind River Basin, Wyoming

May 1866

"You mule-eared, jug-headed, no-account excuse for wolf bait, I've got a good notion to shoot you myself! C'mon, now!"

Annadane Devlin threw all of her hundred-pound weight against Rosie's bridle and tried to drag the big draft mare forward. Rosie's head and neck obliged, but the rest of her obstinately stayed put, content to stand in her wagon harness, pastern-deep in mud.

The old buckboard was canted at the sloping edge of an eroded roadbed less than twenty feet above the icy rush of Wind River. The right side wheels of the heavy plank wagon were mired in the tarry muck that seeped up from underground oil deposits common along the range. Despite Annie's frustration, the placid Rosie seemed to find the whole predicament immensely enjoyable.

"Well shoot, Annie, I don't blame Rosie," Robbie observed cheerfully from his seat atop the buckboard, reins draped loosely in his small, quick hands, sea-green eyes dancing with laughter and mischief. Freckles dotted his sunburnt nose, and copper-colored hair, thick, straight, and shiny, fell in heavy bangs over his forehead, making him look even younger than his ten years. "You ain't exactly making it worth her while none to move. Try sweet-talking her a little, why dontcha?"

Annie blew out a harsh, frazzled breath of air and leaned wearily for a moment against the mare's broad shoulder. She eyed her little brother, trying not to let him sense her growing feeling of dread.

"You could give her a switch now and then, you know. I can't move her all by myself."

Shrugging, Robbie flicked the reins obligingly. Rosie snorted comfortably and shifted her weight backwards, losing the foot or so of advantage Annie had gained by pulling the horse's head forward.

"Maybe it's too heavy for her," Robbie offered. "The wheels are sunk pretty deep. Maybe we should unload the wagon."

"We can't. There's no time."

At Robbie's quizzical look, Annie sighed and pushed back damp, tangled strands of wheaten hair from her face. In spite of the cold spring air, she was hot and winded. Her faded cotton gingham dress clung uncomfortably to her back as sweat trickled along her spine.

A stab of real fear gripped Annie's heart. Robbie was still so young, with precious little enough left of his childhood innocence. She closed her eyes against a wave of dread, knowing they were in far more danger here than he realized. Annie feared this might be the day she would have to ask the little boy she adored to grow up hard and fast.

"Maybe if we sit a spell and have us something to eat, Rosie'll change her mind, and ..."

"Now you listen here, Robbie Devlin, and listen up good," Annie cut in sharply, ignoring the tug of regret she felt as the easy smile died on the boy's face. "We've just got to get her moving _now_." She gritted her teeth and tugged again at Rosie's bridle, knowing she would have to tell her brother now what frightened her. "Colonel's men have been following us since we left Crowheart."

The boy jerked around on the wagon seat, scanning the road behind them. "Where?" he demanded, eyes wide as saucers, his voice squeaking with alarm.

"Back a mile or so, I reckon." _Not nearly far enough._ "But I don't think they know we're on to them."

Though Annie had not been able to hide from Robbie the attempts Colonel Elias Randolph had made to force her to sell out, she had tried not to reveal her growing fear of the old man. His power was matched only by his greed, and he'd made no secret of his relentless desire to buy up the smaller neighboring spreads in the long valley cut by the Wind River. With the end of the war, the California, Bozeman, Mormon and Oregon Trails brought increasing numbers of settlers, and the discovery of gold in Montana had brought many more, all eager to stake their claims in the Promised Land.

The army was scrambling to build more forts and steadily increasing the number of troops on the frontier, most of them tough, seasoned veterans of the War Between the States. Beef prices were skyrocketing, and the demand for saddle-broke horses couldn't be met fast enough. The spreads that bordered the Randolph ranch, including the Devlin place, held some of the finest grazing land in the basin and high valleys. Annie's repeated refusal to sell out had already resulted in downed fences, missing livestock, and desertion by hired hands.

Now she took a long, deep breath and looked Rosie in the eye. "C'mon old girl, you can do this!" Annie wiped her raw and sweaty palms on her skirt, grimly wrapped her stiff fingers around the bridle leather on either side of the mare's head once more.

"Now!"

As Robbie flicked the reins and barked an encouraging "Git up!" to the horse, Annie dug in her heels and pulled until she felt her lungs would burst. The old mare grunted and shifted, weathered wood creaked and strained, and for a long moment the wagon seemed to move forward. Then, with a sickening lurch, the whole rig shifted and the wheels slid farther off the road and deeper into the mud. Blowing out a huge rush of air, Annie released the bridle and sagged in exhaustion, groaning, every muscle rebelling.

"It's no good," she gasped. "Rosie can't pull it. We'll have to help her." Straightening, she began to move around the wagon, calling back over her shoulder to her brother. "Come around to the back, Robbie, and hurry. Maybe if we both push, we can get her going."

As Annie moved into position at the back of the wagon, the boy began to climb down to join her. All at once, his foot braced on a wheel spoke, Robbie stiffened and narrowed his eyes, gazing over his sister's head. He'd drawn up as ear-pricked and alert as a wolf cub sensing danger.

"Annie!" He hissed the warning, his voice an urgent whisper, his heart pounding.

She turned swiftly and saw three horsemen approaching. They rode at an easy, loping gait, with no apparent haste.

Annie took a deep breath. "It's all right, Robbie," she said evenly, trying to steady them both, "but you'd best get the rifle, just in case." Nodding, his face grim, the boy scrambled back up, intending to retrieve the weapon from beneath the wagon seat.

"Well howdy there, ma'am," the first rider said, drawing up alongside Annie a little ahead of the others. Astride a big, rangy roan, he leaned forward, resting his weight on his crossed hands on the saddle horn. Dark, hooded eyes swept insolently over Annie's body, then the rider straightened and made a show of studying the mired buckboard. "Got yourself in a predicament here, ain't you? Well, I reckon you're a mighty lucky little lady that we come along just when we did, right, boys?"

As his companions grunted assent, he smirked at her ⎯ an expression not of cordiality but of some dark, private amusement. Abruptly the man's expression changed and he flashed a startlingly cruel, feral warning glare at Robbie. The boy stopped still, scarcely breathing, still unarmed, and Annie's blood froze.

She knew of this man, and knew what he wanted. Clay Skinner's fearsome reputation preceded him. Word had it that he had recently signed on with Colonel Randolph's outfit not as a drover or wrangler, but as something far more specialized and lethal.

Annie lifted her chin defiantly, standing her ground, trying to look unmoved in the face of Skinner's unnerving and sinister presence. He was a slickly handsome man, trim and sinewy, his long, dark hair oiled, a carefully barbered moustache lining his upper lip. His apparel ⎯ dark frock coat, silk vest, linen shirt ⎯ was far more stylish than the coarse work clothes of his companions. Some might have taken him for an Eastern dandy.

Annie knew that would be a fatal mistake. The heavy, oiled Army revolver at his hip rested in a gunman's cut-down holster, and Skinner's eyes, so dark as to be almost black, were cruel and impenetrable. Assassin's eyes, Annie thought, and knew he would kill without a second thought, and enjoy doing it. Looking into his calm, deadly, viper's gaze, Annie's throat went dry and her heart began to hammer.

Her mind raced. There were three of them. How was she ever going to get out of this? And Robbie! Oh, sweet Jesus, how was she going to protect him? She had to think. Maybe someone else would come along to help her if she stalled Skinner long enough.

Shrugging, smiling with a confidence she was far from feeling, Annie struggled to sound unconcerned. "Well now, mister, we're just fine, thank you," she said, a little too heartily. "We're just giving old Rosie here a rest 'til our foreman and some of our hands catch up. They'll be along directly. So, you see, you and your friends needn't worry about us."

"Well, now, Miz Devlin... you are Miz Annie Devlin, ain't you?" Skinner peered at her with hard eyes, and when she hesitated, finally giving a short, jerky nod, he continued lazily, "It ain't that I don't believe you and all, but I seem to recollect hearing you been having some trouble keeping hands on that lonesome spread of yours."

Annie stiffened, but Skinner continued as though he hadn't noticed. "Now, a woman and boy all alone out here?" He cocked his head and made a mocking _tsk_ sound with his tongue, drawing a snort from one of his companions. "Well, all I can say is, ain't it downright fortuitous that me and the boys happened upon you this way, 'specially seeing as how we was headed out your way anyhow? See, Colonel Randolph, he's asked my help."

Skinner grinned then, showing a jagged line of teeth, and Annie fought down a shudder. His cruel gaze bore into her as he went on almost cheerfully. "And being the accommodatin' sort of fella I am, I told the Colonel I'd be more'n happy to ride on over and convince you to sell out. I assured him that, with a little reasoning, you'd be real anxious to accept his offer. And a mighty generous offer it is, too, I might add, considering the dirt-poor value of your parcel."

The stinging insult galvanized Annie. Her breath hissed in, hot and angry. Mama and Ned had poured their lives into that "dirt-poor parcel," and now they were buried on it. Its high meadows of sweet grass, clear mountain streams, steaming thermal springs, and aspen and pine forests were the only home she and Robbie had ever known, and by God, Annie would dance with the devil and sell him her soul before she'd give up so much as one square inch of it.

"If my spread's of such poor value, Mr. Skinner," she retorted, "then why would the Colonel be sending scum like you to strongarm me into selling it?"

Behind her, Robbie shifted position, stretching, trying to reach the gun.

Skinner's smirk froze into a snarl. "Tell the boy to come down here right now, Miz Devlin, 'less you want to go doing this the hard way."

"Robbie," Annie said carefully. "Stay right where you are."

Skinner's Colt flashed so quickly Annie scarcely saw the man move. A thundering shot cracked close to her ear and she screamed, leaping aside. The wagon shifted, plank groaning against plank, as Rosie dropped heavily in her traces. The mare made no sound, but Annie felt the shuddering vibration of the earth beneath her feet as the great horse collapsed, thudding to the ground.

Exploding into action, Robbie cried out and threw himself down across the wagon seat, grabbing for the rifle. Splinters dug into his fingers as he scrabbled to grasp hold of the weapon.

One of the Skinner's companions, a burly cowboy with a ragged, tobacco-stained beard, spurred his rawboned sorrel horse forward. He reached up and snagged a fistful of Robbie's shirt, knotting it tightly in his grasp. He plucked the struggling boy easily from the wagon seat, then, holding him high over the ground like a wriggling pup, struck him a vicious, backhanded slap. Robbie's head snapped back, and the cowboy dropped him to the muddy ground, where the child lay stunned and senseless.

"You leave him alone! _Robbie!_ " Annie bolted toward her brother.

The brawny cowboy edged his horse slightly forward, blocking her path. Frantically Annie began to climb up into the wagon, to clamber and claw her way over the piled crates and sacks of goods.

Skinner dismounted easily from his big red roan. He inclined his head briefly to the third rider, a spare, wiry man of indeterminate age whose leering grin revealed a mouthful of stained and rotting teeth. The man nodded and circled his mount to the opposite side of the wagon, blocking any escape. As Annie reached the bench and dove for the rifle, Skinner vaulted effortlessly into the wagon bed.

With one long leap he came up behind her and seized her hair, viciously jerking her head back. Annie gasped, a scream choking in her throat. Skinner pulled her roughly back against him, half-straddling her body. She struggled, pulling for breath, clawing at him, hissing with rage and terror. He pulled her head higher and struck her savagely.

Smiling again as she sagged, stunned, beneath him, Skinner dragged her up as he bent his head low. His lips lightly brushed her ear.

"The Colonel wants your land," he said in a low, silky, almost caressing tone, "and I want you. We're both gonna get what we want."

Reeling in pain, unable to think clearly, Annie struggled against the iron-hard grip that held her pressed tightly against Skinner's body. She had been afraid before, but now, with his hips grinding insistently against her and the rank scent of whiskey and tobacco choking her, she knew raw terror. Panic welled in her throat and she twisted her head frantically, sinking her teeth into his wrist.

"Bitch!" Skinner hissed, striking her again. Annie groaned, and her knees buckled.

"How long the boy lives," he snarled through gritted teeth, "depends on how good you are." He smiled without pleasure, without mercy. His eyes were shuttered and lethal, like those of a rattler about to strike. "You please me, I might not kill the scrawny little brat."

A low sound came from Annie's throat, half sob, half curse. Skinner raised his head and snapped an order to the burly cowboy.

"Take the boy up there." He jerked his head toward the thicket of pines above the road, hooked a thumb in the same direction. "I'll be along. In a bit."

His companions nodded but stayed put, leering at Annie with hopeful lechery. "Get out of here, dammit!" Skinner snapped.

The bearded man sighed resignedly as he climbed down from his mount and hauled Robbie up, flinging him casually over his shoulder. He crossed the road, leading his horse, and trudged up the rocky grade into the shelter of the trees, occasionally sneaking a resentful look at the woman back over his shoulder. The wiry cowboy followed, picking idly at his teeth.

Skinner shoved Annie to the floor of the wagon bed, slamming her down roughly onto sacks of potatoes and flour as though she were no more than a rag doll. Straddling her body, he shucked his coat with a single shrug, slinging it aside. Abruptly he tore the front buttons from her shirtwaist dress and threw himself down on her, cruelly driving out her breath and nearly crushing her. His knee roughly forced her legs apart as one broad hand smothered her scream.

"Remember that boy, now," Skinner hissed in her ear. "You want him to live?" He rose up slightly, his free hand pawing at his trouser buttons as he stared down at her. "There ain't much to you, is there, but what you got's real nice." His voice thickened to a rasp. "I ain't promising you'll live when I'm done, but maybe the brat..."

When a flurry of shots rang out, Skinner jerked back. Annie screamed, feeling him lurch above her. He cursed and reached for the Colt revolver. When she tried to struggle free, he struck her brutally, slamming her head back.

"Stay put, you hear?" Dazed, Annie barely heard the snarled order.

Skinner moved away and crouched low in the wagon, shielding himself from gunfire. He scanned the road, then the thick stand of evergreens above the roadbed, but saw no one.

"Boyd?" he called out. "Goller? Where are you men? What the hell's going on? Dammit, Boyd, can you hear me?" Coiled and tense, he listened.

"Yeah, I hear you!" a harsh voice called back from the trees. "I'm all right, but I think Goller's hit! He ain't moving!"

"Where are they?" Skinner shouted. "I can't see nobody!"

"Don't know!" Boyd yelled back. "Shots came from behind us!!" There was a long pause, then a cautious, "Don't hear nothin' now."

Skinner didn't answer. Rising slightly from his crouch, he peered over the side of the wagon up toward the rocky, forested rise. Glancing back at Annie to be sure she hadn't moved, he took careful steps backward, ducking down for cover.

He never saw the hand that grasped his gun belt and hauled him hard and fast backward over the side of the buckboard, slamming him to the ground.

The gun flew from Skinner's hand on impact, his breath knocked from his lungs, but within seconds he was scrambling up, twisting and kicking at his assailant.

Instantly the other man dodged and brought his own gun down hard, cracking against the side of Skinner's head. He grunted and went to his knees, shaking his head like a dazed bull. The stranger, still faceless and barely seen ⎯ Skinner'd had only a glimpse of a tall man with a shaggy mane of light hair ⎯ hauled the gunman to his feet, spinning him around and clamping a rigid arm across his windpipe from behind.

"Wait! Wait!" Skinner gasped. "Nobody has to get hurt!"

"Too damned late for that," a cold, gravelly voice drawled. "One of your men's already dead. Make your peace, mister. Hell's waiting for you with the door wide open and the mat out." The stranger shoved the barrel of his pistol high under Skinner's jaw, pressing it painfully into the outlaw's neck.

"No, wait!" Skinner gasped. "Listen, we can deal..."

"Like hell. Call your last man out. Tell him to throw down his weapon and bring the boy out where I can see he's alive. Now!"

Trying painfully, unsuccessfully to swallow, Skinner obeyed, his teeth gritted. "Boyd! Show yourself! Bring the kid."

"The gun."

"Throw down your gun! Do it, dammit!"

A long, terrible moment passed in which Michael Cantrell thought they would surely call his bluff. In the earlier exchange of gunfire, Boyd had made a lucky shot. Michael carefully held Skinner angled to the left so he could neither see nor feel the widening bloodstain soaking the right shoulder and sleeve of his coat. The Navy Colt was heavy in Michael's numb right hand. It was beginning to tremble. Skinner wouldn't be long in noticing.

"You're a dead man," Skinner swore, his voice shaking with fury and fear.

"Better a dead man than no man at all," Michael retorted, his low tone dangerously even. "Appears your mama hatched nothin' but snakes."

Skinner's body jerked with an impotent rage, and Michael felt the man's sweat-slick, bulging neck flush hot. All at once the half-conscious woman in the wagon bed moaned. Startled, Michael glanced up, reflexively loosening his hold. As Skinner squirmed, Michael clenched his jaw against the shock of pain that exploded in his shoulder. He flexed his elbow hard, tightening his grip with all his remaining strength. Skinner choked, arching his back, nearly dancing on the toes of his boots. Michael felt his own boots slip in the greasy mud, and in desperation he dug in harder.

"Send the boy out now, Boyd!" Michael called. "Your compadre here is runnin' out of time!"

When he thought he would surely lose his grip on Skinner, Michael suddenly saw a movement in the dense shadow of the trees. A small, wiry boy, his forehead and cheek bruised, his hair and clothes matted with mud, stumbled from the trees. He half slid down the slope and stopped, staring with wide, shocked eyes at the wagon and the two silent, fiercely struggling men.

"A-Annie?" he cried, his lips trembling.

Michael scanned the thicket of pine. Almost too late he saw the reflected glint of sunlight as Boyd raised a rifle to fire. The bullet smacked into the wagon, scattering wood shards like shrapnel.

"Get down, boy!" Michael yelled, and Robbie instinctively obeyed, diving blindly into the mud.

Michael hauled Skinner sideways, seeking greater cover, but the gunman twisted suddenly and slammed an elbow into Michael's ribs, driving the air from his lungs, doubling him over and finally breaking his hold. Michael cried out as pain seared his right side from neck to hip.

Skinner snatched up his pistol from the muddy track and bolted across the road for the cover of the evergreens. As he scrambled up the rise, Boyd stepped suddenly from cover. Skinner sprinted past him and disappeared into the trees. Michael leaned heavily against the edge of the wagon, wheezing, still unable to straighten up, his eyes filled with tears of agony. Desperately he transferred his revolver, slippery now with his own blood, to his awkward left hand and willed that hand to rise, aim, and pull the trigger. The Colt might as well have weighed fifty pounds. A sick black dizziness swamped him as Boyd raised his own weapon, aiming to finish it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lorrie Farrelly is the author of a Western historical romance trilogy, contemporary romantic suspense novels, and sci fi/paranomal romantic suspense novels. A graduate of the University of California, Santa Cruz, and Northwestern University, she's been a Renaissance nominee for Teacher of the Year, a ranch hand at Disneyland's Circle D Ranch, and a "Jeopardy!" television quiz show champion. Her novels have earned Readers' Favorite 5 Star Awards, and Terms of Surrender is an Orange Rose Award finalist.

Lorrie and her family live in Southern California.

LINKS:

https://www.facebook.com/LorrieFarrellyAuthor

http://enovelauthorsatwork.com/153-2/

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4351229.Lorrie_Farrelly

https://twitter.com/@lorriewrites

 https://plus.google.com/u/0/+LorrieFarrelly/posts/p/pub

 http://www.linkedin.com/pub/lorrie-farrelly/27/5a0/64

TRUCKING IN ENGLISH

An armchair emigration tale

by

Carolyn Steele

Copyright 2014 Carolyn Steele

Cover design by Rebecca Poole of Dreams to Media

What happens when a middle-aged mum from England decides to actually drive 18-wheelers across North America instead of just dreaming about it? From early training (when it becomes apparent that negotiating 18 wheels and 13 gears involves slightly more than just learning how to climb in) this rookie overcomes self-doubt, infuriating companions and inconsiderate weather to become a real trucker. She learns how to hit a moose correctly and how to be hijacked. She is almost arrested in Baltimore Docks and survives a terrifying winter tour of The Rockies. Nothing goes well, but that's why there's a book.

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Trucking in English_.

TRUCKING IN ENGLISH

by Carolyn Steele

IF ALL ELSE FAILS

It was slick, slippery and dark. We were hauling the maximum allowable load, 80,000 lbs gross. The snowploughs had been by clearing surface drifts but snowploughs leave icy droppings. As they passed they mashed the remaining mess of snow, oil and gravel down into a solid layer of scariness.

The road east from Marathon, Ontario was windy, bendy and hilly as well as icy. I bravely managed about 80 kph on the straight runs, a lot less on the hills and bends. I slowed to an irritating crawl on the downhill grades with bends at the bottom. We'd been warned in school, trucks can end up in trouble on slippery hills with bends at the bottom. Apparently they can end up in lakes and/or ravines as well as the vaguer sorts of trouble. Overtly I was being responsible but truthfully I was being pathetic. No, what I was being was terrified.

Other trucks with presumably more experienced and less wimpy drivers flew past us when and where they could. This wasn't frequent. I switched off the CB, not really wanting to hear what everybody thought of my speed, my mother or my physical attributes. After a couple of hours we were stopped by yet another police cordon... another road closure.

A day's worth of Highway 17 traffic was neatly corralled into the nearest truck stop. Should you wish to consult a map with a magnifying glass you may spot Wawa, Ontario, somewhere north of Lake Superior. It has a truck stop. That is all. As we drank tolerable coffee and ate tolerable chips we heard the gossip, a truck had 'parked in the ditch' in front of us. Behind us the road that had held us up all night—having been closed by the police due to snowdrifts and whiteouts—was closed again, a seventeen truck pile-up with fires and people killed. All of a sudden I didn't mind being the sort of cowardly rookie who drives slowly on ice. Not dying seemed to be sufficient achievement, careful wimps might live to drive this awful road again.

The offending truck was winched out of the ditch eventually and we all trooped off in a grumpy conga line of tired and late freight. I waited for the back of the line, who needs more abuse? The road remained slick. It snowed. The whiteouts came and went with every turn into the wind. In brief moments when the visibility cleared, you could see waves on the lake flash-frozen into little grey mountains.

It took all day and most of the night to round the rest of Lake Superior and emerge from the dreaded weather system that is a Lake Effect Winter Storm. We were exhausted, anxious, and late. But we emerged, which is more than some did.

~~~~

Why would a fifty-something, nicely brought-up mother suddenly decide to go trucking? It was a good question and like most good questions it had answers both simple and complex. "It sounds like fun," just made people who didn't know me roll their eyes. I did a bit better with "it's a traditional immigrant job," and with "well, I can earn more money in a truck than I can with a Master's degree." These explanations merely made me sound serious about finding work and supporting my family, not defiantly odd, just a traditional immigrant to Canada indeed. And they were partially true, since emigrating from England I'd struggled to find employment in the things I was actually qualified to do.

My son and I had arrived in Ontario from London posing as entrepreneurs five years earlier. The bed and breakfast I'd bought as my ticket to Canadian citizenship had bitten the dust when I'd realised there was more to running a successful business than looking up entrepreneur in the dictionary. I did need a new project but to be honest the trucking thing was more about preferring to play with wheeled toys than do real work. I'd driven ambulances and stretch limos in the past so if I wanted to get bigger and better it was going to have to be something like a truck or a plane.

Trucking school was cheaper, and I'd been eyeing those massive beasties on the roads ever since landing here. I blame my Dad. He wanted a boy. Psychotherapy aside, adding to my list of excuses that it seemed like a great angle for a book helped a bit when explaining to people with no imagination, but not much.

"Ben, have you got a minute?"

"Yes Mum, what's up?"

"You know how I try not to embarrass you accidentally?"

"Yeah, just on purpose because it's good for me. I know."

"Well, I've got this idea."

The seed for my future career as a truck driver had originally been sown back at the B&B. Three lads from England had arrived in search of a year's accommodation, which we provided. They took over our basement and came and went as they pleased, driving their monsters at odd hours and to exciting-sounding places. We spoiled them with random bacon butties when they turned up, temporarily back from Having Adventures. During that year we shared all the tales...we heard about the people, the trucks, the nightmare border crossings, all those great trips, and we enjoyed it all. We laughed, cried and fumed along with Jim, Owen and Mick on their infrequent stops back 'home', agreeing that dispatch were stupid and that Homeland Security were mad but that getting paid to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge made it all worthwhile. And we developed an impression that this job might be fun. (Well, one of us did.) The seed was buried fairly deep back then, a sort of barely acknowledged, I suppose, if all else fails I can always drive a truck.

When all else did fail, the idea resurfaced. The B&B was a distant memory and the fifty-something mother found herself empty-nested and wondering what to do next. Why not get paid to see North America? I'd driven for a living before, I'd seen little of Canada and nothing of the States, how hard could it be?

"I've been looking into what to do now you're away at uni most of the year."

"Umm hmm." He gets that look on his face.

"I thought I might learn to drive a truck." The relief is visible.

"Is that all?"

"You don't think it's nuts?"

"Well, yes, obviously it's nuts."

With the familial seal of approval, nuts enough to be interesting but not so nuts as to be embarrassing, I allowed the seed to see the light of day elsewhere. To begin with I introduced it into conversations as a joke, "If all else fails I can always drive a truck (ho, ho)." It was, of course, more of a test than a joke. People who knew me well would eye me strangely, give it a moment's thought and respond, "I wouldn't put it past you (ho, ho)." Frequently these were the same people on whom I had tested out the whole mad idea of moving to Canada and buying a B&B in the first place. As a joke of course.

All of a sudden I was bumping into people from the freight transport industry, I probably had been before then but you know how you suddenly start noticing things when they can serve a purpose. Specific questions began to leave my head via my mouth involuntarily. Which were the best schools? How long was the course? What would it cost? What could you earn? How much work was there out there? Did trucking companies employ women?

It didn't help the growing inevitability when my early questioning unearthed the coincidence that the finest trucking school in town belonged to my old neighbours from the B&B. We'd connected briefly when I'd toured the neighbourhood with bottles of wine to apologise after a particularly noisy pool party but the subject of trucks hadn't cropped up back then. It did now and I got most of my trucking answers from people who knew me and those answers were worryingly positive. Ours, two months, not a lot, lots, lots and yes. They appeared mildly surprised when I asked about the women thing, apparently it's the 21st century and that trail has already been blazed.

I was surprised but encouraged. The London Ambulance Service had taken some persuading to employ me and my fellow lady paramedics in the very early '80s, we had blazed the trails back then in heroic manner. We'd considered our task complete when women began to appear driving ambulances on TV shows and we'd subsequently reserved the right to tell female rookies how lucky they were we'd fought their battles for them. Apparently we hadn't been unique.

~~~~

My neighbours' training school supplied me with a list of the companies they placed rookies with, so that I could call for myself and ask about the female thing. They told me how one qualified for the course; clean driving abstract and police check, medical check-up and mechanical aptitude test. With the presence of mind not to exclaim mechanical aptitude test out loud I thanked them prettily and toddled off to continue my research. I allowed the nagging sense that I might have underestimated the task ahead to bury itself under a veneer of bravery and panache.

I called a couple of the companies on their list of employers and left voice messages for recruiters asking about prospects for women on the road. One company called back within hours and I had a cozy chat with a lady called Gwen. She was amused, apparently my concerns really did date back to the dark ages. She also confirmed, independently, that I had chosen the best school. We discussed my background..."Call me when you have your licence," she cooed, "we'll talk some more."

Thus encouraged that paid work might actually exist, I went on-line to Google mechanical aptitude tests. Memories of ambulance days flooded back. The aptitude test back then had been to watch someone strip down and reassemble an Entonox delivery kit and repeat the procedure within a time limit. I had visions of being asked to uncouple a rig (or whatever it is they call whatever it is they do) and could see my career on the open road rapidly disappearing into the black hole in my brain labelled pipe dreams.

The internet was fairly reassuring though. I found a site which allowed you to download a bookful of sample papers complete with answers and explanations for the princely sum of $19. The book explained that many occupations now use mechanical aptitude tests to check that you are trainable in practical pursuits and that practice could make all the difference.

I cleared a work station on the dining room table, bought myself a toy truck as a visual aid and settled down to do my homework. The questions fell into several categories of IQ type thingy. I was well versed in most of them—spotting series and doing sums, finding the odd one out from loads of nonsensical diagrams—I have always liked that sort of thing, but I did appreciate the crash course in 'O' Level physics.

In no time I was relearning long-forgotten rules for levers, gears and electrical circuitry. The sample tests seemed relatively challenging though. They were aimed at people hoping to be taken on by armed forces to do very clever technical stuff and, not being one of those, I sometimes didn't manage the recommended time limits. I comforted myself with the thought that I was hoping to drive a truck not design a helicopter so presumably my impending test would have to be a bit easier than these.

With the crash revision course in physics under my belt, and bits of paper confirming that I had a clean criminal record and nothing untoward on my driving licence, I make an appointment to be tested mechanically.

The pre-test interview was fairly straightforward. Have I driven big stuff before? (Is an ambulance big? I had thought so but maybe not in comparison to things with many axles.) Have I used a manual gearbox before? (I'm English, that's what we drive.) Am I beholden to alcohol or drugs? (Does an occasional gin and tonic count? See previous question, I'm English, that's what we do.) Have I worked away from home overnight before? (Does shift work count?) Will the family miss me? (Son doesn't care but I'll ask the cat.) The chap who asked all the questions had adopted an almost avuncular smile. When we began to muse about arrangements I might make for feeding the aforementioned cat I had the scintilla of a suspicion I might be being humoured. But very nicely, this is Canada after all.

And then the test. It would take thirty minutes and did I have any questions? I didn't and he left the room, hopefully before my face fell as I opened the booklet. There were no IQ-type questions at all, just a lot of little pictures of chaps with shovels and buckets and things. Some pictures of trains and dams and drinking straws.

Which is the easiest to push?

Which is the strongest setup?

Which chap will lift the heavier weight?

Which diagram shows what will happen?

Where is the least bumpy seat on a school bus?

The book had been much used and the diagrams were worn, faint and difficult to interpret. Some of the levers and gears and see-saws were things I'd just revised but much of the rest of it was real life. What about that bus? I had to think back an awfully long way. When I was a kid we'd sit at the back for bumpiness, and I thought I'd heard that people who are travelsick avoid being over the wheels, so which is it? A lot of the questions sort of related to hydraulics, which made sense, but there had been none of that on my online papers. The real 'O' level physics was 35 years behind me. Something to do with the size of the pipe affecting the pressure in some sort of ratio, but what exactly?

These questions, the ones that related to life, were taking too long to answer. I was the wrong side of middle age and there was a lot of life to trawl through. What shape made the strongest dam? I could tell you from ambulance days what shape of crowd barrier would crush the fewest teenyboppers...but was spreading out the crush points for people good or bad for water? And the second picture of a train crash meant that I must have got the previous one wrong. I dashed back miserably to the earlier question featuring a little train on a bend, confirming that I'd visualised it backwards.

I got the point of the test. This sort of mechanical aptitude made much more sense for the task ahead than the abstract stuff I had played with, and was a great deal fairer for people without a poncey education, but I had to make a few guesses. That $19 had been a waste of money, the toy truck, ditto. Who the hell did I think I was? "Oh yes, I've decided to be a truck driver you know, because I'm the sort of intrepid, brilliant woman who can do anything she puts her mind to." Silly cow.

The nice chap took my paper away and returned a few minutes later, grinning at the number of Kleenex I had managed to shred during the interregnum. He declared 89% more than ok for aptitude of the mechanical variety, who'd have thought I knew so much about shovels and train wrecks?

Instead of learning from this experience that I wasn't temperamentally suited to trucking, I was sufficiently dazzled by the idea of being eligible for trucking school that I sat and listened to the routine. Medical, registration with the school, receipt of a pile of textbooks, taking the Ontario Transport Ministry's A class licence knowledge test, classroom. Then truck. Apparently one needed to pass the Ministry theory test before they would let one onto the course so the absorption and revision of unladylike facts and figures had only just begun, as had the conveyor belt that is always so easy to step onto and so difficult to get off.

The doc pronounced me fit enough for purpose therefore, a deposit to the school and some signatures later, I found myself the proud owner of three text books to be read in specific order within the next three weeks. I placed them proudly on the dining table next to the toy truck and invited people over for coffee, so they could notice them.

On top of the pile, the Official Ontario Ministry of Transport Truck Handbook. Memorising its contents for the Ministry theory test was the first real task, only then would I be able to start school and climb into the cab. Then there was a handbook all about air brakes, to be worked through before day one because that was where the classroom part of training would start. I didn't know air brakes needed a handbook. Then there was a worryingly fat text book for everything else. It would help, allegedly, to look at some of this in advance.

There appeared to be a lot to learn. Who knew? Back in the 'ho, ho' days I'd assumed it was merely a matter of getting used to where the corners were and developing a technique for climbing in. Underneath the bravado I suspected I had finally bitten off more than I could chew. My Dad may have wanted a boy—he might have been prouder on the day I climbed into an ambulance than the day I received my M.Sc.—but I'm over fifty and he is long-gone. What was I trying to prove? And to whom? Surely it would be acceptable to say to myself and everyone else, "I've looked into it and I think that maybe it's not such a good idea after all."

On the other hand, who would want to get so close to a madcap enterprise that you can almost smell the diesel and then wimp out? Driving a truck was now irrevocably on my bucket list, whatever happened next. Sanity and introspection would just have to bugger off and make way for pig-headedness and hubris, especially since I seemed to have accidentally committed too much money to the venture to stop before trying to earn it back again.

The gent who handed me the books had two pieces of advice to give with regard to the Ministry test. The first was to memorise all the numbers, the second was to ask to write the bus-driving test while I was there. Why would I want to write a bus test? I didn't want to drive a bus. This was about toys, not people, I'd been nice to people for five years during the B&B phase and I'd turned into Basil Fawlty. My dreams were of the open road, driving into the sunset with no-one's needs but my own to cater to, the romance of those two beautiful words...long haul.

The book-handing gent told me it was only ten bucks and very easy and you never knew when you might want to drive a bus. But he also touched on the frequency with which burned out executives, social workers and customer service reps passed through his office with dreams of solitude. Maybe I wasn't mad.

I memorised the numbers. Maximum allowable heights, lengths, widths and weights in metric and imperial. That part was easy. Not so simple, the memorising of routines involving jargon and describing bits of stuff I'd never heard of. I had to dip in to the truckers' text book to find out what I was applying, releasing and lining up in order to make sense of the apparently vital coupling and uncoupling routines. Fortunately the book had pictures. Once I knew the difference between a fifth wheel and a king pin I stood a better chance of remembering what got done to which.

The most entertaining chapter of the Ministry book (yes, there was one) related to manners on the road. It listed the things that people who don't drive trucks dislike about people who do. It told me, Today's truck drivers are among the most visible citizens on the highways, and the motoring public tends to criticize some of their driving practices. So, it's up to responsible truck drivers to influence the public's opinion.

It also advised, Be aware that most drivers of smaller vehicles do not understand what it is like to drive a large vehicle such as a tractor-trailer. Well ain't that the truth? I would appear to be one of them. I didn't even know you were supposed to call the front bit a tractor.

~~~~

Nobody at the test centre looked at me askance, no-one laughed. The lady operating the eye-test gubbins was perfectly nice about the fact that I didn't know it was a bad idea to turn up wearing bifocals. Once I'd twigged that I could see the dancing numbers if I mimicked them with a dancing head we got on fine. The chap who marked my paper congratulated me relatively genuinely.

"Now you're qualified to drive with someone who has an A licence," he observed.

"Blimey, am I? I don't even know how to climb in yet."

"Maybe they'll find you a ladder."

~~~~

And on to the next thing. Practical Airbrakes: Driver Handbook and Study Guide. It was written in a friendly, jocular manner with spaces to scribble notes and little self-tests at the end of each chapter. It began nice and simply with line drawings of wheels and thermometers to illustrate a spot more school curriculum physics, friction and the like. I'd just revised this sort of thing so the first few chapters lulled me into a false sense of security. They moved slowly through topics such as how compressed air gets compressed and what valves do. There were helpful pictures of people getting blasts of compressed air in their faces, leaving one in no doubt as to the wisdom of being careful with the stuff.

Then all of a sudden, in the turn of a page, air brakes became a tad complicated. It crept up on me that I was having to concentrate more...and read bits several times. The section I had to read six times and then go back to after a lie down in a darkened room—identifying whether your trailer has a 'spring brake priority' or a 'service brake priority' sub-system if you must know—appeared just about half way through the book, precipitating the crisis. Finally after committing far too much time and money, and after telling way too many people to be able to back out with dignity, appeared the what the hell have I done? moment. The who on earth do you think you are? You cannot possibly cope with this thunderbolt.

I suddenly recalled that actually I was not and have never been terribly mechanical. I may be intelligent and relatively practical but have spent my life to date choosing to allow others to know about activities that are greasy, dirty and/or heavy. Had I forgotten when I started this caper quite how much I liked to be all clean and relatively fragrant? It now appeared that I was engaged in learning to make inspections of air brake systems on a daily basis and from the little line drawings in my handbook this looked to involve grubbing about under greasy undercarriages.

Did I really want to do this? Did I have a choice? Could I learn to want to? Nobody would mind if I just stopped the madness right now but that wouldn't be very intrepid and I liked it when people told each other I was intrepid. So, maybe I was doing this for them. That would be beyond nuts though, it would be really stupid.

I solved the problem by going shopping. I became the proud owner of a pair of fleecy-lined work gloves and some army surplus overalls. I could maybe climb underneath a truck and maybe keep relatively clean and dry. I liked my gloves a lot, they looked very workmanlike and I considered adding them to the dining table montage but I knew that every penny I expended on this potty scheme would be another reason not to stop.

As I watched myself brick up the escape route I told myself it would be ok in the end. Maybe I couldn't stop now I was on the conveyor but we all knew I'd never really get the hang of it. I'd flunk out of school after a valiant effort and people would be sympathetic. They'd admire my pluck. I could end my days telling grandchildren that I might have been a long-haul trucker if it weren't for the...something.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carolyn Steele has been a psychologist, a paramedic, a proof reader and several other things, not all of them beginning with P. A trucker, for example. She began writing the day she decided to try and see the world...doing both just to find out whether she could. When excerpts from her first travelogue were published by the Rough Guides she decided to keep on doing both. It made a change from teaching CPR to nightclub bouncers and designing wedding cakes.

Carolyn and her son emigrated from London, England to Kitchener, Ontario, where she now writes websites, copy and the occasional inflammatory leaflet—in between popping off to do a mad thing and write a book about it.

Carolyn's _Armchair Emigration_ series begins with her first book _A Year on Planet Alzheimer_.

THE RELUCTANT HERO

by

Jackie Weger

Copyright 2014 Jackie Weger

Editor: Carolyn Steele

Cover by: EDH Graphics

Formatting: Rich Meyer

Parnell Stillman, ace pilot, is man to the bone in a lackadaisical kind of way. He has the ability to fly through anything except solid mountain. He lives alone because people are not to be trusted—especially women. Flying is his high road until one sleet-filled morning--it isn't. Mischance forces his plane down in a frozen wilderness. He can survive, but his live cargo is another matter--an annoying social worker and five orphans--the most irksome freight he' has ever hauled in his life.

Rebecca Hollis is determined to force the obnoxious, disagreeable, self-centered pilot to do whatever is necessary to insure the survival and rescue of the orphans...Even if it means making the noble gesture of keeping her mouth shut—or other womanly things. But the pilot isn't having it. No way. No how. No time. He'd rather dance with a grizzly or wrestle a puma than give his heart over to a conniving, wily do-gooder. Heroics is not his thing. Rebecca Hollis has other ideas—lots of them! All artful and disingenuous—one of which is bound to work... She hopes.

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _The Reluctant Hero_.

The Reluctant Hero

By Jackie Weger

CHAPTER ONE

"Santee, you hang on to Nicholas," Rebecca ordered as she lined up the five orphans just inside the hangar door. She had an instant sensation of space and unfamiliar shadow. The building, huge and poorly lit and smelling of grease, much like a mechanic's garage, intensified the sensation. Rebecca shivered. She'd had misgivings about this trip from the start, but her arguments against it had fallen on deaf ears. In her heart she felt the children would end up being disappointed yet again. Too, she wasn't certain of her ability to handle five rambunctious kids on her own. The orphans seemed to have an instant affinity for trouble making.

"I'm hungry," said Jonesy. "We should've stopped at McDonald's for breakfast."

"McDonald's isn't open this early, it's barely dawn. Besides, you had breakfast."

"I'm cold," said Yancy.

"Swing your arms. I'll be right back. Don't anybody wander off. And hang onto your totes—I mean it. I'll go find the office."

Rebecca turned and studied the shadows. It really wasn't much warmer inside the monolithic Quonset than outside, but at least they were out of the wind and sleet. She could make out the nose and propeller of a small plane and what seemed to be the dismantled parts of another. At the far end a beacon of light slanted from a pair of windows. She admonished the children once again not to wander, then negotiated the length of the building.

She stopped in the beacon of light and stared through the dusty windows.

As her brain registered the airline office her disquiet grew. There were furnishings of every kind that had nothing in common with each other but their infirmity and a dusty, dilapidated air. An oil heater was turned so low it had no effect on the thick rime of frost at the outside windows. Curtain rods were bent and barely hanging on.

Amid all the clutter a man sprawled in a chair, asleep. His head was tilted back revealing a jaw covered with beard stubble, several days thick. His arms were folded across his chest and his booted feet were crossed and propped on the desk. He looked like a scruffy bag of assorted human parts loosely held together by army surplus specials. A living reproach to manhood, Rebecca thought uncharitably. But then, she was intolerant of men. There wasn't a man in her life and she wasn't anxious to include one. If it meant lonely nights, well...her days were full.

But it saddened her that this was what the foundering Tynan Foundation had come down to; begging favors for the children from those who appeared least able to afford them. If she had one whit of sense, she'd grab up the kids, return to the orphanage and tell the director they'd missed the plane. If she practiced the lie all the way back to Boise, perhaps it wouldn't show on her face.

A yelp echoed in the dark vastness. She glanced at the orphans. They were arguing among themselves already. She expelled a sigh. They would put the rout to any lie about missing the plane. With a sinking feeling, she tapped hard on the metal door and moved across the threshold.

The man opened his eyes. Rebecca could see him trying to shake the dregs of sleep. Once his gaze seemed focused on her, she spoke, "I'm looking for Mr. Stillman."

He came alert, his lips thinning as suspicious eyes darted to appraise her.

"You a bill collector?"

"Rebecca Hollis, from the Tynan Foundation. Abigail Tynan booked us a flight on the mail run. To San Francisco," she added, since the man looked blank. "We're a bit early, but if you could just direct me to Mr. Stillman, I can let him know we're here."

"Captain Stillman."

"Okay. Captain Stillman."

The man dragged his feet from the desk, stood and stretched, which had the effect of making his shirt collar poke up like limp flags from beneath the crew neck of a British commando sweater. When he came out of the stretch, the gleam in his eye was still guarded. "You're looking at him and I'm not."

"But..." Rebecca began. She caught herself before she blurted that he couldn't possibly be the pilot. She took a step back. Standing, the man was taller than she'd supposed. And given the slothful way his clothes hung on his frame, he appeared even more disreputable. The kind of man one either crossed the street to avoid, or if one were kind, dropped a quarter into his cup.

"You're not what?" she said, in no mood for benevolence, telling herself she'd misunderstood him.

"Not expecting you."

"You can't be Captain Stillman then, I assure you, we are expected." She was in no humor for charades. She'd spent the better part of last evening packing, managing only several hours' rest before she'd had to roust the children from their beds, after which she'd spent a tension-filled ninety minutes on slick and unsafe roads to reach the airfield on time.

~~~~

"You hard of hearing or something? I'm Stillman." Parnell was fully awake now. Irritably so. There was only the woman, but she was talking in plurals.

"We? Who's we?" he demanded.

Rebecca answered his hostility with what she considered to be more pleasantness than the situation required. "Myself and the children—from the Foundation, the foundling home."

"Children!" Parnell yanked a clipboard from the wall behind him, flipping rapidly through it. "I got a group of social workers booked, going to a convention."

"I'm the social worker."

"There're six of you."

"One of me, five children. I'm sure Abigail didn't say we were all social workers," ventured Rebecca. But she knew in her heart that the Foundation's director had probably misled the man with her use of sly and creative dialogue. When it came to bargaining, creative dialogue was Abigail Tynan's stock in trade. But bargaining with the likes of Stillman? Yes, Abigail would do that, too. She'd often said she'd bargain with the devil if it meant something good for the youngsters in her care.

She watched Parnell Stillman consult his notes.

"Abigail said, 'important personages, big favor, cheap price.' I remember now." The old biddie had also reminded Parnell of her association with his Uncle Henry. "I wrote it down."

"Well, that's us," Rebecca said airily, offering a weak smile.

"Forget it. I'm not hauling you. That's final. No women or children. They make too much fuss. Everybody this side of the Continental Divide knows it. I don't even like being nice to women and children. Makes my stomach hurt. You can just take yourself out of here. Tell Abigail the deal's off."

It was just the out Rebecca was looking for. Now she could return to the Foundation and tell Abigail an honest truth—they'd been turned away, bumped from the flight. On the other hand, she thought indignantly, the pilot was being underhanded, unfair and rude. It made her mad. "I will not take myself out of here. You've been paid. You agreed." She hoped the check Abigail had sent hadn't bounced. Otherwise...

"I'll have my accountant send the Foundation a refund."

There was something in the way he said "my accountant." Rebecca eyed the stack of unopened mail on the desk, the disarray of paper in the In-Out basket, all of which was layered with undisturbed dust. Accountant, my foot. His tone held the same touch of superfluity that Abigail Tynan used in promising payments when she knew very well the Foundation's bank account was overdrawn. Rebecca knew just how to counter the pilot's maneuver.

"I'm afraid that won't do," she said. "We must have the refund at once, in cash, so we can make other arrangements. It's urgent that we get to San Francisco."

"Can't. It's against my policy to give cash refunds. Besides, I don't keep cash on hand. Too dangerous. I might get robbed."

"You must not worry about getting robbed too much," Rebecca cooed, skepticism in full flower. "The gate at the entrance was open, your doors were unlocked. There's a plane sitting on the runway with no attendants that I could see. Security appears awfully lax. How many times have you been held up?"

Parnell scowled. The look she was giving him made him feel like something one scraped off a shoe. He didn't like it. "There's always a first time."

"No respectable burglar would be out in this weather," Rebecca said lightly. "Anyway, isn't there some sort of government rule that if passengers are bumped, the airline has to pay double the cost of their tickets?"

The belligerent expression on the captain's unshaven face told Rebecca she'd hit a sore spot.

"Who cares about government regulations? Paper pushers one and all."

"You won't have to be nice to us, Captain Stillman. I wouldn't want to be the cause of inflaming your ulcers. The children and I are used to managing just fine without ordinary courtesies."

Parnell glared at Rebecca. The way she talked reminded him of a bitter mistake he'd once made. "I had a wife like you once," he divulged, tight-jawed. "She spent the whole of our marriage intent on vexing me."

It was incredible, Rebecca thought, how full of himself the man was. She reminded him of his wife? Well, he reminded her of another who'd also been full of himself, shallow of heart and mind. A riposte came to the tip of her tongue, slid off with ease. "Oh? And how long did your marriage last, Captain Stillman? Twenty minutes?"

"Just like her," he muttered.

"I'm honored you think so," Rebecca replied so reverently her tone couldn't be taken for anything except what it was—unveiled sarcasm. She moved outside the office proper and called to the kids. Once they had all trooped the length of the hangar, she directed them to a bench along the inside office wall. "Sit there. Don't get up. You might—"

"I have to wee-wee," said Molly.

Rebecca's face flushed with chagrin. With no other source to ask, she had to direct the inquiry to the captain. "Where's the ladies' room?"

~~~~

Displaying ill-concealed annoyance, Parnell pointed with a pencil, then sat down behind his desk and pretended his unwelcome passengers didn't exist. Though he did surreptitiously watch Rebecca remove her head scarf and overcoat. She looked young, vibrant, with her dark hair released, cascading in a froth about her shoulders. And much more shapely with her coat off. Much more. She was short, too. Women like her always tried to use that to advantage. Trying to make a man feel big, protective. Well, he didn't give a hoot in hell. A woman's shape, size and beauty no longer swayed him. They hadn't in years.

He knew all about womanly ploys—those provocative games of revealing a little here, a little there until a man was panting like a thirsty pup. He'd suffered the misfortune of becoming easy prey once. It would never happen again. Back when he'd been stupid over women, he'd been in the Navy, stationed at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. The vamp that snagged him had made herself out to be a poor little widowed thing, all alone and with two darling children to raise. Just the memory of it made him sick to his stomach. He'd swallowed every honey-dripped word and married her. All she had done was raise one ruckus after another, and the darlings had turned out to be manipulative brats.

The marriage had spoiled the last three years of the twenty he'd spent in the Navy. At thirty-seven and at loose ends he'd made his way to Idaho where Uncle Henry had settled into crop dusting and hauling cargo. Two years ago Uncle Henry died. Parnell discovered the flying service had been bequeathed to him. The flying service and its mountain of debt.

What he needed, Parnell knew, was a sharp secretary-bookkeeper. But the salary he could offer wouldn't appeal to a man with a family to feed. That left hiring a woman and he couldn't make himself do it.

He counted himself among the honorable group of men who liked dogs, was kind to the elderly and had immense control over the needs of the flesh. Control was easy—his failed marriage had left him with a lingering animosity toward women. He didn't want anything in skirts hanging around the airfield. Secretary or passenger.

His self-imposed celibacy was annoying, but not earth shattering. On the infrequent occasions his flesh drove him to seek out a woman, he went where there was no romance, just bonhomie, crude jokes, loud laughter and inane conversation. If any woman mentioned marriage, he hightailed it on the double; if she mentioned kids, he disappeared faster than a jet stream in a howling wind. He protected himself from female wiles as best he could. His dimples had attracted the widow. Now he kept them concealed behind beard stubble. And he knew for a fact you couldn't be nice to a woman. First thing you knew she'd attach some unintentional sentiment to word or action. He had it in the back of his mind that women had been molded just to keep a man in misery. It was ironic that God had shorted men a rib just so he could create women. Parnell had decided long ago that he'd just as soon have his rib back.

His introspection was diverted to two of the boys edging crabwise off the bench. The control he had over his libido didn't extend to his disposition. He glared at them. "Get away from my desk."

"We're orphans," said Jonesy.

"Tough."

"What's he look like?" Nicholas whispered.

"Like that hobo old Abigail let sleep in the kitchen last week," Jonesy said.

"Hobo!" Parnell bristled. "Get back to that bench like you were told, you cheeky brat."

Jonesy didn't budge, but he kept a wary eye on Parnell. "Nicholas is blind," he volunteered. "He can't see nothin' but shadows."

"That's too bad," said Parnell, shocked and trying to sound mean. "I don't look like a hobo. I'm an aviator."

Nicholas squinted. "Can I feel your hands and face?"

"Hell no! Back up!"

Jonesy put a retraining arm around the younger boy. "We're goin' to San Francisco to see if we can get somebody to adopt us. There's a big meetin' with all these people who take handicapped kids."

Parnell's gaze took in Nicholas, Jonesy, and the other two boys on the bench. Curiosity got the best of him. "What's wrong with you?" he asked Jonesy.

"I'm fat. Nobody wants a fat kid. Cost too much to feed."

"What about him?" Parnell nodded toward

Yancy.

"He's got a friend named Scrappy."

"So?"

"Scrappy ain't real."

"Oh."

"Santee's got Indian blood. He won't stay in the city. Folks won't take him 'cause he runs away and lives in the woods. Molly has club feet. You got any kids?"

Parnell's curiosity dried up. "No, and I'm not looking to get any. Move out. Don't you know how to follow orders?"

"We've never been on an airplane before."

"I wish you weren't—" An idea flew into Parnell's brain. "Is that so? You scared to fly?"

Jonesy shrugged. Nicholas asked, "Is flying dangerous? What's it feel like?"

"It can be dangerous." Parnell's mouth compressed into the thinnest of smiles. "Yep, it sure can." The idea took solid root. He examined it from every direction and decided he had nothing to lose by trying it on...on...he glanced at the manifest on the clipboard...Rebecca Hollis.

"Miss Hollis," he said as soon as she and Molly emerged from the bathroom, "I need to go over the flight with you." He unfolded a pair of charts, topographical and meteorological and spread them over the clutter on his desk. "It's a cold, bumpy ride. No frills, no food—"

"I know. We brought our own snacks."

Parnell withheld a sigh. "You're missing the point. Look here. See this chart. This is the flight path from Boise to San Francisco. We'll be flying over some of the most desolate terrain in the country—"

"What does that matter? We're not walking."

Parnell dropped into his chair like a deflated balloon. His idea wasn't working. He shot her his best scowl. "That's true, but we got crosswind, maybe even wind shear, sleet, snow. The weather isn't good—" Of course he planned to dip down and fly south of it, but he wasn't telling her that.

"Are you canceling the flight?"

"Can't. It's a mail run. You know the old saying, 'Neither rain nor sleet—'"

"If you feel it's safe enough to fly the mail..."

"I'm paid to take chances," Parnell said modestly.

"You were also paid to fly us to San Francisco. And back."

All the curses he could think of glowered in Parnell's dark eyes. "I don't want a woman and kids aboard my plane. Women are a jinx. Kids are nothing but trouble."

Rebecca shooed Molly back to the bench, out of earshot. She lowered her voice. "I'm sure you've been told this before, Captain Stillman. You're acting like a horse's rear end. I'm willing to accommodate you. Just refund double our money and we'll make arrangements elsewhere. The truth is, you don't look as if you could fly yourself out of a paper bag. It makes me nervous—"

Parnell's lithe frame went rigid. "Hey! You hoity-toity broad! What do you know about what flyers look like? I suckled in a crop duster, barnstormed at fourteen, flew jets at twenty-two. Lady, I was raised on a wing and a prayer in the literal sense. Don't look as if I could fly myself out of a paper bag! Maybe I ought to tell you what you don't look like."

"I didn't mean to insult you," Rebecca replied so sweetly it gave the lie to her words.

"You sure as hell did."

She glanced over at the children. One and all wore pensive expressions. The conclave in San Francisco meant hope. A hope of finding parents to love and be loved by in return. She couldn't take that away from the children. Even if it meant they had to tolerate an insufferable prig of a pilot. She turned back to Parnell and met his angry glare.

"All right, I did mean to insult you. I'm sorry. We'll just sit here quietly until it's time to board. If that's all right with you."

It wasn't, but Parnell knew when he was hoisted on a cleft stick. He knew it because he'd never been any other place in his life.

Flying was his freedom, flying ennobled his actions, and he was inseparable from it. But flying also distanced him from the business side of trying to run an airline single-handedly. Oh, he was a likable man when he wanted to be liked, usually when he was negotiating for freight or mail contracts, but he didn't like the paperwork. Somehow, when the money came in, it got spent in the wrong order. Like the fares from the Tynan Foundation which had gone to pay his relief pilot who had refused to climb into the cockpit yesterday until he'd had cash in hand.

He should never have let that old bat, Abigail, talk him into flying her 'clients.' But she'd once been a good friend of Uncle Henry's, bless his debt-ridden departed soul, and they'd done a fair amount of crop dusting for her before Abigail had sold off most of her land and turned what was left of her estate into a foundling home. Parnell eyed Rebecca with an expression longer than a mournful bloodhound's.

"I'll send one of the ground crew to tell you when to board. You'll have to carry your own luggage. Stillman's doesn't provide porters."

"Well manage our own luggage. Thank you," Rebecca said, feigning congeniality.

Parnell shoved himself into a sheepskin jacket and stomped out of the office. They could hear his booted footsteps echoing long after he'd disappeared from sight.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When Jackie Weger isn't writing she is a traveler of the good earth by foot, train, sloop, mule and pickup. She adores cats, gossip and all things Southern.

Sisters of the Night

Book Two of the _Blood & Company_ Series

By

Linda Lee Williams

Copyright © 2014 by Linda Lee Williams

Cover Artist: Tim Williams

_Emaline Hoffbrau_...beautiful and beguiling, but will Garrett Thompson—a regular man—break this vulnerable vampire's heart? _Juliana Slater Browning_...glamorous and alluring, but will this arrogant vampire end up losing the only man she's ever loved—her husband, Chad? _Gretchen Eberhardt_...lovely and enchanting, but will this powerful vampire be able to hang on to Bertram Fulbright—her charming but fickle vampire lover? Three "sisters," three love stories...Will they have a happily ever after?

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Sisters of the Night_.

Sisters of the Night

by Linda Lee Williams

CHAPTER ONE

"Hello, pretty, petite, and perfect," a male voice said.

Emaline Hoffbrau rotated at the bar where she stood waiting for a Bloody Mary—she just _loved_ tomato juice—and looked up into a handsome, pleasant face.

"That's your assessment of me?" she remarked.

"Well, actually, I think you're gorgeous, but I needed three P's for alliteration." He raised his eyebrows in a teasing, flirtatious way, and that was when she noticed two things: that his eyes were the gray-green of a Lincoln Park lagoon in summertime and that his hair was the sandy brown of the beaches along Lake Michigan.

He dimpled, extending his hand. "Garrett Thompson."

"Emaline," she said, returning his smile as well as his handshake.

Emaline wasn't psychic, but like most of her ilk—particularly female vampires—she was perceptive. Given his penchant for charm and flattery, she would have sworn that Garrett was one of her own kind.

Her brother set down her drink and then laughed when Garrett shoved a bill at him. Kurt gave her a wink before walking away. Garrett studied Emaline, his smoky green eyes suspicious. "What was that all about?"

Emaline's family owned the Green River Brewery, but she didn't tell Garrett that—nor that she worked at the establishment. "I'm with my friends," she said casually. "Would you care to join us?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Emaline smiled as she led the way to the table. _Why not, indeed?_ she thought.

Sonya, Gretchen, and Juliana glanced up when Emaline appeared with her pickup from the bar. Juliana appraised him. "Well, well, well. Whom do we have here?" she asked, her neon eyes glowing.

Juliana was her best friend. Emaline had been her maid of honor when she'd married Chad Browning three years ago; now, they had a daughter. She'd dated Juliana's cousin, Ambrose Slater—the sexiest, sweetest vampire she'd ever known—until he'd married Abby, the regular woman of his dreams. Such were the perils of being a vampire woman in love with a vampire man, as Gretchen would attest. She had lost Lance, Juliana's other cousin, to Abby's sister.

"Garrett, this is Juliana, Gretchen, and Sonya. Ladies, Garrett. He thinks I'm 'perfect.'"

That brought chuckles from all of the women, who knew how perfect they could be— _perfectly_ _beguiling_ , that was—despite their one imperfection.

Emaline looked to see if he was blushing, but found him smiling, the beer stein held steady in his hand. "Would you like to sit down? Or do we intimidate you?"

"Hell, no," he said. "Why should four attractive women scare me?"

When they were seated, Sonya, as blond and lovely as Juliana, spoke first. "So, what brings you here tonight, Garrett?"

"I'm with my buddies. They're watching the Bulls on those big-assed screens in the bar." He craned his head to see them, but Friday night patrons and wait staff crowded the restaurant.

"Anyway, when I commented on this lovely little lady, they said she probably had a guy in her life and I said, 'No, if she did, he'd be at the bar getting her drink—and if not, then he wasn't worth her trouble.'"

Her friends murmured approvingly while Emaline studied him, her smile cool, impervious. Years of dating vampire men had made her immune to smooth talk.

"Are you Emaline's sister?" Garrett asked Gretchen.

"In a manner of speaking," she replied.

He swallowed some beer and nodded. "Oh, I get it."

"Do you?" Juliana said.

They shared a private laugh. It wasn't the first time someone had mistaken Gretchen and her for biological sisters. Both had long, dark hair and sable eyes—although that's where the resemblance ended. Gretchen was taller and thinner than Emaline and retreating for a vampire woman. However, she had managed to snag Bertram Fulbright, a conceited but diverting vampire who had slept with everyone in their group but Sonya.

Juliana checked her phone. "Well, it was fun while it lasted: back to diapers and bottles."

"Is Chad home with Bethany?" Emaline asked.

"No. Abby's out with friends, and he's at Ambrose's. The two of them are on dad duty."

Emaline stiffened at the allusion to Ambrose's fatherhood. She had never thought that Abby and he would have children. That was the one thing a vampire woman could never give a vampire man or vice-versa. She wondered if that's why Gretchen was hesitating to marry Bert.

Garrett stood up as Juliana rose from the table. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Juliana."

"Likewise. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again."

Gretchen and Sonya left with Juliana, abandoning Emaline with Garrett Thompson. She was sure she wanted to be alone with him, but not sure what she wanted to do with him. The night was still young. She had plenty of time to decide what favors she might or might not bestow on him.

Unexpectedly, Garrett took her hand. "So, tell me about yourself," he said, capturing her in the serene pools of his eyes.

It wasn't easy to make a female vampire's heart flutter, but Emaline's heart did just that. A barrage of emotions assailed her, ones her people had battled for centuries. She was human, yes; but she needed blood to survive. Somehow, she couldn't imagine telling Garrett _that_.

"Your next beer's on me, Garrett. My family owns this sports bar and restaurant."

He grinned, and dimples danced in both of his cheeks. "No shit? Well, you are full of surprises, aren't you?"

_More than you can possibly imagine_ , she thought.

"Was that a relative at the bar?" he asked.

Emaline nodded. "My brother. He's a manager, but he enjoys bartending. Besides, it is _March Madness_ , you know."

"That's college basketball," Garrett pointed out, but she shrugged it off. She wasn't interested in any male-dominated sports teams, professional or otherwise.

His grip tightened on her hand. "I want to tell you something right off. I'm divorced, and I have a four-year-old son. He's the most important person in my life."

That made Emaline smile. First, because he assumed they were going to have a relationship, and that it mattered; and second, because she admired his candor.

"Well, I've never been married, and I don't have any kids."

"What about a boyfriend?"

"Oh, I hang around with a few guys...but nothing serious."

"How would you like to get serious with me?"

"That all depends," she said, scrutinizing him. "What was the comment you made about me to your buddies?"

"I said, 'There's the woman of my dreams.'"

Emaline shook her head and laughed. "Oh, you are good."

"I have this feeling about us, that we might be good together. What does your woman's intuition tell you?"

"That you're in trouble. _Serious_ trouble," she teased.

~~~~

Gretchen Eberhardt let herself into the townhouse she shared with her vampire lover, Bertram—or Bert, as his friends called him. She'd moved in with Bert two years ago, but neither she nor he had brought up the topic of marriage. Although vampire couples didn't have to marry, most who bonded did. Vampire families were no different from other families in that regard: Living together without the benefit of marriage was frowned upon, childless or not.

She hung her jacket in the closet where everything was arranged neatly. Bert was nothing if not fastidious, about his home as well as himself. Disdaining clutter, he'd allowed Gretchen to bring few possessions from her apartment, except for her piano. She'd put her furniture into storage, and there her property stayed—a form of psychological insurance.

Gretchen found Bert in the living room, watching TV and reading. He had difficulty entertaining himself and bored easily. It amazed her that he hadn't tired of her yet or sunk his fangs into another woman by now.

Bert looked up, and Juliana's image filled her head. Like his former girlfriend, he had curly blond hair and emerald eyes, an engaging smile and a winsome personality that could enchant anyone. Bert Fulbright was anything but innocent. He was a bit roguish, slightly narcissistic, and totally disarming—a vampire's vampire, if ever there was one.

"How are the girls?"

Gretchen wasn't stupid. She knew why Bert had relinquished Juliana and Emaline: They were far too confident and assertive for him. Nonetheless, he'd known their bodies as intimately as he knew hers, something she couldn't forget.

"What's the matter?" he asked, picking a piece of microscopic lint from his sweater.

Gretchen folded her arms. She saw him staring at the tiny spot of red wine on her white top. "It's difficult being with your ex-lovers sometimes."

"Gretchen, they're your closest friends."

"I know, and you've had all three of us."

Amusement flickered across his face. "I assure you, I've erased all memory of them from my mind. Besides, if it doesn't bother them, why should it bother you?"

"Because I wonder who's next."

Bert pulled her down beside him onto the sofa. "Gretchen...You know I've been faithful to you since we've been together." He ran the back of his hand along her cheek and down her neck. "You taste more delicious than any woman I've ever had."

His words, more than his caresses, aroused her. Gretchen was careful, though, to hide her desire from him.

"But you're not addicted to me, are you?" she said.

"Vampires don't get addicted to each other. They fall in love, like ordinary couples."

"And fall out, just as easily."

Bert stroked her hair. "Are you still carrying a torch for Lance?"

"I got over that, long ago." It was a snippet of a lie. She had loved Lance deeply, thought of him as her soul mate. He had married a woman named Sally, with two children, and had broken Gretchen's heart in a way Bert could never understand.

He studied her, his eyes luminous. "I'm not interested in non-vampire women. I'd miss not being bitten, and I have no burning need to have a family."

"So you've told me."

"Yes, many times, but you've never told me how you feel."

"I'd like to have a family, but I think I'm going to have to give that up."

He nuzzled her head, kissing her behind the ear. "Does that bother you much?"

Gretchen moved away from him. "Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"I'm a nosy bastard. Why else?"

She laughed, and Bert beamed a smile at her—the kind that could win over the devil himself. He was so beautiful, so fun to be with that it pained her to think of losing him.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten times. Bert wrapped his arm around her. "It's still early. Want to watch a movie?"

"Sounds good. You pick something out."

"We'll pick something out together," he said.

He kissed her, almost as if he loved her, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

~~~~

Sonya dropped Juliana at Ambrose and Abby's place. Juliana would have liked to stay up and party the way she used to, but life had changed drastically since Bethany came along. Her nine-month-old daughter absorbed most of her time and energy, and to be truthful, she wasn't enjoying parenting as much as she'd expected to.

The baby was sleeping in Vanessa's playpen—until Zeus woke her up. The black Lab had grown braver and more protective over the years. He showed no fear around vampire children and had become Vanessa's guardian. Although the dog was accustomed to Juliana, he still barked whenever she entered the house.

Bethany spied Juliana, pulled herself up, and dissolved into tears. Chad took excellent care of the baby, but she needed her mama most. The weight of Bethany's dependence, the burden that motherhood had thrust upon Juliana, drained her emotionally.

Ambrose kissed her in greeting before she lifted Bethany from the playpen. Chad smiled and waved a beer bottle at her, so typically him. Juliana snuggled Bethany against her and she stopped crying. The baby was as blond as they were—so blond that pink scalp showed through her hair—but she had Chad's turquoise eyes. Everyone always told Juliana how beautiful her daughter was, but it gave her little consolation now that Bethany was teething and crabby.

She accepted the goblet of wine her cousin offered. Ambrose had sable hair and eyes and was very good-looking. She was sure that Emaline had loved him at one time, but that was in the past. He had married Abby, a pretty, lively redhead. Their little girl with copper-colored hair and deep brown eyes was proof positive of their love. They were the happiest mixed couple alive—and that included Chad and Juliana, who had known each other forever. Her husband and her cousin had been friends since childhood.

Chad patted the sofa. "Sit down, Jules."

Zeus came over to sniff the baby, just to make sure she was all right. The dog gazed up at Juliana and wagged its tail, then lay down on the area rug. Abby's cat, Laurel, was nowhere to be seen.

Sipping her wine, she glanced at Ambrose and said, "Next time, you come to our house so that Chad can put Bethany to sleep in her crib and you can keep Vanessa up."

Ambrose gave her a puzzled look. "I think that's what we did last time?"

Juliana sighed in frustration. "That's right. I remember now. Sorry..."

Bethany rubbed her face against Juliana's silk blouse, staining the material. She could never dress nicely anymore; the baby ruined everything she wore.

"You seem tired, honey," Chad said. "Maybe you should have stayed home tonight."

"I'd rather be tired than stuck in the house with a baby twenty-four hours a day."

Juliana didn't mean it the way it came out, but her words surprised her cousin nonetheless. He was well-mannered enough not to comment. In fact, Ambrose was excruciatingly polite and it annoyed Juliana to no end, fond of him as she was.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Half the time, she's at your mother's."

She bristled inwardly at Chad's response. That's how it had been between them lately, resentments bubbling beneath the surface like lava building inside a volcano.

Juliana heard a door close, then footsteps. "I'm home," Abby called out, sounding cheerful as always. She had a toddler who got into everything. Juliana wondered how she managed to keep her sanity.

Zeus greeted Abby as she entered the living room. "Hello, baby boy," she said, petting him.

Ambrose feigned a frown. "I thought I was your baby boy?"

She walked over to the chair, hugging him from behind and kissing the top of his head. "You are." Abby smiled at Chad, Juliana, and Bethany. "And how is the Browning family? Oh, look at your daughter...She gets cuter every time I see her."

Chad grinned crookedly. "I think Juliana's ready to give her up for adoption."

Laughing, Abby came over to the sofa to admire Bethany, half asleep in Juliana's arms. "Vanessa whined for two months when she started teething. Poor baby," she said, bending to kiss Bethany softly on the cheek.

Except for the interval when Abby had broken up with her cousin, Juliana had always liked her; but sometimes, her perky personality irritated Juliana as much as Ambrose's civility. She was sure that the two of them never shouted _fuck you_ at each other, the way she and Chad did.

Abby plopped down on Ambrose's lap and he drew her close, gazing at her with the kind of love that only existed in movies or romance novels. For a moment, Juliana thought that her face turned as green as her eyes. Although she loved Chad and knew deep down that he loved her, he had not looked at her like that in a long time. The only romantic thing he had ever done was to dress up like a knight, show up on a horse, and propose to her on Halloween.

Abby dislodged her loafers and the shoes dropped to the floor, one by one. "You're lucky that Bethany is so attached to you, Juliana. Vanessa is very independent."

Ambrose smiled at his wife. "Gee, I wonder where she gets that?"

"She adores you. Of course, you've spoiled her terribly."

"That's because I never thought she was possible."

Juliana stood up. "I think we should go, Chad. I need to put Bethany to bed."

Ambrose started to displace Abby, but Chad indicated that he should stay put. "We can show ourselves out, Bro."

He took Bethany from Juliana so that she could slip into her jacket. Her daughter protested at first, but was too fatigued to continue fussing.

The four of them said good night. As Juliana looked back, she saw Ambrose kissing Abby, and jealousy roiled her stomach again. She thought about Gretchen with Bertram, and her neck tingled. Oh, what she wouldn't have given for a _real_ love bite.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 Linda Lee Williams writes "contemporary romance with a paranormal twist." After moving to Denver from Chicago, she taught writing classes at Arapahoe Community College and formed a writers group. Recently, she teamed up with her husband Tim—the artist that illustrated her book covers—to publish her novels on Amazon.

An outdoor enthusiast, Linda enjoys hiking, biking, and birding. She loves critters of all kinds, domestic or wild. During her journeys, she's called Maryland, Virginia, Illinois, Missouri, and Colorado home. Wherever she roams, she draws inspiration from her surroundings.

Return of the Runaway Bride

by

Donna Fasano

Copyright © 2014, Donna J. Fasano

Cover design, Rayna Januska

Once upon a time...there lived a lovely young woman named Savanna who was engaged to Daniel, a handsome law student. Theirs was to be a fairy-tale wedding. But Savanna's second thoughts were too big to be ignored, so the would-be bride ran away. As the years passed...Daniel's heart turned to ice. It is this unfeeling man that Savanna faces upon her return. The love of her youth is now a stranger. Could Savanna ever make Daniel understand why she abandoned him? And could she convince the man of her dreams he will always be her Prince Charming?

What reviewers are saying about Return of the Runaway Bride:

" _So what did I think about these characters? Spot-on!"_

-Misty Baker, A KindleObsessed Review

" _I highly recommend this book if you are looking for a sweet and realistic love story_. _"_

-The Autumn Review

" _Ms. Fasano's ability to throw humor into her writing adds richness to the story, and had me laughing many times. Fantastic book!"_

_-_ Allie-Kat

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Return of the Runaway Bride_.

Return of the Runaway Bride

by Donna Fasano

PROLOGUE

"I need to slip down to the kitchen to check with the caterer. I'll be right back to pin on your veil. I won't be two minutes, promise." The woman hesitated at the door and gazed warmly at her daughter. Sudden emotion glistened in her eyes. "Oh, honey, you're going to make a beautiful bride."

Savanna Langford watched the door of her bedroom close as her mother bustled out and then she took a deep, calming breath. Sitting down on the very edge of her bed so as not to crease the delicate double galloon lace covering her wedding gown, Savanna looked around the room that had sheltered both her and her dreams for all nineteen years of her life.

The pale-green spread covering the bed was sumptuous and soft. The matching curtains ruffling in the gentle breeze allowed the perfect amount of sunlight to shine through the open window. White bookshelves held all the classic novels that should be read by a proper young woman. Everything surrounding her was neat, tidy, pristine. This was a perfect room, in a perfect house, where she'd spent her perfect youth growing up in a perfect world.

And now the next phase of her life was soon to unfold before her. She was about to take part in the perfect wedding and marry the perfect man.

That Daniel Walsh III was the perfect man was no secret. Everyone said so. Danny was loving, caring, kind and gentle. Not only that, but Miz Ida, owner of Watson's Kwik-E Mart, adamantly declared that he was the most handsome man in the county. And Savanna's father had boasted on more than one occasion that Danny would be an excellent provider once he finished his final year of law school and passed the bar. Yes, everyone agreed that Danny Walsh was the best catch in town.

Savanna tipped her chin high and stared at the ceiling. "So what's wrong with me?" she murmured. She knew Danny was perfect, that was one reason why she loved him with all her heart and soul. She'd never met another man like him.

Why, then, when she was about to embark on a lifelong journey with the man of her dreams, was she plagued with such doubt? Why, on what should be the happiest day of her life, did she feel as if she were being followed by an ominous thunder cloud?

There was no denying the dark cloud. It had been hanging over her head now for two full weeks.

She stood and paced the length of the room, twisting the fingers of both hands together this way and that.

"It's _nerves_ ," she said in a firm, loud voice. "It's only nerves. Put it out of your head."

Pressing a fist against her solar plexus, Savanna forced the tension from her trembling stomach and the distressing questions from her mind.

"Here I am." Savanna's mother rushed into the room, stopped and flattened her palm against her chest. "Oh, my. I need to slow down and take a breath."

A tender smile pulled at Savanna's mouth at the sight of her mother. "I know how hard you're working to make this a wonderful day for me, Mom," she said.

It was so like her mother to overwork herself. Each and every birthday was made special, each holiday an elaborate affair, because Mrs. Langford fussed to make everything perfect for her husband and only child.

Savanna's mother dismissed the compliment with a wave. "It's what being a mother is all about, honey. Now come. Sit." She patted the cushioned chair facing the mirrored vanity and fluffed the skirt of Savanna's gown after her daughter sat down.

"You should see Danny." The woman's blue eyes twinkled. "He looks so handsome in his tux. That black suit brings out the best of his dark good looks." Smoothing her hand along one side of Savanna's blond, upswept hair, she commented, "It's a shame your friends couldn't be here for the wedding."

"Maggie and Sharon left for school two weeks ago," Savanna said, a flash of sadness rushing through her at the thought of her friends who were now on the other side of the country. "And Josie was lucky to get an internship at that pharmaceutical company. With everyone just getting settled, it was too much to ask them to fly home again."

Mrs. Langford cocked a wicked eyebrow at her daughter's reflection. "Well, if they could see Danny today, they'd simply swoon."

Savanna laughed. "Swoon? Mom, no one 'swoons' anymore."

"Oh, yes, they do." Her lips quirked in a perky smile. "They just call it something else."

Savanna thought her mother was probably right; if her friends had been sitting downstairs, they most likely would have been swooning at the sight of Danny in a tux. But then the sight of Danny, no matter what his attire, had driven her high school friends crazy ever since he'd first shown an interest in Savanna. Maggie would consistently turn three shades of red, and Sharon would giggle herself silly. Josie, on the other hand, had always been pea green with envy because Savanna was involved with a "college man."

And now those same friends she'd graduated with were off seeking their destinies at colleges and corporations across the country. A small frown creased her brow as the black cloud of doubt billowed and thickened and hovered closer than ever.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Danny's parents arrived while I was downstairs." Savanna's mother gently shook out the folds of the gossamer veil. "They're with your father. I've never seen Daniel and Susan happier. And your father's floating around down there with a smile on his face that's a mile wide."

As she watched the reflection of her mother arranging the white, lacy panels of French silk tulle over her head, Savanna struggled to breathe. She supposed this match between herself and Danny had been a given from the very beginning...to her friends, her parents, Danny's family, even to Danny himself. And that had never bothered her before. So why did she find the thought so claustrophobic now?

Mrs. Langford positioned the stiff, satin-covered band on her daughter's head and began to pin it securely in place.

"You're going to make a wonderful wife," she said. "And your father and I can't wait to be grandparents."

But Savanna wasn't listening; she was concentrating on sorting out the feelings churning inside her.

Danny's attentions had always flattered her, had always made her feel special. His touch excited her, his kisses made her tremble. Being with him, she felt protected and secure. Danny would keep her safe, just as safe as she'd always been here at home, living with her parents.

As if she were a mind reader, Mrs. Langford said, "After today you'll have no worries." Her mother chattered on, not noticing Savanna's silence. "As the wife of a lawyer, your future will be set. I can't find the words to express just how happy I am. This is what your dad and I always planned for you."

As the words echoed in her head, Savanna's mind reeled. Her eyes widened a fraction as a realization struck her with force—everything had been planned for her. Every single aspect of her life had been mapped out by those who loved her. She'd always been sheltered, kept perfectly safe from the outside world. Never had she been touched by unpleasantness of any kind, never had she faced a problem alone.

Savanna struggled to remember one time in all her nineteen years when she had encountered and tackled an obstacle on her own, one time when she had overcome a challenge single-handed. The fact that she couldn't recall even one instance was mind-boggling.

"Mother..." Savanna's voice was raspy with dry emotion. "I can't do this."

Mrs. Langford continued to fuss with the headpiece. "Can't do what, honey?" she asked blithely.

"I can't marry Danny."

"Of course you can." For several seconds, Mrs. Langford kept pinning the delicate veiling material, but Savanna's prolonged silence made her glance up. After studying her daughter's expression, she must have read the panic there, for her tone changed dramatically as she straightened and asked, "What do you mean you can't marry Danny?"

Savanna squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't know what I mean. It's hard to put in to words. I'm feeling something, and I'm not sure what it is." Her eyes were pleading for understanding when she looked up. "Something just isn't right."

"Don't be silly," her mother reproved. "You love Danny."

Twisting around to face her mother, Savanna said, "Of course I love him. He's wonderful."

"He is," her mother agreed, her voice suddenly tight. "And he'll take care of you. It's what your father and I want for you. It's what everyone wants for you, Savanna."

But was that what she wanted for herself? For someone to care for her for the rest of her days? The questions whirled inside her head, and Savanna was surprised by the tears that prickled her eyelids.

By marrying Danny was she merely fulfilling everyone else's expectations of what was best for her? If she did marry him, how would she ever know what she, Savanna Langford, was capable of achieving? How would she know what challenges might be awaiting her out in the world?

Who am I? she wondered. What do I want for myself? The questions rocked her to her very foundation. She had never asked that of herself before.

She might not know the answers to any of the questions that were rearing up in her mind, but she did know that she couldn't possibly commit herself to Danny until she had the chance to at least ponder them.

Immediately she reached up and began pulling at the pins that held the headpiece in place.

"Savanna, stop that," her mother demanded.

The two of them engaged in what would have been a comical bout, as one plucked out hairpins and the other tried to snatch the pins and put them back into place. But there was nothing funny about the despair pushing Savanna to the brink of hysteria.

"Mother!" Frustrated by the game, Savanna stood so quickly the chair toppled over.

Mrs. Langford scowled. "You're being silly, Savanna. This is nothing but an attack of pre-wedding jitters." She stooped down and picked up the pins that had fallen to the floor. "It's usually the groom who gets cold feet."

"I cannot do this." Savanna's unflinching gaze made it evident that she was utterly serious.

Mrs. Langford stood and planted her hands on her trim hips. "The minister has arrived. The guests are assembled. Everyone is waiting for the bride's entrance." She cocked her head. "The bride is _you_ , Savanna."

Savanna swallowed and tipped up her chin a fraction. "I need to talk to Danny."

Mrs. Langford's lips pursed so tightly that they paled under her sheer lipstick. After a long, tense moment, she said, "All right. I'll go find him. I only hope he can talk some sense into you."

After the door closed firmly, leaving her alone with her doubts and questions, Savanna wondered what on earth she was going to say to Danny. How could she explain her feelings? How could she make him understand when she didn't understand herself?

Fear and confusion gripped her with an icy hand and she buried her face in her open palms. "What are you doing?" she murmured.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Savanna?"

A familiar warmth rippled through her at the sound of Danny's deep, rich voice.

"Danny!" Her urgent whisper was nearly choked off by a sob as she pulled open the door.

The very sight of him calmed her and she drank in the comfort his presence never failed to give. The smile that tilted his lips gave her strength and she tried valiantly to return a smile of her own.

"You're beautiful," he said. "But with all the superstition about bad luck, are you sure it's safe for me to see you before the ceremony?"

His jesting tone told her that he didn't realize the extent of her emotional state. Maybe it was better that he didn't know the turmoil she was feeling. What she needed to do was explain to him in clear, logical terms the chaos that was twisting around in her brain. The contradiction in terms nearly made her laugh aloud. Instead she took a deep breath.

"Danny," she began. It hurt to say his name, knowing what she was about to tell him. "I'm afraid I can't do this."

He took her hands in his and held them securely. The feel of his skin on hers was stirring. All she wanted to do was drift deeper into his protective embrace. No, her mind screamed. Not now.

"Savanna, everything's going to be all right. You'll see, as soon as we..."

His voice trailed off as she began to shake her head. She pulled her hands from his grasp and stepped back. She couldn't touch him and think clearly at the same time.

"You don't understand," she said. "I'm afraid."

"I know you are."

She saw his dark eyes fill with compassion and love.

God, why can't I get this right? 'Afraid' wasn't the word she'd meant to say. Anxiety swept through her, settling in the pit of her stomach where it churned, slowly and steadily.

"Listen," he said, "I'll go down and tell everyone that we need some time." He reached out and gently cupped her elbow. "Say, an hour? That will give us time to talk." He chuckled. "Time for us to gather up your courage."

"But-"

"It's okay," he told her. "Dad can break open the champagne early. There'll be no harm in that, now will there?" He gave her a charming, lopsided grin.

Hope budded like a rose inside Savanna. Looking at Danny so confident and assured, she wondered how she had ever doubted that he couldn't make everything right.

He went over and uprighted the chair, leading her with him. "Now you sit down and relax." He settled her in the seat, leaned close and caressed her cheek with his strong, smooth fingers. "It's going to be all right, Savanna. I promise."

His lips were warm and moist as he pressed them against hers. "I'll be right back with a glass of bubbly." He grinned. "And then I'll remind you of all those dreams we made. That'll ease your nerves." He kissed her softly on the mouth.

When Savanna was alone she sat in the warm cocoon of security in which Danny had left her wrapped. She didn't need to worry. Everything was going to be just fine, perfect even.

Those two tiny words sent an icy prickle chasing up her spine. The shadowy cloud of apprehension that descended was thick enough to smother her.

"Oh, God!" The words ripped from her throat like a torturing claw as she ran toward her closet and wrenched out the suitcase she'd so carefully packed for her two week honeymoon.

She snatched the bridal veil from her head, barely wincing as the pins snagged then pulled free from her hair. She reached behind her to rip at the back of her gown, and a dozen dainty pearl buttons bounced soundlessly on the plush carpet.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Donna Fasano is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author whose books have sold nearly 4 million copies worldwide and have been translated into 2 dozen languages. She's written over 30 romance and women's fiction titles that have made both the Kindle and Nook Top 100 lists numerous times. Find out more about her on her blog. Her titles include: Reclaim My Heart, The Merry-Go-Round, Mountain Laurel, The Single Daddy Club Series, Where's Stanley?, and other titles

MAZIE BABY

by

Julie Frayn

Copyright 2014 Julie Frayn

Edited by Scott Morgan of write-hook.com

Cover art by Carolyn Frayn of www.carolynfrayn.com

Mazie Reynolds has moxie from the top of her bruised face to the tip of her broken wrist. She married a man she adored, and who adored her in return. But over fourteen years, her happy marriage soured with each new beating. When his attentions shift to their twelve-year-old daughter, Mazie knows it's time to get the hell out. She hatches a plan to escape. But can she outwit the man she vowed to obey until death do they part?

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _Mazie Baby_.

Mazie Baby

by Julie Frayn

CHAPTER ONE

Cool pavement kissed the soles of Mazie Reynolds' bare feet. Beads of shining dew, caught in that nether-moment between breaking dawn and the sizzle of a spring heat wave, clung to clipped blades of grass. The world smelled clean and fresh. Smelled of open air and endless horizons. Smelled of freedom.

The rusty bolt that secured the red flag to the mailbox whined when she forced it up. She shot a glance over her shoulder. The house remained still, her morning reprieve uninterrupted. The eerie quiet lulled her into a sense of normal.

Whatever that was.

She pulled a small stack of mail from the box, the envelopes like sandpaper against her fingertips. Bill, bill, flyer, pizza menu. The last bulky and colourful piece announced that Cullen may have already won two million bucks. She snorted. As if.

She glanced at the van sitting in the driveway before turning her gaze on the mountains in the distance, all lilac and orange in the rising sunlight. How easy would it be to just drive away? Never look back? Do something different. Something new. Something better?

The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end at the crack of wooden heels on concrete. She tensed her shoulders and set her jaw. She hadn't heard the door open. And why was he wearing those old cowboy boots on a work day?

"Surprise!" Soft, pale, freckled arms encircled her waist and squeezed.

Mazie laughed. "Well, good morning, Miss Simpson. You are definitely not who I was expecting." Mazie reached her arm around the girl's shoulder, gave her a small hug, and planted a light kiss on her frizzy, copper hair. "What are you wearing?"

Polly, the neighbour's daughter, stepped back and stomped the sidewalk with wooden clogs painted bright yellow. "Grandma sent them from Holland. They're klomps." She twirled. Her short skirt flew in the air and flashed a bit of pasty, plump ass cheek and white cotton underpants. "Can I go show Ariel?"

"She's still in bed. How about later?"

"Morning, Mazie. That's a lovely scarf."

Mazie donned a wide smile and turned slowly. That smug half-grin sat there on her neighbour's round face, all prepped for another day of sticking her stupid nose in everyone else's lives. "Hello, Rachel." Mazie touched the thin material around her neck and pulled the scarf higher before drawing her sweater tighter across her chest.

Rachel jerked her head at her daughter. "Polly, honey, get back inside and eat your breakfast."

Polly slipped off the klomps, picked them up, and skipped across the dewy grass, her wet footprints darkening the wooden front stoop before disappearing into the house next door.

"She's growing up so damn fast." Rachel plopped her balled-up fists on the sides of her ever-expanding muffin-top.

"Too fast. Just last year all boys had cooties." Mazie sighed. "Now those cootie-carriers are all cute. And Ariel asked if she could wear makeup."

Rachel nodded. "Well, today's twelve is our generation's fifteen."

"I suppose. Kind of scared for my future grandkids."

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Getting a little warm for scarves and long sleeves. You must be boiling all bundled up like that."

Mind your damn business, Rachel.

"I'm fine. I like to be warm."

"And you're looking a little thin. You dieting again?"

Damn this woman and her incessant need to pry. Always peering over the fence, eyeballing Mazie's family from her deck, standing on her tiptoes and craning her stubby neck, listening to Cullen's phone conversations. Though, that was his fault. He shouldn't drink and take private calls in the backyard. He was so much louder when he drank.

"I'm always dieting." Mazie slipped her index finger under the flap of one envelope and tore it open, her focus anywhere but on Rachel's questioning gaze.

The paper sliced into her finger. She winced, squeezed the tip with her thumb and watched a droplet of crimson ooze from the tiny scratch.

"Any plans for summer vacation this year?"

Mazie nodded. "Maybe a trip to the mountains. Or east to visit Mom. Cullen will go fishing, of course."

"Without you and Ariel? You used to go all the time."

"He likes his solitude." And so did she.

The screen door squeaked on its hinges. "Mazie?" The air stilled after Cullen's voice boomed across the front yard. "Oh. Hello, Rachel." He said her name as if it were poison he had to spit from his mouth before it killed him.

Rachel's nosy eyebrow shot up. She crossed her arms. "Cullen."

"Mazie. Baby, come back in. Your coffee's getting cold." His voice lost its boom, took on an average volume, like what she imagined a normal husband would sound like.

She looked at her feet. "I'll be right there." She turned and headed toward the house.

"Well, have a nice day," Rachel called as Mazie retreated. "Come for coffee sometime."

Mazie waved over her shoulder, stepped inside the door, and bolted it against the outside world.

In the kitchen, Cullen leaned against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest, chin down, eyes dark and brows pinched. "Why do you talk to that stupid bitch?"

Anger spewing from his mouth was nothing new. But when his voice became a low growl, her skin crawled.

She dropped the envelopes onto the counter, turned on the tap and squirted dish soap under the stream of hot water. "I don't. She talked to me. She always does, you know how nosy she is." Mazie's voice was casual, almost sing-song. But even she could hear the underlying strain, like a too-taut piano wire about to snap.

The scratch of Cullen's work boots against the gleaming floor neared. She tensed, her hands immersed in soapy dishwater.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. The stench of his cigarette breath soured the air. Her scarf tightened around her neck.

"Just keep to yourself." His voice was gruff in her ear.

She nodded, willed the tears he so loathed — or feared — not to pool at the corners of her eyes. She held her breath against the pressure on her throat.

"Daddy?"

He let go of the scarf. Mazie grasped the sink's edge and struggled quietly for air.

"Morning, pumpkin. Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?"

The familiar shuffling of Ariel's slippers on the linoleum neared. "Mom, are you okay?" Her thin arms circled Mazie's waist.

"Of course she is." Cullen put one hand on Ariel's shoulder and pulled her away.

Mazie grit her teeth. "I'm fine, bug. Do as your father says and get ready for school. I'll make you pancakes." She didn't turn around. Didn't want Ariel to see that the tears had won again, and were dripping down her cheeks.

"All right." The whisper of slippers against linoleum disappeared at the living room carpet.

In Mazie's peripheral vision, Cullen scanned the grocery list on the fridge, ran one permanently grimy finger down the clean paper. "Are you going today?"

"Yes."

"You need more woman shit already? Didn't you just buy tampons?"

She swallowed. "That was last month."

"Fucking stupid bullshit. Maybe we ought to just get you fixed. Would save me a lot of cash." He yanked bills from his wallet, counted out five twenties, and slapped them on the counter. "Where's my lunch?" He yanked the fridge door open and leaned into it, shoved the food around. Glass containers crashed against each other as if they would crack open and spill their contents onto the shelf and the floor below. It would be his fault if they did. But she'd get the blame.

She sucked in a deep breath. "It's packed in your pail. On the sideboard." Like every other day.

He nodded, didn't even look at her. "I'll be late tonight. Going for a few beers." He turned his back and slammed the door. The aura of sweat and grime that never came out of his plaid work shirts no matter how many times she laundered them, no matter how much soap and softener and deodorizer she poured into the machine, fouled the air.

The truck rumbled to life. He gunned the engine and roared out of the alley.

She exhaled.

How did she get here? A prisoner in her own home. She should have taken Ariel and run years ago. She dropped her chin to her chest and wept at the sink.

"No." She stood straight. "Stop it, you stupid, weak woman." She pounded her fists against the counter's edge, spraying soapy water onto her clothes. "Damn it." She snatched a dish towel and dabbed at her shirt. "Can't you do anything right?"

~~~~

Mazie's footsteps echoed in the near-empty aisles of the grocery store. A few women roamed the store that afternoon, dumpy in stained sweat pants or pyjama bottoms. They shuffled around, hair greasy, feet clad in brightly-coloured rubber clogs or flip-flops.

Cullen would kill her if she left the house looking like that.

She scanned her list and ticked off each item as she placed it in the cart. Exactly as noted, not one thing more. Only tampons remained. She searched the shelves for the most expensive product in the largest box, tossed it on top of the canned tomatoes, and headed for the cashier.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds."

"Hi, Lucy." Mazie pulled groceries and toilet paper from the cart and piled it onto the conveyor.

"You're in a good mood today."

"It's a beautiful day, sun is shining." And she got to be out of her cell for a few hours. Shopping days were the best.

"Well, I'm stuck here until six." Lucy dragged each product across the scanner. "Ninety-one seventy-two."

Mazie counted out the five twenties.

"And your change, eight eighteen."

Mazie hesitated. "No, that's not right." The pulse of her pounding heart bounced off her ribs.

"Sorry?"

"The change. It should be eight twenty-eight. Not eighteen."

Lucy ran her finger down the tape. "Oh, right."

Mazie's fingers trembled. "Every dime counts, right?" Her eyes darted about the store, landing anywhere but Lucy's face.

Lucy opened the cash drawer and handed her another dime. "Yes, of course. Sorry."

"Thank you. See you next week."

Mazie packed the groceries into the back of the van, fumbled with the door latch, sat in the driver's seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The skin of her knuckles was taut against the bones, her fingernails dug into her palms. She eased her hands from the wheel, pulled open her purse and counted the change, did the math in her head. Eight dollars and twenty-eight cents. Exactly. She put her head back and took three deep breaths, then turned the key until the engine came to life.

Her purse vibrated against the centre console. She dug her cell phone out. The mid-day check-in with her jailer was particularly late that day.

Where you at?

She flashed her thumbs across the keyboard. _Grocery store._

You're behind schedule.

She grit her teeth. What did it matter if she scrubbed the toilet first, or went to the store first? _Thought I'd pick Ariel up from school._

You spoil her too much.

Her thumbs hesitated over the keys. What did he want her to say?

Right?

Of course. That's always the correct response.

Right.

She eyed the green glow of the dashboard clock. Two forty-five. Just enough time to run to the drug store before school was out. Ariel would be so surprised. She hated the school bus. And some one-on-one time with her daughter before Mazie had to make dinner and vacuum was just what she craved.

She pulled into the parking lot of a Shoppers Drug Mart she hadn't been to in at least a month. She retrieved the box of tampons from a grocery bag, peeled the price tag from the bottom, and stuffed the box into a reusable tote. She took a few breaths, climbed out of the van, and ran one hand over her hair. In the store she made a beeline for customer service.

The lone clerk glanced up at her and motioned with two fingers for her to approach. "What can I do for you?"

"I bought these tampons last week and realized I bought the wrong brand." Mazie pulled the box from the tote and placed it on the counter.

"Receipt?"

"Sorry, I've lost it."

The clerk raised one eyebrow. "I can't give you a refund without a receipt. Just store credit."

Mazie nodded. "That's fine."

The clerk scanned the barcode. "Those are twelve ninety-five." She ran a gift card through the magnetic stripe reader and pressed a few buttons, then handed the card to Mazie. "There you are, thirteen sixty with tax."

Mazie took the gift card, tapped it against the counter and leaned in a couple of inches. "Thank you," she whispered and tucked the card into the back pocket of her jeans. In the van she pulled the grocery receipt from her purse and ran her finger down the list until she found the tampons. Not bad, almost three dollars profit on the return.

She reached below the driver's seat and tugged on the billfold duct-taped to the underside, added the gift card to the growing cache of other cards and money.

It looked like a lot, all stacked together like that. But was it enough?

~~~~

A line of SUVs battled for position in front of the school. Mazie pulled into an open spot just seconds before the final bell. Ariel skipped down the school steps holding Polly's hand, Rachel right behind them. Damn, she was volunteering again?

Mazie ducked down in her seat. Screw it. Her personal stalker could drive Ariel home. Mazie checked the side-view mirror and put on her left signal. She shook her head and clicked it off.

No. She wouldn't let Rachel steal her alone time with Ariel. Mazie pressed her fingertips to the horn, one long beep followed by three quick ones — their secret code.

Ariel spun around. When their eyes met, she waved and smiled. She said something to Polly and ran towards the van, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders.

Rachel waved. Mazie ignored her.

"I was hoping you'd pick me up!" Ariel tossed her backpack into the back next to the grocery bags and crawled into the passenger seat. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Sorry, bug. There wasn't enough left over from groceries today. Maybe ask Daddy if he has any spare change and we can go on the weekend?"

Ariel pouted. "No fair."

"I know, honey." She ran her hand over Ariel's raven hair. "Seatbelt, please. Watch you don't get your hair caught in the latch."

Ariel pulled her long locks to the other side.

"Maybe it's time for a trim, eh?"

"Daddy said no. He likes it long."

Of course he did.

"It's not fair, it's my hair." She crossed her arms.

"Maybe I can talk to him. See if he'll change his —"

"No, that's okay," Ariel blurted out, the space between her eyebrows creased. "I don't want him to be mad at you." She turned away and stared out the window.

Mazie's eyes burned with unspent tears and she turned to look out the driver's window. "Speaking of Daddy, he's going to be late. Want to watch a movie before dinner?"

"Yes! Madagascar?"

"Again? We've seen that at least five times."

"Six. Can we?" A childlike gleam glowed in Ariel's eyes. She was caught in that twilight zone between child and young adult. Little girl and grown woman. Boys were high on her list of the most important things in the world. Begging to wear makeup had been a near daily occurrence until her father laid down the law with a boom in his voice and a wagging finger in Ariel's face. No daughter of his was going to get all slutted up before she even hit high school. She was months past needing a training bra, too young to look so, so .... sexual, as Cullen called it. But she just wasn't ready to let ice cream and animated movies slip from her life. Or pouting.

"All right, we'll watch one more time. But only if we can do the move it-move it dance."

"Can we close the drapes first? The neighbours already look at me funny when I'm in the yard."

~~~~

Mazie sat in the living room, a cup of tepid tea on the side table. She stared at the television, her thumb on the remote, and flipped through channel after channel, her mind on autopilot.

She'd tucked Ariel into bed after they'd worn each other out, dancing and singing and filling the house with laughter. The second she flicked off the light and clicked her daughter's bedroom door closed, the light-heartedness evaporated and the burden of what was to come smothered her.

With the sound of every engine that roared by and every footstep that clopped on the sidewalk as someone passed out front, her heart raced.

She waited in the incandescence of the floor lamp, the three-setting bulb on its lowest wattage. The streetlamp on the corner threw its orange glow into the room, the decorative window bars casting a checkerboard shadow over the family portrait that hung on the opposite wall. The cuckoo clock ticked and tocked, ticked and tocked. Its hollow marking of time echoed in the empty kitchen.

Her head hurt. She was tired of waiting for him to come home. To tell her what to do, what to think, who she was or wasn't allowed to speak to.

Her chin dipped to her chest, her eyelids thick with sleep. The roar of Cullen's truck jolted her awake. She jumped from her chair and scurried into the kitchen, stripped cellophane from the plate of cold meatloaf, mashed potatoes and steamed carrots, all smothered in dark brown gravy. Six beeps of the 'quick cook' button and his dinner was on its way to hot while she threw out the plastic, polished off the droplets of condensation it had left on the counter, and fetched a fork and knife from the cutlery drawer.

He walked in the door and sat at the table as the microwave announced that his food was ready. She slid the hot plate in front of him and stood still, just to his left.

He barely breathed between the forkfuls of food he shovelled into his mouth. Hops and barley emanated from his pores.

"You pick her up from school?" He spoke through a mouthful of potatoes.

"Yes."

He paused, his fork mid-air, turned and raised one eyebrow at her. "I told you not to spoil her."

"I was already so close. Why make her take the bus?" She stared at her feet.

"Because she'll expect it, that's why." He shook his head. "Stupid."

His work boots sat in the back landing, one on its side near the closed door, the other right smack in the middle of the tile. She armed herself with paper towels and a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner, aligned the heels of his boots against the wall and placed them on the rubber shoe mat. She wiped the dust and polished the tile.

When she was finished and the soiled towels were safely in the garbage, she took his plate. He had tossed a napkin over what little remained of the meal, his silent cue that he was finished and she should hurry up and clean up after him.

She turned her back, scraped and rinsed the plate, placed it in the dishwasher, and set the machine to wash.

She took a deep breath and turned to face him.

He held out his hand.

She pulled the grocery list and receipt from her pocket and handed it to him, along with the change.

He ran his finger down the receipt, compared it to the list she'd written out. He counted the change, nodded and pocketed it, then ripped up the papers and handed them to her.

She slipped the garbage into the bin under the sink.

He looked her up and down, "C'mere." His voice was raspy from too much beer and nicotine. He reached out and grasped her wrist and yanked her into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her in an embrace, her arms pinned to her sides. The smell of the cigar bar oozed from his hair and clothes, a sickly sweet stench like gym socks dipped in fake vanilla and lit on fire. Her head spun and her stomach lurched. One of his hands slid between her legs, the other up her shirt and under her bra.

She shivered and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. The calluses on his hands scraped against her soft skin. There'd be fresh scratches under her breasts or across her backside after he finished with her.

She squirmed. "I... I have my period."

He stiffened. "Shit. Again?" He pushed her off his lap.

She reached for the counter, caught it with one hand, the other hand on the linoleum, and steadied herself. Better than landing on her ass on the floor. She used the countertop as leverage, stood and turned to him.

He was already halfway up the stairs.

~~~~

Earls restaurant buzzed with the anonymous conversations of dozens of strangers. Mazie sat in the booth, Ariel at her side. Cullen sat across from them, the birthday crown Ariel had made him out of gold construction paper askew atop his head.

"Can I get you another beer?" The skinny blonde server with the micro-mini-skirt sidled up to him and put one hand on his shoulder.

He grinned up at her. "Sure. The birthday boy deserves another brew." He gunned the third of a pint still left in the Albino Rhino glass and handed it to her.

"And you, ma'am? More water? If you're the DD, I can get you some pop or iced tea, on the house."

Mazie shook her head. "No, thanks."

The server cleared the empty plates and smiled at Cullen. He watched her walk away, his gaze firmly planted below her waist.

"You want your present now, Daddy?"

"I didn't see a box or bows. What present?" He smiled at his daughter, his eyes alight with the game. Same game, every year. He bought tickets online, paid for them himself, printed them out and handed them to Mazie to give to him for his birthday. As long as he got what he wanted, he didn't mind not being surprised. And he always played along with Ariel, who was none the wiser.

Mazie slid the envelope to Ariel under the table. She pulled it out and handed it to him. "Happy birthday."

He ripped the envelope open and grinned at two tickets to the Calgary Stampeders' game in June. He nodded at Mazie and Ariel. "Thank you, my ladies."

"Can I come?"

Cullen's brow creased. "To a football game? I always take Jerry."

Ariel sank in her seat and looked at her lap. "Okay."

Mazie slid her hand across the leather of the bench seat and patted Ariel's arm.

"Happy Birthday, to you," a crowd of wait staff gathered beside their table and sang the birthday song. Skinny Girl placed a large piece of warm chocolate banana cake ablaze with a sparkler in front of Cullen and handed him a fork.

His toothy smile lit up his face, his laughter lit up Ariel's. Mazie grinned. It had been a fun night, light and easy. For the most part.

When they finished singing, applause popped around the room, other patrons joining the fun. "Thank you, thank you," Cullen called out to the nearest tables and waved.

He leaned across the table and took Mazie's hand.

She flinched.

"Did you hear the pipes on the tall dude with the long hair?" he whispered. He looked around the room, pointed at a young man taking orders three tables over. "That guy." He turned back to her, squeezed her hand. "He sounds a lot like I used to, don't you think?"

Mazie nodded. "I guess so. It's been so long since I've heard you sing."

"Yeah, well, that life is over."

His phone chimed and a red light flashed. He picked it up, grinned at the screen and ran his thumbs across it. Seconds later the phone chimed again. He let out a small laugh and responded.

Mazie sipped her water, hacked off a bit of cake and stabbed it with the fork then handed the fork to Ariel. "Yummy cake, eh?"

Ariel nodded with her mouth full.

Cullen texted back and forth with someone who did a better job of making him happy than Mazie was doing. After the fifth chime, she sighed.

He glanced up at her. "What's your problem?"

She looked at the table. "Nothing." She took a breath. "Just that, whoever it is, maybe the texts could wait until after dinner?" She lifted her eyes to his.

His one eyebrow shot up and he squinted. Mazie looked away.

"Daddy, can we get ice cream on the way home?" Ariel to the rescue.

He smiled at her. "Sure we can. It's my birthday, after all."

~~~~

Ariel slid the side door of the van closed, chocolate ice cream stained her upper lip and dripped from a waffle cone.

Mazie clicked the passenger door shut and waited for Cullen to pass in front of her before falling into line behind and heading for the front door.

"Evening, Reynolds clan." Rachel's husband, George, stood on his front lawn in checkered shorts and a ratty old T-shirt. He held the garden hose and sprayed a fine mist over Rachel's beloved rose bushes.

Cullen ignored him.

"Hi, George." Mazie waved.

Rachel jumped out through the front door. She was like a damn jack-in-the-box and Mazie's presence was the hand crank. The second she was in range, surprise! Rachel popped up.

"Beautiful evening!" she yelled. "Ariel, want to come play with Polly?"

Cullen spun around. "No, she doesn't. It's my birthday and she's spending it with me."

Rachel cocked her head. "Well, sooorry, birthday boy. I didn't know this was the day the world was graced with your presence." She jerked her chin at Ariel. "Maybe another day that isn't so special, 'kay sweetie?"

"Okay, Mrs. Simpson. Thanks."

Ariel took her ice cream into the living room and turned on the television.

Mazie clicked the front door shut. "Don't drip on the carpet, bug."

Cullen went straight to the cupboard over the fridge and pulled out the bourbon. He sloshed a few ounces into a tumbler and turned to her. "I swear, one day I'm gonna kill that bitch." He kept his voice low.

Mazie placed her purse on the kitchen table. "She's snoopy, but harmless."

"And for future reference, who texts me and when I choose to reply are none of your damn business."

She looked at her feet. "Sorry. We don't get many nights out. Just thought it would be nice to focus on that."

"I don't care what you thought." He snatched her purse and rummaged inside. "Let's see who you've been texting, huh?" He pulled her phone out and slid his grease-stained fingers all over the screen. The same thing he did at least once a week. He pressed his lips together and threw her a withering look. "Good. Just me." He tossed the phone on the table, took his drink, and joined Ariel in front of the television.

At ten, he sent Ariel to bed. At ten-thirty, he took Mazie by the arm. She followed him up the stairs, her wrist aching in his grip.

In the bedroom, he stripped and tossed his clothes on the floor.

Mazie got undressed, hung her pants in the closet and put her shirt and underwear in the clothes hamper with the other dirty laundry. She picked up his clothes from the carpet, along with his filthy work shirt and jeans that lay where he'd dropped them after work — shag the colour of applesauce had seemed the right choice thirteen years ago — and tossed them into the laundry basket she kept in the room for his things. Kept them away from her clothes so his filth didn't infect her.

He stood by the head of the bed, hard and anxious. "Hurry up already."

She approached from the other side and lay on her back.

He crawled on top of her, ran his sweaty, stinking, sticky skin all over her. She closed her eyes and turned her head. He wouldn't care. He never kissed her on the mouth anymore.

He pushed her legs apart with his knees and forced himself inside. The weight of him knocked the breath from her.

She clamped her lips closed, shut her eyes, and imagined an idling river, a quiet meadow at the base of the mountains, the scent of daisies and pine needles. Ariel played in the distance. Molly, their golden retriever, frolicked in the grass. The dog she'd always wanted. A dog they'd never owned. Ariel tossed a stick to Molly and the dog fetched and returned flawlessly.

Cullen's breathing became laboured. He shifted his body until he loomed over her and encircled her throat with one hand.

As the air left her, she opened her eyes to glare at the monster he had become.

He grunted and groaned and thrust into her harder and harder, his grip on her neck tightening with each creak of the bed, each thud of her head against the headboard, the headboard against the wall.

Creak, thud, gasp, thud, creak.

Sparks of light exploded in her periphery. She clawed at his arm.

"No! I'm not done fucking you yet."

Mazie gasped for air, prayed for his grip to falter, to allow just one small slip of oxygen through. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes. He was going to do it this time. She was going to die. Tears dripped onto the pillow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Frayn pens award-winning novels and short stories that pack a punch. She has published three novels and one short, short story collection. Her work has won two gold medals in the 2013 Authorsdb cover contest, and the Books and Pals 2014 Readers' Choice award for women's fiction. A bean counter by day, Julie revels in the written word. When she is not working or writing, she spends as much time as possible with her two children (grown adults, really), while they still think she's cool.

Follow her at www.twitter.com/juliefrayn and subscribe to her blog at www.juliefrayn.com.

The Five Star Trivia Quiz Book

By

Rich Meyer

Copyright 2014 Rich Meyer

Cover design by Rich Meyer

Five Star Trivia is a family-friendly fest of forgotten knowledge for all ages! Every aspect of pop culture is here: Movies, television shows, sports, literature, music, cartoons, comic books, old time radio ... along with many more mundane topics like science, geography, history and politics! 600 questions plus 600 answers equals hours of fun!

Please press "Next Page" on your e-reader for the first chapter of _The Five Star Trivia Quiz Book_.

The Five Star Trivia Quiz Book

by Rich Meyer

QUESTIONS 1-25

Dorian Satoshi Nakamoto was outed by Newsweek magazine in 2014 as being the reclusive and supposed inventor of what online currency?

According to U.S. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, what exactly was "a date that will live in infamy"?

What comic strip featured characters such as Steve Dallas, Michael Binkley, Bill the Cat and Opus the penguin?

What sport is played on a field that is 300 yards long and 160 yards wide?

Who portrayed the _Man of La Mancha_ in the big screen musical of the same name?

What name was given to the Roman God of War?

In what year were Pretzel M&M Candies originally released?

What was the name of Don Quixote's horse?

Who wrote the children's tale _The Ugly Duckling_?

Which one of the original Marx Brothers promoted Prom Shampoo in early television commercials?

Harpo, Inc. is the production company of what television impresario?

What is the capital of Finland?

What was the performing name of Joe Yule, Jr.?

What novel was adapted by radio's _Mercury Theater on the Air_ in 1938 and caused what many called a nationwide panic?

What are the first names of the two brothers known as the Hardy Boys?

The 1922 classic silent movie _Nosferatu_ almost didn't make it to our era, as a court ordered most copies of the film destroyed due to a copyright infringement lawsuit from the estate of what famous horror writer?

What company and product was promoted with the catchphrase "Let your fingers do the walking"?

What favorite of children's literature follows a very lucky day in the life of young Charlie Bucket?

Tiny Goodbite, Justin X. Grape, and Benny Da Sun are all examples of what?

What was the usual profession of TV's Ralph Kramden?

_Everything You Know is Wrong_ was a popular album by what comedy troupe?

What is the title of the oldest continuously published periodical in North America?

What was the name of the lame cowpoke, created by Clarence E. Mulford, who tended the Bar 20 Ranch?

What is the name of the tallest National Landmark that can be found in the District of Columbia?

What entertainer is perhaps best remembered for both a series of popular "Road" movies with crooner Bing Crosby, and his lifelong efforts to entertain the troops overseas during wartime?

Please press "Next Page" on you e-reader for the answers!

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS 1-25

  1. Bitcoin.

  2. December 7th, 1941 (the bombing of Pearl Harbor).

  3. _Bloom County_.

  4. Polo.

  5. Peter O'Toole.

  6. Mars.

  7. 2010.

  8. Rocinante.

  9. Hans Christian Anderson.

  10. Harpo Marx.

  11. Orpah Winfrey.

  12. Helsinki.

  13. Mickey Rooney.

  14. _The War of the Worlds_ by H.G. Wells.

  15. Joe and Frank Hardy.

  16. Bram Stoker, the author of the original _Dracula_.

  17. AT&T's Yellow Pages.

  18. _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_.

  19. California Raisins.

  20. Bus driver.

  21. _The Old Farmer's Almanac_.

  22. The Firesign Theatre.

  23. Hopalong Cassidy.

  24. The Washington Monument.

  25. Bob Hope.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rich Meyer is a trivia geek, comic book fanboy, old time radio researcher, science fiction aficionado, pseudo-independent publishing pundit, and a random reviewer and blogger. He has written over 35 trivia quiz books, several short stories and is continually working on the "Great Arcturan Novel." He also runs Quantum Formatting Service, providing affordably priced book formatting and image manipulation.

He lives in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania with his wife Mona and their furry children Emiko Marie, Maxwell Doodle Marie, Liam Marie, Tallulah Marie, and Baby Ruby Xev Marie.

Rich can be found online at:

Balls Deep and Crying Like a Baby (blog): http://ballsdeepandcryinglikeababy.wordpress.com

Quantum Formatting Service: http://quantumformatting.weebly.com

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/rich.meyer>

We hope you enjoyed your introduction to our array of talented new authors.

If you enjoyed the reads, please consider writing a short review about First Chapters on the venue of your choice. Or, perhaps you have time to mention it to your friends or on Twitter. eNovel's hashtag is #eNovAaW. Your invitation is always open to visit eNovel Authors at Work where you will find dozens of new authors and their books. Each author has a personal page and you are welcome to leave comments.

All of these fine books are available in their entirety at major e-tailers everywhere, particularly the world's largest on-line retailer (whose name cannot be mentioned here because of Smashwords rules; hint: Think the longest river in South America).

Cordially,

Jackie Weger

Administrator

Table of Contents

NanoStrike by Pete Barber

The Broken Saint by Mike Markel

Hoodoo Money by Sharon Pennington

Quintspinner: A Pirate's Quest by by Dianne Greenlay

Terms of Surrender by Lorrie Farrelly

Trucking in English by Carolyn Steele

The Reluctant Hero by Jackie Weger

Sisters of the Night by Linda Lee Williams

Return of the Runaway Bride by Donna Fasano

Mazie Baby by Julie Frayn

The Five Star Trivia Quiz Book by Rich Meyer

Links to featured books on Amazon.com

