Destiny’s Way

A Novel of the Big Bend

by

Ben H. English

Historical Fiction / Suspense

Publisher: Creative Texts Publishers

Date of Publication: January 18, 2020

Number of Pages: 363

Kate Blanchard woke up one morning in a dream home she could no longer afford, with a young son who needed a man’s influence, and not a friend among those who had claimed to be prior to her husband’s mysterious disappearance.

About all she had left was a ramshackle ranch along Terlingua Creek, sitting forlornly in the desolate reaches of the lower Big Bend. It was the only place left she could go. There she finds a home and a presence of something strange yet comforting that she can’t put her finger on or fully understand.

With that ethereal presence comes Solomon Zacatecas, a loner with his own past and a knowledge of her land near uncanny in nature. He helps her when no one else can and is honest when no one else will be, but she suspicions that he is not always completely so.

Yet her quiet, unassuming neighbor proves to be more than capable in whatever situation arises. That includes when standing alone against those who would take everything else that Kate had, including her life as well as her son’s.

Praise

“This is one of those rare books that you simply can’t put down. Ben English ‘s writing style is pure magic. He really brings this historical fiction book to life. Immediately, you are drawn to the main characters Kate and Solomon and feel as though you are right there next to them, experiencing what they are experiencing. Destiny’s Way is one that would do well on the Silver Screen.”  — Catherine Eaves, published author

“Ben does a superb job with this book! Excellent characters, true-to-life environment that is part and parcel of the story, twists and turns enough to make you wonder what is going on, and a slice of life down in Big Bend that rings true. That area has historically been full of ‘characters’ throughout its history, and Ben brings those characters into the book, raising the hair on the back of your neck. Highly recommended!”  — J. L. Curtis, author of the Grey Man series

“Ben, I love how your words and your memories reach out and connect the past with the present and touch so many people along the way. You are the connector! Bravo Zulu, my friend.”  — Matt Walter, Museum of the Big Bend Curator

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Excerpt from Chapter 6 of Destiny’s Way

Gideon lived to a ripe old age, beating all odds of survival. Was he haunted by the demons of the dead for what he had done? No one knows, because no one dared ask. But in that time he went from being a man of some local repute to a living legend named after a ferocious predator. Some say his spirit still roams the Big Bend and when those of evil intent feel a sudden unexplained chill, it is the ghost of El Tigre warning them that he is still out there, some place.”

Zacatecas fell silent and Jamie stared at him with large, saucer-sized eyes, fixated on what had been said. Kate Blanchard might never have admitted it, but she herself had been swept up and away by this grim tale of vengeance. It was not only the story itself, but also how the saga was told by this quiet man sitting at her kitchen table. It was as if he himself had been there when it had all occurred.

“Time to get ready for bed, Jamie.” Kate nearly startled herself as she spoke, it had been so quiet in the interlude after Solomon finished.

“Yes, Mommy.” The small boy slid out of his chair and started from the room. But in the doorway he stopped and turned around, a question in his eyes.

“Solomon” he asked, “do you believe the ghost of El Tigre still wanders the Big Bend?”

“Yes, I do Jamie,” Zacatecas replied. “Sometimes when by myself, I get a strange feeling and look up, half expecting to see him horseback high on some ridge, watching.”

“Aren’t you ever scared?”

“No. I know in my heart that Gideon would never harm me. Nor would he ever do anything to you or your mother. Only bad people need to fear The Tiger.”

Jamie thought about Solomon’s last remark for a moment, then grinned and ran quickly up the stairs.

“That was quite a story, Mr. Zacatecas” Kate said, looking carefully at her dinner guest. “I have never heard of ‘El Tigre’ until now. But are you certain there was not just the tiniest bit of embellishment involved?”

“The story of Gideon Templar needs no embellishment, Mrs. Blanchard,” Solomon replied. “Everything I related was factual, and in truth only a small part of what happened in his life.”

“Even the part about his spirit still wandering the Big Bend?” she asked.

“The Mexicans across the river still sing their canciones de frontera norte about him, Mrs. Blanchard. They admonish their children to be good, or El Tigre will come and get them in the night. He was the last of the truly hard men, ma’am.”

Later, much later that evening, Kate was awakened from her sleep with a fitful start. Though the bedroom had been relatively cool, her nightclothes were dampened with her own sweat. Lying there, it took some time to come back to the here and now from where here unconscious mind had been. As cognizance and reality returned, Kate realized she had been dreaming; one of those disjointed, confusing dreams that nevertheless seems so real.

In it, she was at the original house doing some daily chores, as if preparing for company. There was nothing particularly disturbing or unusual about that in itself, she had done much the same when living there or just tidying the old place up.

But this time there was something different, something disturbing that became more evident as the dream continued on. In the artistry of her mind, the setting seemed to have shifted back to many years ago. The surrounding furnishings dated themselves as did the clothing she wore. Kate recalled glancing out the front window and having the sensation that something was missing from the scene. Then she realized what it was.

In her dream she rushed to the window, moving the curtains aside and looked out. The new house was not there, just a rock and cactus studded open flat. Off to the southeast, about a quarter of a mile away, sat a grouping of rock pens with walls some six feet high.

There was something else too; or rather, someone. It was a lone rider on a buckskin horse moving slowly toward her. He was dressed in the manner of a man from the early Twentieth Century, carrying a long-barreled lever action rifle in his right hand, muzzle high with the stock nestled between the saddle pommel and his leg. Kate could not see the rider’s face, his large brimmed felt hat was pulled down low, shadowing his features.

The man’s manner appeared alert and yet casual in nature, as if he was riding into a place he had come to many times before. He also seemed to know that she was watching him, in fact it was as if he was expecting her to be at that particular window.

And though Kate Blanchard had never seen the rider before, she knew exactly who he was…

Ben H. English is an eighth-generation Texan who grew up in the Big Bend. At seventeen he joined the Marines, ultimately becoming a chief scout-sniper as well as a platoon sergeant. Later he worked counterintelligence and traveled to over thirty countries.

At Angelo State University he graduated Magna Cum Laude along with other honors. Afterwards Ben had a career in the Texas Highway Patrol, holding several instructor billets involving firearms, driving, and defensive tactics.

His intimate knowledge of what he writes about lends credence and authenticity to his work. Ben knows how it feels to get hit and hit back, or being thirsty, cold, wet, hungry, alone, or exhausted beyond imagination. Finally, he knows of not only being the hunter but also the hunted.

Ben and his wife have two sons who both graduated from Annapolis. He still likes nothing better than grabbing a pack and some canteens and heading out to where few others venture.

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Synopsis

Doc Brady became an orthopedic surgeon to avoid being surrounded by death. But now it’s everywhere around him.

One spring day in 1994 Houston, Dr. Jim Bob Brady witnesses his neighbor’s ten-year-old son killed by a hit-and-run driver. An accident, or an act of murder? After the death, Brady enlists the help of his twenty-year-old son J. J. and his wife Mary Louise in chasing down clues that take them deeper and deeper into a Houston he never imagined existed. In the process, they discover a macabre conspiracy stretching from the ivory towers of the largest teaching hospital in Texas, to the upper reaches of Houston’s legal community, to the shores of Galveston.

Doc Brady soon realizes that the old adage remains true: The love of money is the root of all evil.

Check out this first in a new series with books 2 and 3 due out later this year

Excerpt

Chapter 1

STEVIE

Saturday, March 12, 1994

What I remember first about that day was the sound of a sickening thud. It was blended almost imperceptibly with the screeching of tires, both before and after the thud. I had been in the backyard, watering our cherished potted plants and flowering shrubs. As soon as I heard the screech, I dropped the plastic watering bucket and tore down the driveway toward the front yard, thanking God that the electric wrought-iron gate was open, and praying that Mary Louise was not the source of the street sounds.

Although it wasn’t but 150 feet or so from the backyard to the street, it seemed that I was moving in slow motion through a much longer distance. Our neighbor to the right as we faced the street was kneeling down over a small blue lump. I remember initially thinking it was a neighborhood cat or dog with a sweater but as I neared the scene, I saw that the blue lump was Bobbie’s son, Stevie.

Bobbie was screaming, “OH, GOD! Oh, God! Jim Bob, is he all right? OH, GOD, JIM BOB, PLEASE LET HIM BE ALL RIGHT!”

Stevie was not all right. I felt his little ten-year-old wrist for a pulse. Nothing. I felt his left carotid artery. Nothing. I considered rolling him over on his back but was afraid that if he were in shock and not dead, I could paralyze him if his spine were fractured. Some of the other neighbors had arrived by then. I yelled for someone to call 911.

“Can’t you give him mouth-to-mouth or something?” Bobbie had yelled. “You’re a doctor, for God’s sake! DO something! Oh, please, do SOMETHING!” I felt helpless and wished I could do something. Anything. A mother was losing her child, and all my years of medical training were, at that particular moment, useless. I waited with her and tried to keep her from moving Stevie. But how can you keep a mother from trying to shelter, protect, hide, and heal her child? Mostly, I waited with her and Stevie, feeling for his carotid pulse repeatedly, though my touch would not restore it.

It seemed like an eternity before the Houston Fire Department arrived, although later my neighbors would tell me it was only four or five minutes. The paramedics were affected as much as I was by the slight, crushed bundle. Although there was, thankfully, little external bleeding, they must have sensed the lifelessness when they stabilized his neck before gently moving him onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. He seemed so tiny to me as the paramedics deftly intubated Stevie and started an IV running. It appeared they injected his heart, probably with epinephrine, before they electroshocked him. A heartbeat did not register on the monitor.

As I rode in the ambulance with Bobbie and the paramedics, I thanked God that Mary Louise was not the one being resuscitated. I vaguely remembered her running outside during the commotion. Knowing her and her composure and intelligence, she probably had called 911 before I had time to give those instructions. Her gentle hand had rested briefly on my shoulder as little Stevie was loaded into the ambulance. A great woman, my wife. I was glad our only son, J. J., was away at college. At least he couldn’t get run over in front of our house.

“You’re a doc?” asked the least-busy paramedic in the ambulance. I nodded. “Jim Bob Brady.”

All three continued to work on Stevie, attaching monitors, pushing IV drugs, and occasionally using the paddles to try to stimulate his heart into beating.

“What kind?” one of the other paramedics asked.

I thought that was a helluva time to be making small talk. Dead child, or presumably dead child. Mother, semi-hysterical, clinging to me. Ambulance speeding down Kirby, sirens blaring. Who cared what kind of doctor I was! Obviously, not a very good one. I had done nothing to help save that child. At that moment, I felt I should be anything but a doctor.

“Orthopedic surgeon, although this doesn’t seem the time to discuss my career,” I snapped. The comment ensured a silent journey the remaining five or six minutes to Children’s Hospital.

Poor guys. We all become too calloused in the medical and surgical business, seeing murder, mayhem, and tragedy the way we do. But this was my neighbor’s child, and I felt for her. And him. And me.

Fortunately, the traffic was light that Saturday afternoon. Normally, Fannin Street was stop-and-go in the several blocks known as the Texas Medical Center. As the ambulance pulled into the emergency center, people seemed to be everywhere. An injured child draws considerable attention—not that adults don’t, but the Children’s Hospital staff was impressively organized, showing efficiency, compassion, and skill. Within the next thirty minutes or so, they had examined little Stevie and pronounced him dead. Apparently, the trauma team was composed of not only medical personnel but of social workers, ministers, and counselors. Bobbie was shattered, requiring sedation. She was attended to, and I was left to give details of the accident. I fended questions regarding arrangements for the body and all the usual accompanying inquiries in such a situation.

I begged off from the full-frontal assault, explaining that I was a neighbor and had come along for the ride because I was a doctor, in case I could help. No, I didn’t know anything, but if I could make a few calls, I could find some people to answer their questions.

I left the holding area in the back of the emergency room and returned to the lobby through the electric double doors. I assumed the personnel on duty had allowed me to remain in the NO VISITORS area because they had heard from the paramedics that I was a physician. I was surprised, dressed as I was in baggy shorts and a not-so-clean T-shirt. I had been dressed for gardening, not doctoring and death.

The lobby was fairly empty except for a few sick children and their overwrought parents. Not wanting to search for a physician’s lounge and the privacy it would afford, and having left my cell phone at home in the rush, I used a pay phone to call home. I had to borrow a quarter from a phone neighbor.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“How are you holding up?” Mary Louise asked.

“I’m all right, other than feeling useless. Stevie’s dead. Seems he was killed instantly. The chief pediatric surgeon thinks his chest was crushed. Ruptured heart. They’ll have to do an autopsy to know for sure. Bobbie collapsed. They have her on a gurney in one of the exam rooms, sedated. They’ve been incredibly kind and attentive.”

“I feel so sorry for her. Is anyone else there yet?”

“Well, that’s one reason I called. The hospital staff is asking all kinds of questions. The police will want to talk to witnesses. Someone needs to be here who knows more about their personal lives and preferences than I do. Do you know where Pete is?”

“He’s on his way from his office. He’s involved in some big trial that starts Monday. At least that’s what the Mullens told me. I called a few of the neighbors, and they called a few more people, and so on. You know how the network is around here. Bobbie’s sister should be there soon, and Pete, God help him, should be there any minute.” She paused. “Do you want me to come and get you?”

Great, Brady, I thought, you even forgot you have no car.

“No, that’s all right. I’m going to hang out here until I see Pete, or someone else I recognize, and see if I can help out with anything. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Oh, one more thing. I love you. For a long five seconds or so, I thought it might have been you out in the street.”

“I’m still here, sweetie. I love you, too.”

As Stevie’s dad Pete and the others arrived, I basically directed traffic and answered their questions as best I could. When I felt that I had done enough, I walked outside. The paramedics were still hanging around the emergency entrance. I apologized for my rudeness in the ambulance, but they seemed to understand. They kindly offered me a ride home.

On the way, two of the men sat in the back with me and made small talk about the medical world. I asked if either of them smoked. They looked at each other, laughed, then individually brought out their own packs of carcinogens. As we all lit up, I hoped that the oxygen had been turned off.

Excerpted from Act of Murder: A Doc Brady Mystery. Copyright © John Bishop. All rights reserved. Published by Mantid Press.

About the Author

John Bishop MD practiced orthopedic surgery in Houston, Texas, for 30 years. An avid golfer and accomplished piano player, Bishop is honored to have once served as the keyboard player for the rhythm and blues band Bert Wills and the Crying Shames. The Doc Brady medical thriller series is set in the changing environment of medicine in the 1990s. Drawing on his years of experience as a practicing surgeon, Bishop entertains readers using his unique insights into the medical world with all its challenges, intricacies, and complexities, while at the same time revealing the compassion and dedication of health care professionals. Dr. Bishop and his wife, Joan, reside in the Texas Hill Country.

Website

Title: In Bed with the Earl

Author: Christi Caldwell

Release Date: March 17, 2020

Publisher: Montlake

Synopsis

To solve a mystery that’s become the talk of the ton, no clues run too deep for willful reporter Verity Lovelace. Not even in the sewers of London. That’s precisely where she finds happily self-sufficient scavenger Malcom North, lost heir to the Earl of Maxwell. Now that Verity’s made him front-page news, what will he make of her?

Kidnapped as a child, with no memories of his well-heeled past, Malcom prefers the grimy spoils of the culverts to the gilded riches of society. Damn the feisty beauty who exposed the contented tosher to a parade of fortune-hunting matchmakers. How to keep them at bay? Verity must pretend to be his wife. She owes him.

The intimacy of this necessary arrangement—Verity and Malcom thrust together in close quarters—soon sparks an irresistible heat. But when the charade ends, the danger begins. Will love be enough to protect them from a treacherous plot devised to ruin them?

Guest Post: Flaws Make the Man in Christi Caldwell’s In Bed with the Earl

My newest release, In Bed with the Earl, features an unlikely Regency hero. He was born to nobility, was kidnapped, and grew up in the roughest streets of London, as a ‘tosher’…a sewer scavenger. Nothing about Malcom or his past is in any way conventional, but he also represents how our pasts shape who we are. And there is no doubting, his past molded him into who he is… a man who doesn’t let people close…and who protects what he does have. Which is why…when he does meet Verity, someone who wants to be close for him (first, for reasons related to her work…and then, the more she knows him, simply because she’s falling for him) he resists.

People are impacted by life, in different ways. We all have many layers; and for Malcom, those layers are protective ones; a shield to protect himself from being hurt…because he’s already known so much. Yes, he’s coarse and ragged, and rough, but beneath that, readers (I hope) will see what Verity sees…that he has a good heart, and is deserving of a happily-ever-after, not only for who he is to others, but because, with the life he’s lived, he deserves it for himself.

***

Excerpt: In Bed with the Earl by Christi Caldwell

“May I help you, Miss Lovelace?”

That lethal purr sounded from the front of the room, a silky taunt.

With a gasp, the page slipped from her fingers and fluttered to a damning place at her feet.

Mr. Bram yanked the cloths from his eyes, and he took in Verity beside Mr. North’s open desk. And all the color left his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Oh, bloody hell, indeed. And all thoughts of having been rescued by a savior, and even the importance of this story, fled in the face of the danger staring back at her in his ruthless gaze.

He is going to kill me…

Verity swallowed hard. “If you’ll excuse us?” Mr. North murmured.

Verity took a step toward the door.

“Not you, Miss Lovelace.”

Mr. Bram climbed awkwardly to his feet. “Oi’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely, an apology that went ignored by Mr. North.

Her heart lurched. Every muscle in her body lurched. This was bad. Which would have been the understated statement of the century. She curled her toes into the soles of her borrowed slippers and followed the stranger’s—nay, he was no longer a stranger in name—the Earl of Maxwell’s gaze. As dread slowly wound its way through her, Verity curled those digits all the tighter.

And as it was all the easier to focus on matters within her control, she looked to her older patient as he limped across the room. “Be sure and try out those remedies, Mr. Bram.” She felt Mr. North sharpen his gaze on her person. “And I’ve something that might help with that limp, too,” she promised.

The older man stopped. “Do ya, now?”

She may as well have promised him the sun, moon, and stars for the way he looked at her. “Oh, yes. You’ll require—”

“Bram,” Mr. North snapped, and the older man instantly scuttled off, but not before flashing her an apologetic look.

“It is really not Mr. Bram’s fault. He’s not done anything wrong. You really shouldn’t take your…”

Not taking his eyes from her person, he reached behind him with an agonizing slowness and drew the door shut. Click. That soft but decisive snap that served as a seal of her fate.

Just like that, Verity’s bravado flagged. She clutched at the fabric of her skirts. Wanting to be the composed reporter gathering her research, and undaunted in the face of peril.

And she came up … pathetically empty.

That cold smile affixed to hard lips remained in place, a grin that no person would dare mistake for anything but the feral threat it was. He pushed away from the door and started a languid stroll toward her.

Had she truly been relieved about determining the identity of her savior and captor?

It was now all muddled.

“Now, Miss Lovelace? If that is your name?”

“M-my name?” Wasn’t it? Even her name eluded her in that moment. “Of course it is.” Her voice ended on a croak as he drew ever closer; the ice that frosted his gaze sprang her to the reality now facing her, the menace that spilled from his broad frame. Mayhap she’d been wrong. Because she’d experience with earls—was, in fact, the daughter of one. They were nothing like the predatory devil that stalked her now. “I am Miss Verity Lovelace. What grounds would I have to lie?” She hurried to place the chair of his desk between them as another barrier.

He stopped his pursuit. “And how may I help you?”

Ironically, the stranger—the gentleman—could have uttered no truer words than those.

They fortified her, and sent resolve creeping back into her spine as she brought her shoulders back. Verity met his gaze squarely. “Are you the Earl of Maxwell?”

Except, she already knew as much … she simply sought the confirmation from the gentleman’s mouth.

His eyes grew shuttered, but not before she caught the flash of horror in their blue-black depths.

He was a man unaccustomed to being challenged. And his unsettledness eased away further frissons of fear. Verity slid out from behind his desk chair and glided slowly across the room. She stopped when only a handful of steps separated her from the very stranger who’d put a knife to her earlier that night.

“Do I look like an earl?” he countered, belated with that reply—that deliberately evasive one.

Taking that as an invitation to study him, Verity peered at Mr. North. That slightly hooked nose, which had been broken one or more times, did little to conceal the aquiline appendage that served as a signal of his birthright. The small white nicks and scars merely marred a canvas of otherwise flawless high, chiseled cheeks and a hard, square jawline.

Glorious. Her pulse throbbed a beat harder. His features, melded with those flaws, only served to mark him beautiful in his masculinity.

His mouth crept up in a tight, one-sided smile that didn’t meet pitiless eyes. “Did you have a good look, Miss Lovelace?”

He’d noted her appreciation. Verity’s cheeks burnt, and she curled her toes into the soles of her borrowed slippers. He merely sought to disconcert her. It was a familiar state she’d found herself many times before, with many men before him. Feigning nonchalance, Verity gave her head a little toss. “You have the look and the tones of an earl,” she pointed out. “And more…” She gestured to those private missives she’d availed herself to. “You have letters written regarding the Baron Bolingbroke.” Verity stretched up on her tiptoes so she could at least hold his gaze and not be peered down at. “Therefore, Mr. North, I would say you are, in fact, the Earl of Maxwell, after all.”

About the Author

USA Today Bestselling, RITA-nominated author Christi Caldwell blames Julie Garwood and Judith McNaught for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and pick up her laptop to try her hand at romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections, and she rather enjoys torturing them before crafting them a well deserved happily ever after!

Christi makes her home in southern Connecticut where she spends her time writing her own enchanting historical romances and caring for her three spirited children!

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Title: My Way To You

Author: Catherine Bybee

Release Date: March 10, 2020

Publisher: Montlake

Synopsis

When a wildfire nearly destroys Parker Sinclair’s family home, it’s just one more disaster to add to her mountain of stress. For the past two years, she has shouldered the responsibility of raising her younger brother and sister after their parents’ untimely deaths. Forced to leave college for a crappy job that barely pays the bills, Parker manages her family property, which consumes every aspect of her life. Now winter is coming and the forecast isn’t spreading sunshine on the dark cloud over her head. The last thing Parker needs is a mudslide destroying everything she has worked so hard to maintain.

Colin Hudson’s job as a public works supervisor is to protect Parker’s property and neighborhood from further damage. But it’s a little hard when the owner of the land is a control freak who tries to do everything herself. The hardworking, attractive young woman is far from the “hot mess” she claims to be. In fact, her tight grip of control is one of the things that attract him the most. It’s also the hardest to crack. Now Colin’s working overtime to help Parker open up her heart, trust him, and let him in.

As Parker and Colin work together to keep her home and neighborhood safe, they may be in for another disaster. Or they may just realize that sometimes it takes destruction to create something new.

Interview with Catherine Bybee

Please tell us about the fire that inspired your newest novel My Way To You.

I was taking my youngest son to his senior pictures for the school when we noticed a plume of smoke in the rearview mirror. I have lived through many fire scares in the twenty years I lived in my home. Only this time, it wouldn’t be a false alarm.

You had to evacuate your house because of the fire. How did you feel in those moments?

I was thankful my children and I escaped, and terrified that I would come home to nothing but ash and debris. I’d packed up the cars with pictures and things I felt I couldn’t replace, but had to leave one of my cars behind because the fire engine was blocking my ability to drive it away. But none of that truly mattered. I felt like all the work I had done to keep my children’s family home after my recent divorce was for nothing. That fire was going to undermine the stability I had desperately tried to preserve. In short, I was an emotional mess.

While your property suffered immense damage, thankfully your home was left standing. Did this experience change the meaning of that word for you—home?

Home is stability. It’s a base for all the things we cherish. But it’s the people who make it so. I had a conversation with my youngest son not too long ago. I asked him if he missed the home he grew up in. (I’ve since moved to San Diego and sold my property in Santa Clarita.) This is what he said, “The day we ran from the fire, I stopped caring about the house. I didn’t think it would be there when we came back.” So no, he doesn’t miss his childhood home. I was shocked to hear this since my youngest tends to hold back his feelings. I lived in that house for 21 of my 51 years of life. There were memories in every corner. But in the end, the fire and flood… and exhaustion made it easier for me to sell it and walk away. Now that I’m in a new place I’m reminded that my family and memories are always with me—and a house is wood and stone. Whether I like it or not, however… it is stability. And that was shook to its core because of the fire.

Your life changed drastically in just one day, which is something your heroine Parker experiences—twice. The first time is when her parents die. How does this one event inform the course of her life?

She has to stop thinking about herself and put others before her. She had to grow up. Trauma changes you! Period. And I needed Parker to experience that so she could realize just how strong she was.

She has to find that strength again when fire almost destroys her home. Tell us how your heroine changes during all of this.

She needed to learn to lean on others again. Her parents death took that away and made her a very controlling person. (Ahummm… that’s my own epiphany.) It’s through the course of the book, and all the other players, that she learns to open herself up to live a full life. I think she also learns to be a big sister again and not the parental figure she took on.

In what ways is Parker like you? In what ways is she different?

She learned to let go, I still can’t do that.

She fell in love… That’s not me.

She had a privileged childhood with tons of options… Not me.

Parker fought to keep her home and make it right to live in it. I fought to keep my home and make it right to sell it. After so many years and so many struggles, it just wasn’t the peaceful place it once was. And with an empty nest and no Colin there to give it meaning, I needed to let go and start new.

***

Excerpt

“Excuse me?”

Parker turned toward the sound of the male voice and brushed aside hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. The sun glared in her eyes, making it difficult to get a clear picture of the man standing on the other side of her gate.

“Hello,” she greeted him.

“Do you live here?”

Probably a neighbor, she thought to herself. They’d shown up constantly after the fire to see how close the flames had actually come to their homes. Many of them invited themselves in without knocking. That was until she paid to have someone come in and fix the broken gate and stop the trespassers.

“I would hope so,” she said, waving the pruner in her hands. “I don’t think I would take this job for actual money.” The closer she got to the gate, the better the features of the man came into focus. He stood at least three inches taller than her, no easy task when she was five nine. Broad shoulders and arms that didn’t look like they slaved in an office all day. He wore jeans. It had to be over a hundred degrees, and the man wore jeans.

And filled them out nicely, if she wasn’t too tired to notice.

Parker forced her gaze back to his face, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses; his thick brown hair wasn’t covered by a hat.

She stopped in front of him, the gate to the property a clear division. The intense set of his jaw softened slightly. “Is your, ah … husband here?”

Three years ago, in a bar … or while out with friends, she would have instantly denied a lack of a husband. Out here, with a stranger … even an attractive one standing at her front door, she wasn’t about to correct him. “Who’s asking?”

The man’s smile fell and he quickly removed his sunglasses. “I’m sorry. My name is Colin Hudson. Colin to my friends.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hudson?” She wasn’t about to call him by his first name.

“I work with the Public Works Department and wanted to see if you’d let me take a quick look at the wash that runs through your property.” He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Out came a business card that he handed her through the bars of the iron gate.

She had to move close enough to take the card, but retreated once she had it in her fingertips.

He instantly shoved his hands in his front pockets and took a step back.

The card looked legit. Parker reminded herself that anyone with a computer could make a business card. “Does your department work on Saturdays, Mr. Hudson?”

“All the time.”

She peered beyond the gate, didn’t see a car. “Did you walk here?”

Mr. Hudson looked over his shoulder, pointed his thumb down the street. “I have a company truck. I parked around the corner.”

“Ah-huh.” She wanted to believe him. His caramel brown eyes looked kind enough. “Even Ted Bundy was good-looking,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

Parker looked up to find him staring, his mouth gaped open. “That’s a first.”

“Sorry.” Not sorry. “By-product of being a lone woman on a large piece of property with a stranger asking to come in. Business card aside, you could be anyone.”

He lifted his hands in the air. “Very wise. I hope my sister would do the same. I was just hoping to get an eye on the canyon before Monday’s meeting. But I can wait.”

She relaxed her grip on the tree pruner. “What meeting?”

“The city and county are meeting to discuss the concerns of the watershed after the fire. We’re developing a plan to preserve property during the winter. If I could take a quick look it would help.”

“You mean prevent mudslides?”

“Control mudslides,” he corrected her.

She shifted from foot to foot. “You can do that?”

“It’s a big part of our job.” He smiled, looked over her shoulder. “I can wait. I don’t want to make you uneasy.”

Parker looked back toward the house. “Tell you what. You go get your company truck and I’ll grab a snake fork and show you the wash.”

His eyes narrowed with an unasked question.

“It’s summer. Rattlesnakes are a thing,” she explained.

“You sure?”

Yeah, she was sure. “I’ll open the gate. You can park inside.”

About the Author

New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee has written thirty books that collectively have sold more than five million copies and been translated into more than eighteen languages. Raised in Washington State, Bybee moved to Southern California in the hope of becoming a movie star. After growing bored with waiting tables, she returned to school and became a registered nurse, spending most of her career in urban emergency rooms. She now writes full-time and has penned the Not Quite Series, the Weekday Brides Series, the Most Likely To Series, and the First Wives Series.

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Synopsis

She’s a witness. She may be lying. And he’s falling in love with her.

Detectives Jesse Aaron and Camille Farris have no leads in the murder of Rosa Logan when pretty blonde Sariah Brennan claims to have seen the killer—in a vision. Unfortunately the man she identifies is dead—or is he?

Sariah is an unsophisticated small town girl, but her background and her motives are mysterious. Jesse is increasingly convinced that she has guilty knowledge of the crime, even as he finds himself more and more attracted to her. Can he and Camille unravel the web of secrets before the killer strikes again?

Excerpt

On the ride back to Vista Road silence prevailed. He didn’t know what she was thinking about. He didn’t even know what he was thinking about. Lights were on behind the closed curtains of the house. He parked short of the driveway, where the nearest streetlight filled the front seat with a dim glow.

“Thank you,” she said. “I enjoyed it, and I appreciate you keeping me up to date on the investigation.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

She gave him an enigmatic smile. She had said she found him attractive but as a kind of conventional compliment. He wondered if she could be as attracted to him as he was to her. He thought yes, but there would be hell to pay if he was wrong—and even if he was right. She was a witness, a lying, maddening witness, and it was unprofessional to think of her in any other way, but something was happening between them. He studied the sensitive curve of her slightly parted lips. She had retouched her lipstick in Quique’s restroom, a bare hint of color.

He kissed her. Her mouth surprised him, soft and sweet and willing, almost hungry, but with something held back. She was scared, but she wanted this. They were not investigator and witness; they were two people trying to find their way to—what? He didn’t know.

About the Author

Linda Griffin is a native of San Diego and has a BA in English from San Diego State University and an MLS from UCLA. She retired from a position as the fiction librarian for the San Diego Public Library in order to spend more time on her writing. Her stories have been published in numerous journals including Eclectica, Thema Literary Review, The Binnacle, Orbis, and The Nassau Review. Guilty Knowledge is her third romantic suspense novel from The Wild Rose Press.

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Title: Yours In Scandal

Author: Lauren Layne

Release Date: March 10, 2020

Publisher: Montlake

Synopsis

Fresh off being named Citizen magazine’s Man of the Year, New York City’s youngest mayor, Robert Davenport, decides it’s time to strategize. Next move: a bid for the governor’s seat. In his way: an incumbent with a flawless reputation. He also has an Achilles’ heel: an estranged wild-child daughter with a past so scandalous it could be Robert’s ticket to victory. And a charm so irresistible it could be Robert’s downfall.

Rebellion is a thing of the past for Adeline Blake. As New York’s premier event planner, she’s all about reform and respectability. Then she’s approached by Robert to organize the party of the season. Curious, considering he’s her father’s most formidable opponent. And alarming, too. Because Addie can’t help but fall for the righteously popular candidate with the movie-star smile.

Now it’s Robert’s choice. Does he pursue a future that holds his legacy? Or the woman who holds his heart?

Interview with Lauren Layne

Tell us about your new series.

The series features three men who are named “Man of the Year” (think: People’s Sexiest Man Alive) and the unexpected ramifications that come with that! Yours in Scandal kicks off the series with a young, wealthy mayor of NYC who falls for his political rival’s daughter.

Why was it important for you to start your series with Addie and Robert?

The real answer? There’s is the book listed first in the contract 😉 In truth I’m equally excited about all three books in the series, and could have happily jumped in anywhere! That said, writing a politician was a unique and fun challenge for me (I tend to write a lot of businessmen!) so a new take on my “hot guy in a suit” was a fun creative challenge!

Even though she is still young, your heroine Addie has lived quite a life. Where did her teenage rebellious streak come from?

The first thing I always do when I get a new story idea is to figure out where the conflict is—I have to make sure these two people, however attracted, can’t get together (easily) by chapter three. When I decided to take on a hero who’s a mayor, I took a step back to think which woman would be most off-limits to him. One with a bit of scandal was the obvious answer, since the spouses of politicians are usually held to the same exacting standards (if not more so) than the politician him/herself! From there, I dug into Addie’s character and her scandal-laden past.

Do you have anything in common with your heroine?

Honestly? No 🙂 Other than being a little mouthy during puberty, I was a pretty easy kid and teenager, and skipped the rebellious phase, at least according to my parents! I sort of skipped the whole rebellious phase growing up no underage drinking, no missed curfews, I’ve never even gotten a ticket. Though, I think perhaps I was saving up all my rebellious urges for my mid-twenties, where I seemed to chafe really hard at being managed in the corporate world, and quit my practical, well-paying job rather spontaneously and irresponsibly with almost no safety net, and dove headfirst into being a full-time writer. And I suppose, for that matter, I’ve made some rebellious choices as an author (quitting Facebook, not doing ARCs on my self-pub title, etc). So, I guess I change my answer! Yeah, I have a little in common with Addie after all!

Your hero Robert is fantastic! He is smart, successful and just earned the title ‘Man of the Year’. What made you fall in love with him?

He really is great, isn’t he? 🙂 I actually knew from the start that Robert was going to be a pretty stand-up guy. I wanted to steer as away from the cliche, corrupt politician as possible, and show that it’s absolutely possible for people to be in public office simply because they want to do good, not because they’re power hungry. I think what I love most about him is how he never wavers in wanting best for Addie and the people around him, even if it hurts him personally. He’s a really unselfish guy, and that is so, so appealing to me!

Would you say that there are similarities that all of your heroes share?

I’d say they’re all pretty quick with a comeback. Whether they’re the charming playboys or the more reserved, Mr. Darcy types they’ve got a bit of a sharp, clever tongue! Also, the vast majority tend to be wealthy and suit-wearing. I’ve got a few exceptions, but I think there’s something so sexy about a buttoned-up guy in a suit coming undone over a woman, so I tend to come back to that again and again!

Some of the best moments in Yours In Scandal happen when your heroine and hero are around their trusted friends. Are any of the secondary characters we meet destined to get their own happily-ever-afters?

No plans for any spinoffs with those characters! Not because I don’t love them, but because the writing schedule’s pretty jam-packed!

***

Excerpt

“I just need to be sure . . . am I going crazy? I am, right? Our girl’s not seriously telling us she had dinner with the mayor,” Rosalie said, turning to Jane.

“You’re not the crazy one—she is,” Jane said, emphatically pointing at Adeline.

Adeline nibbled on the corner of a chip. “It’s really not the big deal you two are making it out to be. It was just dinner. Pizza.”

“That’s even worse!” Jane said shrilly. “It’s so intimate.”

Adeline glanced over at her calmer friend. “Please tell her there’s nothing intimate about Italian sausage.” She winced as she caught herself. “Yeah, I heard it.”

“It is a little out of character,” Rosalie said slowly. “You haven’t exactly made it a secret how you feel about men these days. To say nothing of your thoughts on elected officials.”

“I didn’t sleep with the guy, we just had pizza.”

“I’d actually be less concerned if you’d slept with him,” Rosalie admitted.

“Agreed,” Jane said, smacking the table. “A sexy fling with the Man of the Year is one thing. A cozy dinner at his place is just . . .” She threw her hands up. “I can’t. I literally can’t process it.”

“You don’t have to process anything,” Adeline said, dunking the chip into the salsa and stuffing the whole thing in her mouth. “It was a one-time thing. The party’s next weekend, and then I’ll probably never see him again.”

“What if he wants you to be his forever event planner?”

“He won’t. His regular planner’s one of the best in the city, and I’m sure she’ll be back from maternity leave by the time he needs to hire someone again.”

“Is his regular event planner hot and single?” Jane pointed out.

“She’s married.”

“Exactly. Much less susceptible to his sexy face than single you.”

Adeline sighed and looked again to the perpetually calm Rosalie. “Make it stop.”

“Just promise you’ll warn us if you start to fall for the guy,” her friend said, fiddling with her chip. “Much as I love the idea of you landing the hottest guy in the city, I also know just how tricky that would be for you.”

“Tricky is an understatement given he’s likely running against The Bastard in the next election,” she said, knowing that both of her lifelong friends knew she was referring to the father she’d all but disowned.

Adeline hadn’t known Rosalie as long as she’d known Jane, but they still went all the way back to high school. Adeline had been the loose cannon, Jane the genius, and Rosalie had been, well . . . perfect.

“You know,” Adeline said, looking thoughtfully at Rosalie over the top of her margarita. “I actually thought about setting you and the mayor up.”

“Wait, what?” Rosalie’s eyes went wide.

“You said yourself he was hot,” Adeline pointed out. “You’re also beautiful, well spoken, polished. You never look bad in a photograph, and you never say the wrong thing. I literally can’t think of a more perfect future First Lady of New York.”

“Oooh, I see that!” Jane said, pivoting in her chair to stare at Rosalie.

Adeline gave Jane an exasperated expression. “You were just warning me off of the guy.”

“Warning you off, yes. But Rosalie . . .”

Adeline tried to ignore the sting. It wasn’t as if Jane were saying anything Adeline herself hadn’t thought. Even if she were inclined to pursue the mayor, and she wasn’t, she knew that she was the last thing someone like him needed. Her past alone made her an inconceivable choice for him, and even if she could keep her past mistakes under wraps, she would never be the right woman for him. She may have mastered the bun and the blazers, but she was still the woman who collected adventurous lingerie and loved tequila.

“The guy’s definitely attractive,” Rosalie said. “But I don’t know that I want one of Adeline’s rejects,” she said with a smile intended to annoy Adeline.

“I wouldn’t let that stop me,” Jane said, fanning herself. “If it weren’t for Dan . . . . Too bad I love that man so damn much. Seriously, Rosalie, let Adeline fix you up, so I can live vicariously.”

“Hello,” Rosalie said, staring at the admittedly, occasionally tone-deaf Jane. “Are you not seeing what I’m seeing?” She pointed at Adeline.

Jane glanced over and narrowed her eyes.

“Ever since she came back from New Mexico with her hair brown, she’s been like this buttoned-up ice woman. But when she talks about him . . .” Rosalie made an unrecognizable hissing, clicking noise.

“What was that?” Jane asked.

“Fire igniting,” Rosalie explained. “Whatever, so sound effects and act-outs aren’t my strong suit. The point is—”

“If I sound fiery when I talk about the mayor, it’s only because he’s a control freak and pain in the ass,” Adeline interjected. “The man doesn’t know how to delegate, is hell-bent on carrying on his father’s legacy without ever checking in with himself, and . . .”

Adeline’s thoughts scattered a little as she realized she wasn’t being entirety fair to the mayor. Yes, he was obsessed with his image, as a man in his position had to be. But he could also be funny and irreverent. He could also be spontaneous and casual.

He’d proven that yesterday, first with the tour of his home, then the invitation of dinner. Even the way he ate pizza was appealing, somehow both buttoned-up precise and outright relishing, all at the same time.

“We need more margaritas.”

About the Author

Lauren Layne is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than two dozen novels, including Hot Asset, Hard Sell, and Huge Deal in her 21 Wall Street series, as well as her Central Park Pact series. Her books have sold more than a million copies in nine languages. Lauren’s work has been featured in Publishers Weekly, Glamour, the Wall Street Journal, and Inside Edition. She is based in New York City.

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Author: Rebecca Rohman

Release Date: February 25, 2020

Genre: Contemporary Romance/Romantic Suspense

Number of Pages/Words: 500/140,000

Format: Ebook & Paperback

Synopsis

Thirty years ago, as teenagers, lawyer, Bobby McLean and travel writer, Sicora Clarke shared an intense love affair and had a happy future planned. But when Sicora ended it with no explanation and Bobby never heard from her again, it devastated him.

Today, one marriage and one horrific tragedy later, Bobby returns to his island home of Saint Lucia to help him reset before a fresh start in San Francisco.

Sicora Clarke intends to be in and out of her birthplace quickly. When she unexpectedly runs into Bobby McLean in the most dubious circumstances, it resurrects issues that she had buried decades ago, issues that rocked her entire world—issues that tore them apart.

When Sicora returns to life on the US east coast and Bobby on the west, neither can forget the plans they made and the passionate life and love they used to share. But with the geographical distance between them and a world of secrets, conflicts, and dangers amid them, it widens the gap physically—but not necessarily in their hearts.

With Sicora’s life now threatened, could a rekindled love be the only way for them to make it out alive or was this reunion doomed from the start…

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EXCERPT – THAT DUBIOUS FIRST MEETING…

Saint Lucia

“I don’t want to marry you,” a woman says to someone as I sit on the jetty at Saint Lucia’s Pigeon Island.

The blackness of the night surrounds us and what started as indistinct voices behind me among some trees now reaches my ears with some clarity.

She continues, “How many times and ways do I have to say this. I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anybody. You knew this from the start and for you to follow me here at a time like this is insensitive and selfish on your part.”

“Why is it so hard for you to settle into a life with me?” the man asks. “I could give you the world. I could give you a life you could only dream of.”

“Vince, I’m not doing this with you right now. Not now nor have I ever been interested in living off your money.”

I try to ignore the lovers’ spat going on behind me but when I hear the woman shriek, I turn to make sure she’s okay.

Their bodies are in silhouette among the trees.

“Let go of me,” she yells. “Leave me alone. I’m done. It’s over. I’m not doing this with you anymore.”

“Please. I’m begging you,” the man pleads.

His American accent comes through clearly and I realize though hers is indistinct, they’re probably tourists.

“What part of it’s over do you not understand?” the woman laments.

She walks away and the man follows her, grabs her by her arm and shoves her against a nearby tree causing me to rise to my feet.

“Vince, stop. You’re scaring me.” The shakiness in her voice is now clear. “You’re acting crazy. Let go of me.”

“No.”

Hearing his obstinate response, I take a few steps closer and look on. Their figures are still in view but the darkness of the night only outlines their bodies. Their speech is now inaudible. My gut tells me to check on this woman.

“Hey. Leave her alone,” I shout as I run toward them.

The man gasps at my presence and immediately lets her go. As she runs away, the moonlight and a nearby lamppost illuminate her body. Part of her white skirt is torn and a piece of fabric remains in his hand.

He was attempting to rape her.

“Sicora, I’m sorry,” he yells as she runs away trying to hold what’s left of her skirt together.

His words send chills through my body. “Sicora? Sicora Clarke?”

She stills at my words and as she turns, her eyes meet mine and the moonlight hits her face. Tears run down her cheeks.

She’s older now but no less beautiful than she was when I last saw her almost thirty years ago.

“It’s Bobby—Bobby McLean.”

She gasps as she looks at me, then holding her skirt together, she runs away.

I look at the man, then her and the man again and while my first instinct is to beat him up, I realize that she might need a friend and

I chase her down the sandy path.

As I call out her name, she runs through the gates of the park, putting her out of my view. I hear the footsteps of the man—Vince following me.

By the time I make it through the gate, it’s just enough time to see her slipping behind the wheel of a blue SUV.

“Sicora, wait,” I shout.

She looks me in the eye and speeds away…

About the Author

Rebecca Rohman is a wife and designer currently living in the northeastern United States. She was a sales manager for a tourist magazine, and for many years prior, she was involved in marketing for a jewelry company and fine wine distributor.

Over twenty years ago, she started writing her first romance novel purely to entertain herself. In early 2012, she decided to complete and release it. Since then, she has released nine additional novels including One More Chance At Love and three novellas. One More Chance At Love is her tenth release.

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Titles by Rebecca Rohman

Although Rebecca Rohman’s novels standalone, they can be read together because they share the same characters. The novellas are follow-up books to the full-length novels. They’re listed below in the order they were released in case you’d like to read them together.

Love On The Pacific Shores Series

Love, Lies & The D.A.

Love M.D.

A Problematic Love

Love, Lies & A Bleu Christmas (Novella)

The Painful Side of Love (Novella)

Love On High Steel Bridge

One More Chance At Love

Translating The Tides (Standalone)

The Uncorked Series

Uncorked

Unravel – An Uncorked Novella

Synopsis

In 1916 1st Lieutenant Robert Lovett is a patient at Coldbrook Hall military hospital in Sussex, England. A gifted artist, he’s been wounded fighting in the Great War. Shell shocked and suffering from hysterical blindness he can no longer see his own face, let alone paint, and life seems increasingly hopeless.

A century later in 2017, medical student Louisa Casson has just lost her beloved grandmother – her only family. Heartbroken, she drowns her sorrows in alcohol on the South Downs cliffs – only to fall accidentally part-way down. Doctors fear she may have attempted suicide, and Louisa finds herself involuntarily admitted to Coldbrook Hall – now a psychiatric hospital, an unfriendly and chaotic place.

Then one day, while secretly exploring the old Victorian hospital’s ruined, abandoned wing, Louisa hears a voice calling for help, and stumbles across a dark, old-fashioned hospital room. Inside, lying on the floor, is a mysterious, sightless young man, who tells her he was hurt at the Battle of the Somme, a WW1 battle a century ago. And that his name is Lieutenant Robert Lovett…

Two people, two battles: one against the invading Germans on the battlefields of 1916 France, the other against a substandard, uncaring mental health facility in modern-day England. Two journeys begun a century apart, but somehow destined to coincide – and become one desperate struggle to be together.

For fans of Diana Gabaldon, Amy Harmon, Beatriz Williams, Kate Quinn, Kristin Hannah, Kate Morton, Susanna Kearsley and Paullina Simons.

*NB This novel contains graphic descriptions of war violence and injuries, as well as profanity and mild sex.

Available to read on Kindle Unlimited

Review

This book is for fans of historical fiction, time travel/timeslip, and romance.

Louisa lives in the present, 2017 to be exact.  Life has been hard and she has just lost her grandmother and ends up in a psychiatric hospital by mistake due to the ineffective doctors.  Robert lives in 1915 and is an artist but has a strong sense of duty to his country and serves in the military.  By some weird fluke, Louisa ends up back in 1915-16 and meets Robert who is recovering from some injuries.  What neither expects is to find the love of their life but only one knows what separates them….time.

For most of this book, I was more interested in Louisa’s story.  The disbelief that someone in this time period could be stuck in a psychiatric hospital and basically ignores her explanations of what happened is shocking.  And the hospital that she is in is like something from the 1950s.  There are a bunch of extreme cases, the nurses don’t seem to care, and the doctors must be filling some sort of quota and appear to only care about prescribing drugs that may be ineffective for the patient.  It helps Louisa that she was previously in med school before her grandmother died.  On the flip side, one would think that studying medicine and working on cadavers would toughen a person up so that when having to work on live patients it is no big deal.  Of course, it is very different to work on someone that is alive versus dead.  But Louisa has moxie and is able to adapt to the past easier than some.

Robert is tough but has a sensitive side.  His injuries hold him back but meeting Louisa reshapes his thought process and allows him to heal.  Reading the details of the various battles and POW camps can be a tough read if you are remotely squeamish.  But it gave me a better understanding of the war and what soldiers endured for freedom.

I’m not 100% sure how Louisa managed to go between the two time periods.  I understand time travel but most of the books in this genre don’t have a character going back and forth in time.  But it was intriguing to see how the author wove this into the story to keep the reader engaged.

The romance/love story between Robert and Louisa is one that stood the test of time.  I enjoyed watching their relationship progress and while it wasn’t always easy, they made it work.

This book was very enjoyable and I had a hard time putting it down because I wanted to know what was going to happen next for Robert and Louisa.

We give this book 4 paws up.

Excerpt

High Wood, mid-July 1916

It was beautiful; so unexpectedly and profoundly perfect that he felt his heart might break. Robert looked out over the cornfield at High Wood, tears spilling down his cheeks, surprised he still had the ability to cry. Perhaps there was something in him that was still human after all. A little way behind stood Private Nesbitt, his signaller. The two of them had come out in advance to assess the lie of the land.

The breeze brushed softly through the ripening ears of corn, as if for the simple pleasure of feeling them part. And the corn, in turn, seemed to shiver with pleasure at its touch. There was scarcely a shell hole to be seen. Nearby, a song thrush spilled its joyous tune. It was warm, the sky mostly overcast, but every now and then a shaft of sunlight broke through and gilded the landscape and heated the back of his neck. Only the distant boom of the guns gave away the fact they were still at the front.

He closed his eyes, drank in the silence. He could almost be back at home in the fields of his boyhood, tramping through the thigh-high buttercups with a jam jar, catching beetles and pretending not to hear Cook at the bottom of the garden calling him back in for lunch. He could scarcely believe he’d ever been that boy. That time increasingly seemed like a fantasy dreamt up by someone else.

It was just two weeks since the great offensive had kicked off, but he felt he’d aged a lifetime. His battalion had been sent further down the line, south of the Albert to Bapaume road, where the attack had been a bit more successful on the first of July. There, the British had not only taken a little ground but held it – albeit at great cost. Now Sir Douglas Haig wanted to exploit the gains. Things had gone well so far that morning. Instead of a long preliminary bombardment proclaiming loudly to all and sundry the fact that the British were coming, there’d been a short, lightning bombardment. Under cover of darkness, they’d been able to take the Germans by surprise and turf them out of three miles of their own second line. Luck had, for once, been on their side. Now they must press their advantage and advance further. There were no two ways about it. This time they simply had to succeed.

‘Here.’ Robert tossed back a packet of Woodbines. He always kept some. They calmed the men’s nerves in a tight spot. He lit himself a Turkish cigarette, then threw back the matches. Normally, he’d have struck the match for the man himself, but his hands were very unsteady.

‘Sit down, Nesbitt,’ Robert said, wiping the dust from his eyes. ‘I think we’ve earned a breather, don’t you?’

Nesbitt was a Kitchener’s Army volunteer. He was twenty-one and had worked in a greengrocer’s shop in Kent. He kept making involuntary frowning movements and his breath came quick and rough, like a saw rasping through wood.

‘Not long now and we’ll be in billets behind the line,’ said Robert, trying to sound reassuring. ‘You did well this morning, Nesbitt. The whole company did splendidly.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Nesbitt looked up at him like a child, frightened but trusting. Best to keep him close by, Robert thought, or he might simply disappear off into the woods. He’d be far from the first to lose his nerve and desert, and several had been shot for it.

But Robert could understand the lure of escape. These new men were all civilians, just like he’d once been – farmhands, miners, postmen, chandlers. They’d come to France fired up by vague and noble ideas of ‘doing their bit’, hoping for adventure and a hero’s welcome back home to boot – only to find themselves tossed like dry sticks into the scorching furnace of the Somme. How many of those he’d taken over the top on that appalling first day now lay dead, their bodies filling out the bloated stomachs of the rats and flies of Picardy?

‘Have you anyone waiting for you at home, Private?’ Robert asked. ‘Anyone special?’

‘Just my mum and sister, sir.’

Robert knew that already, of course, from censoring the man’s letters. ‘Dearest Mother, dearest Ruby, all is well with me,’ Nesbitt would always begin. He wasn’t the sort to complain about his lot; few of them were. ‘We’re in a nice, quiet sector here, so you’re not to worry . . . ’

Robert nodded. ‘Well, I dare say there’ll be a letter or two waiting for you when the post arrives.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He trained his field glasses on High Wood. How wonderful it was to see trees again: tall and glorious as nature had made them, unmarked by war, the wind sifting through their leaves – not mutilated stumps, eerie forests of stark telegraph poles. And here there was no hideous background drone of billions of flies feasting on the bloated black flesh of the fallen, reheated every morning by the sun.

There wasn’t the least sign of activity. Had the Germans been driven out? He hardly dared to hope so. But if so then finally, finally they might be on the verge of the breakthrough that had eluded them. If they could take High Wood, they could cut through the German lines, and the advantage, for the first time, would be theirs. The Big Push and all the unspeakable bloody shambles of the last two weeks wouldn’t have been all for nothing.

‘We’ll go on a bit further and take a look,’ he said.

Nesbitt got to his feet.

‘Stay low,’ Robert ordered, feeling for his gun.

About the Author

Catherine Taylor was born and grew up on the island of Guernsey in the British Channel Islands. She is a former journalist, most recently for Dow Jones News and The Wall Street Journal in London. Beyond The Moon is her first novel. She lives in Ealing, London with her husband and two children.

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Synopsis

It’s 1905, and the Japanese victory over the Russians has shocked the British and their imperial subjects. Sixteen-year-old Leela and her younger sister, Maya, are spurred on to wear homespun to show the British that the Indians won’t be oppressed for much longer, either, but when Leela’s betrothed, Nash, asks her to circulate a petition amongst her classmates to desegregate the girls’ school in Chandrapur, she’s wary. She needs to remind Maya that the old ways are not all bad, for soon Maya will have to join her own betrothed and his family in their quiet village. When she discovers that Maya has embarked on a forbidden romance, Leela’s response shocks her family, her town, and her country firmly into the new century.

Excerpt

The next day my cheeks, my eyes, and my hair are as good as they’re going to be when Nash arrives just after breakfast. Instead of inviting us to his family’s for lunch, he is taking Maya and me to Gol Ghar. Everybody, from children to grandparents, loves Gol Ghar, but I wonder if he’s chosen the grain silo so that we will have an excuse to walk hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder up the narrow staircase. As Maya tells him about the good luck we’ve had with the training college’s opening, I study him.

Nash has always been beautiful: his dark skin smooth, his broad lips projecting softness, his lashes longer than mine with three coats of petroleum jelly. Beautiful, and somehow therefore gentle: the Chowdhurys have always been successful, and lucky, and generous. They have nothing to prove, and Nash, a diamond in this fine setting, even less so. And so though he’s always been tall, and always looked at each person as though they were the only one left in the city, he’s always struck me as laughing, comforting, with kindness to spare. In childhood, we hardly saw anything of him, but once we were formally engaged, he withstood the taunts of his classmates and often swung by with ices or samosas or the choruses of songs from the latest films. It was easy for him to love, and as all I’d ever dreamed of was loving someone back, he was perfect.

He’s changed: his lanky frame has tightened, straightened, and as he listens to Maya, I can see in the stiffness of his hands in his lap and of his toes, curled around the edge of his sandals, that he’s kept the tiniest portion of his attention for himself. He is still beautiful, but also… threatening? Is that the right word for the way he makes my body, still seated and composed, feel called to attention against any inclination of its own? His hair is longer, I see—his barber must only have shaved him this morning, rather than give him the accompanying trim—and this imperfection lets me catch my breath.

The carriage is pulling up to the Gol Ghar— our very own Round House, our silly English silo that once held grain and now serves as a pleasure ground for those of us too brown to make use of the club—as Nash responds to Maya’s exclamation that she’s more than ready for us to go back to school next week. “But surely…” he says.

When Nargis and Mawiyya do that to me in school—trail off in the middle of a thought there’s no chance I could finish on my own—it’s to mock me, but Nash doesn’t mock. I realize that while Maya and I have had numerous conversations about my post-marriage life and how to keep it as seamless a transition as possible, Nash and I haven’t had any. “Why don’t you run slightly ahead and check on the crowd?” I ask Maya with our shared look. We trail her, slowly, and I want to throw my arms around him again, but instead I say, “You know I won’t attend the training college from August if you or your parents don’t approve.” I start with what Maya would call a barefaced lie because I suppose that, all said and done, it’s the truth. November, really, is wedding season, but ours is to be held as soon as the weather settles. Some families need time to negotiate; ours will be efficiently put together as Papa has ceded complete control to the Chowdhurys since, as even Koyal Chachi would agree, there’s no chance of their taste being anything less than impeccable.

“Oh, no, of course I wouldn’t dream of stopping you!” he says. He actually stops, and turns to me, and reaches for my hands before he realizes, and stops himself. “Leela, I didn’t realize you wanted to become a teacher, but I should have guessed. You’ve read all of the great histories of Chandrapur, and your Sanskrit is far better than mine. I’ve no right or desire to stop you making the most of yourself.” “Well, that’s good, then,” I say. “Though if I’m being honest, I mostly just want to attend the school to make sure I’m able to see Maya every day. I’m not used to a joint household and I’m not sure I’ll be able to play a dutiful daughter-in-law without her as a sounding board.” I pause, but Nash smiles, and laughs. “And after suffering through a mixed education, I think it will be nice to have the chance to teach in the Hindu school whenever it opens.”

We have only taken a few steps, but already Nash stops, causing the mother and daughter behind us to bump into our calves and mumble apologies. “Leela,” he murmurs, so softly I have to lean in to hear, and the proximity is causing my heart to do a furious dance. But then he keeps walking.

“Leela,” he says again after a few steps. “When I was in Japan, at first it was terribly lonely. We tried to integrate, but without eating fish, we Hindu students found ourselves isolated in the canteen; without much money, additionally, I found myself unwilling to hole up and play cards with boys from Lucknow or Kanpur. I know you didn’t have it easy at Bankipore, either, with your father in trade.”

I nod.

“But after the triumph against the West, it was as though divisions had melted away. Even when we were sent home, I knew I was coming back to something important, and the sight of you in that swadeshi sari running towards me solidified every commitment I’d hardly understood, before Tokyo, that I’d had. I’ve dreamt about you in red for years,” he says, and though I want to faint I press my hands to the wall and keep myself barely upright, “but for the past year, I’ve dreamt about you in white. I’m so lucky that my life partner shares my dreams, not only for us, but for the country.” Nash sees me faltering, and risks censure from the auntie behind us by steadying me, a hand to the small of my back. I am dizzy for so many reasons.

“I just cannot understand why there is no hesitation towards a communal training college that will only lead towards a communalization of the school system itself, when we’re fighting, desperately, against communalism!”

We have almost climbed to the top; I see Maya awaiting us, and when she catches my eye, she winks, but I can’t reciprocate. “It wasn’t a British initiative,” I tell him. “The Director of Schools wanted to keep us girls together, in fact, and then both the Nawab and the Maharani joined together to oppose him. There are surely more than twelve Hindu girls in Chandrapur who may have wanted to get educated alongside us, and soon there will be places, and teachers for them. Education can only help us.”

I am out of breath, but we’ve climbed Gol Ghar, and the view is rewarding enough to let me tear my eyes away from Nash for a minute. And thank heavens, because looking at this new Nash while he is deliberating is… no, not threatening. Unsettling, I decide on. I wink at Maya, and we play our usual game of identifying all of the best places: the fields, in the distance, past the river, where on the way to Gaya we always stop, much too soon, for the best roasted corn; the Rama temple with the most rambunctious monkeys; the Sikh gurudwara that is unquestionably our most beautiful building; the Khudabaksh library where the real scholars spend their days with microscopes, studying the beautifully illuminated manuscripts; the market, where one day soon we must go and see what Indian-made lingerie I will wear to start my married life.

Nash speaks up again, finally. “I’ve missed this place so much.”

There are the beginnings of tears at the corners of his eyes, and I don’t know what to say.

Maya never has this problem. “And didn’t you miss us, then? I didn’t get even one letter from you, Mister.”

She has cracked the gloomy spell, and Nash rifles through his bag until he hits upon a small wrapped package. “I thought you’d prefer the paper,” he says, handing it to her.

“You didn’t have to get her a gift,” I say, knowing what it has cost his family to send him away, and all for a trip with no degree certificate.

“But he did,” Maya says, as though he’d take it back, ripping it open willy-nilly instead of properly, neatly. I lean over to get a better look, and am glad I did: he’s brought her stationary more beautiful than I have ever seen. The British have their formal, heavy paper to announce their galas, and I’ve coveted that often enough, but this is its opposite: thin, almost translucent, and sparkling, oyster pink with sea-green filigree adorning its edges. Maya is staring at it, and I squeeze her shoulders. “Oh, yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

She walks ahead of us on the way down, staring at it; it is a good thing, after all, that we’ve been here countless times before. Nash and I pretend to watch her, to stop her from falling off the edge, but really we are stealing glances at one another. “Thank you,” I tell him, and just for a moment, before our feet reach the solid ground, he takes my hand.

Reprinted from Where the Sun Will Rise Tomorrow with the permission of Galaxy Galloper Press. Copyright © 2020 by Rashi Rohatgi.

About the Author

Rashi Rohatgi is the author of Where the Sun Will Rise Tomorrow. An Indian-American Pennsylvania native who lives in Arctic Norway, her short fiction and poetry have appeared in A-Minor Magazine, The Misty Review, Anima, Allegro Poetry, Lunar Poetry, and Boston Accent Lit. Her non-fiction and reviews have appeared in The Review Review, Wasafiri, World Literature Today, Africa in Words, The Aerogram, and The Toast. She is a graduate of Bread Loaf Sicily and an associate professor of English at Nord University.

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Synopsis

February 1994—Lynwood, Louisiana: Flaming crosses light up the night and terrorize the southern town. The resurgent Klan wants a new race war, and the Klansmen will start it here. As federal civil rights prosecutor, Adrien Rush is about to discover, the ugly roots of the past run deep in Lynwood.

For Nettie Wynn, a victim of the cross burnings and lifelong resident of the town’s segregated neighborhood, the hate crimes summon frightful memories of her youth, when she witnessed white townspeople lynch a black man. Her granddaughter Nicole DuBose, a successful journalist in New York City, returns to Lynwood to care for her grandmother. Rush arrives from DC and investigates the crimes with Lee Mercer, a seasoned local FBI special agent. Their partnership is tested as they clash over how far to go to catch the racists before the violence escalates. Rush’s role in the case becomes even more complicated after he falls for DuBose. When crucial evidence becomes threatening to upend what should be a celebrated conviction—the lines between right and wrong, black and white, collide with deadly consequences.

No Truth Left to Tell is a smart legal thriller that pulls readers into a compelling courtroom drama and an elusive search for justice in a troubled community.

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Excerpt

Prologue

July 1920
Lynwood, Louisiana

Nettie glided along the sidewalk in her best dress, her mother’s creation that would soon be too small. That Saturday, however, the colorful outfit still fit and perfectly complemented her wide smile and earnest stride. The dress was spring blue with flower patterns bursting open into full blossoms, quite like Nettie herself.

She stayed out of the way of the white pedestrians inspecting her with what appeared to be a mixture of curiosity and irritation. “What’s that one doin’ here?” one woman asked as she passed by. So Nettie hugged the buildings as she moved, trying to disappear against the facades. There was something big going on in the square, but Nettie couldn’t see over or through the gathering, since she was just seven years old.

She had pleaded with her parents to go with her father from their home in Mooretown, Lynwood’s section for blacks, to a nearby town while he delivered a meal to a close friend who was gravely ill. At the last minute, Nettie’s mother had wanted one more item added to the delivery from a store on Lynwood’s downtown square—an establishment that served them only from the back door off an alley. Nettie was supposed to wait in the car, but despite her father’s admonishments, the strange and festive noises drew her out into the nearby crowd where she was protected only by her look of youthful wonder.

Lynwood’s civic core was comprised of an expanse of lawn with a massive oak reigning over the surroundings. Four perpendicular streets framed the lawn, and they had been closed for several hours so people could mingle without regard to sputtering cars. The attendees had obliged the gesture by swarming the entire area by midmorning. The day’s activities appeared to originate across the street nearer the tree, allowing the spectators along the periphery to wander about with more freedom. From where Nettie was she could see the crown of the tree, and she moved in that direction as if pulled by some invisible force.

The day was hot and humid. High clouds had gathered through the morning and darkened the midday sky, but the music played on and people chatted in small groups as if they were at an annual parish fair.

After several minutes of distant rumbling a sprinkle started, and it soon developed into cascading water pouring from invisible pots in the sky. The drenching dispersed the crowd into stores and under awnings. Deserted chairs and soda bottles lay across the lawn.

The scattering of the masses created large openings around the square. What was an impenetrable wall of people became a flat, open field of vision. The oak, of course, remained right where it had begun decades before as a sapling.

Nettie couldn’t run into any of the stores like the others caught out in the street during the rainstorm. So, like the oak, she remained standing, although now she had a clear view of the square. Her dress—dripping and heavy with water—would have distracted her in any other setting, but unanswered curiosity kept her searching the square for clues about the day’s festivities.

The oak tree had long, thick branches, like the heavy arms of a giant. A braided rope was slung over one of these arms, out about ten feet from the trunk. The rope was wrapped once about the branch and secured to a large stake in the ground. The other end of the rope was fashioned into a noose, and suspended from it was the still body of a black man. The man’s neck was grotesquely angled, and the feet were bare. His hands were bound behind his back.

Nettie leaned forward like she was about to rush toward the oak. But she neither ran away nor went to it. She stared up at what had been until moments before a living, breathing person. She was frozen in place and time—alone in the moment when her world changed forever.

Her father came running from behind and snatched her up with such force that the dress ripped along a side seam. He covered her with his protective embrace and spirited her away to the car that waited in the alley. They headed straight home using back streets and little-known shortcuts, the car not speeding despite the urgency of the situation. The trip to deliver the meal basket was abandoned as her father kept swearing that he’d never go to the square again.

Nettie didn’t look outside the car. She kept her head down and stared at one of the dress’s printed blossoms, the flower part of the pattern ending at the hemline to reveal her trembling knees.

The is reprinted from No Truth Left to Tell by Michael McAuliffe, released on March 3, 2020. Reprinted with permission of Greenleaf Book Group. Copyright © 2020 Michael McAuliffe.

About the Author

Michael McAuliffe is the author of No Truth Left to Tell and has been a practicing lawyer for thirty years. He was a federal prosecutor serving both as a supervisory assistant US attorney in the Southern District of Florida and a trial attorney in the Criminal Section of the Civil Rights Division at the Department of Justice in Washington, DC. In 2008, Michael was elected and served as the state attorney for Palm Beach County, leading an office of approximately 125 prosecutors. He was known for leading the ethics reform movement in the county that resulted in the creation of a permanent inspector general, an ethics commission, and a new ethics code. Michael and his wife Robin Rosenberg, a US district judge, have three children and live in Florida and Massachusetts.

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