RELEASE DAY: Heather Gray "Queen"

Blurb:

You can't hide from the past.

Queen's world was shattered, and she was banished to a foreign land. Years pass before she dares to return, but what she finds is of little comfort. Greed and dishonesty have festered and grown in her absence. Embittered and cynical, Queen trusts few people.

Owen pursues a clandestine investigation and finds himself working side-by-side with a veritable ghost, an agent few have seen, a master of disguise known simply as Queen.  He craves her trust…but then uncovers a secret from his family's past that could destroy her.

Queen once sought refuge in America and now seeks it in disguise. Owen has always found his refuge in God, but will his faith be strong enough for the challenges ahead? Can he convince her to stop hiding, or is he doomed to become her most hated enemy?

 

Author:

Heather Gray authors the Ladies of Larkspur inspirational western romance series, including Mail Order Man, Just Dessert, and Redemption.  She also writes the Regency Refuge series: His Saving Grace, Jackal, and Queen - plus contemporary titles Ten Million Reasons and Nowhere for Christmas.  Aside from a long-standing love affair with coffee, Heather’s greatest joys are her relationships with her Savior and family.  She also enjoys laughter.  This theme is prevalent in Heather's writing where, through the highs and lows, her characters find a way to love God, embrace each day, and laugh out loud right along with her.

You can find Heather online at http://www.facebook.com/heathergraywriting, http://www.twitter.com/laughdreamwrite, and http://www.heathergraywriting.com.  She can also be found most days at The Inspired Inkpot, a street team, prayer group, and all around awesome place to hang out - http://www.facebook.com/groups/theinspiredinkpot.

 

 

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Excerpt:

Prologue

Christmas Eve 1817

Owen crouched low and looked around him. At least four hale and strong men had given chase. He was nursing a bullet wound to his side and a knee expressing reluctance to cooperate.

The alley's darkness provided the illusion of safety. He might yet get out of this alive, if the clouds cooperated and kept the moon concealed.

Leather scraped on cobblestones to his right, and he pivoted, knife at the ready. An old man stumbled down the alley. His stringy grey hair was greasy and his coarse woven clothes tattered. He reeked of liquor, vomit, and… Owen wrinkled his nose as he fought the urge to gag.

The ruffians who'd been chasing him must have heard the old man, too. Or, worse, they'd heard Owen. They stopped their pursuit down the street and began backtracking to the mouth of the alley.

Drat. Owen slipped back behind some crates. He wanted to call a warning to the old beggar but couldn't risk giving away his position. Instead, he tucked his body as tightly together as his wounds would allow while he prayed.

"Did you hear that?"

"Someone's down there."

"Who's there?"

The old man shuffled his way, with a dragging hitch to his step, toward the street.

Come on, old man. Get out of the way. They're not looking for you!

"Never mind. It's a drunkard. Let's keep searching."

From his vantage point, Owen watched as one of the thugs shoved the beggar down onto the ground and then kicked him full in the ribs. He winced in sympathetic pain but dared not leave his hiding place yet. To reveal himself at this juncture would ensure a far worse outcome for both him and the old man.

The echo of footsteps faded and silence once again fell over the alley, broken only by the yowling of a tom cat. A few minutes ticked by with no indication the group would return. Owen eased himself out from his position, relieved to no longer be wedged between a slimy moss-covered wall and the dilapidated, rotting crates. Pain radiated up and down his side from where he'd been shot, and his knee burned with each step.

The old man hadn't moved since landing on the cobblestones. Stooping, Owen glanced at the man's hair-covered face. Age was kinder to some than to others. Between the faded moonlight and the excessive facial hair, Owen couldn't distinguish any features beyond the large bulbous nose. The poor gent could have used a little more kindness.

A slight movement of the chest caught Owen's eye, and he sighed with relief. Now to figure out how to move him…

The old man was bulky, and Owen was wounded. Could he rouse him? Would he be able to walk? Owen shook the man by the shoulders. His efforts elicited nothing but a high-pitched groan. Seeing no hope for it, he pulled the man over his shoulder and stood, keeping most of his weight on his uninjured knee.

No longer radiating, the pain in his side now pulsed with each beat of his heart, its intensity growing with his exertion. Getting the old man settled across his shoulder as best he could, Owen took a step toward the street. Dizziness swept through him, and he knew his knee was in worse shape than he wanted to admit. Three blocks would still be manageable. Wouldn't it? A back room in the apothecary's shop housed a clandestine meeting place for agents.

The apothecary was barely three blocks away…

Blast it, what had he been thinking?

RELEASE DAY: Lucie Ulrich "The Rose Ring"

 

Blurb:

With a will that reads like a piece of fiction, the return of his long-lost brother, and the possibility of losing the family ranch, Micah Cooper calls on high school friend, Sky Baxter, to bail him out of a bad situation.

Though her brain tells her no, Sky’s heart says yes. She accepts Micah’s in-name-only proposal, knowing it’s unlikely anything permanent will come of it. She’s been in love with him since the ninth grade, and if he hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s little chance he ever will.

When an unexpected kiss ignites a spark, giving Micah hope for a possible future with Sky, a tragic accident threatens to take it all away. Torn between following his heart, doing the right thing, and forgiving the past, Micah is lost in a whirlwind of pain and emotions. Will he make it through the next two years, or will a long-kept family secret be the undoing of the Cooper family? (or… be the undoing of all of them?)

 

 

Author:

Lucie Ulrich hasn’t stopped writing since her first skit was performed on a church stage more than fifteen years ago. An avid reader, she enjoyed sharing her passion for writing and storytelling with her middle and high school drama students. No longer part of the teaching profession Lucie looks forward to traveling the country with her husband, Rick, seeking story ideas, taking photographs, and enjoying life to the fullest.

 

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Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Sky Baxter leaned against the worn red counter and stared through the diner’s plate glass window. Dime-sized snowflakes flitted around the streetlamps before joining the three inches already on the ground.

Sighing, she thought of the fur-lined boots sitting on the rubber mat by her front door. Why hadn’t she listened to the weatherman?

“Go home, Sky.”

She pivoted toward the small kitchen area behind the counter. Her boss and friend, Carl Johnston, scraped charred burger remains from the grill.

“But I still need to mop the floor.”

“I’ll mop. You go.”

“It’s only ten blocks. The snow won’t pile up that much more in the next few minutes.”

He stepped into the dining area, his limp more pronounced after the long day. “All the same, I’d rather you leave now.” He held out her parka and handbag. “And call me when you get there.”

Carl lived upstairs and didn’t have to worry about cold or snow. She knew he would have driven her if he could, but he’d given up driving two years ago. An auto accident had left him with a severe limp. That in itself wouldn’t have stopped him, but burying his wife a week later did.

“Guess you’re right.” Sky threw on her parka, covered her long black ponytail with a knit cap, and shoved her hands into a pair of gloves. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

Cold air and heavy snow swirled around her as she darted across the street and hurried down the sidewalk. A familiar black pickup stopped in front of her as she was about to step off the curb. The passenger window lowered. “Need a lift?”

Sky peered into the cab. The sight of Micah Cooper’s crooked smile sent a wave of heat from her icy nose to her frozen toes. She’d been crazy about him since high school. “I’m not fool enough to say no.”

He pushed the passenger door open. “I always knew you were smart.”

Scraping the snow from her shoes on the running board, she climbed in. “If I were smart, I’d have worn my boots today. That and figure out a way to buy a car.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, Micah put the truck in gear and pulled out into the nearly deserted street. “News flash. You have to know how to drive before they’ll give you a license.”

“Yeah, well, if my mother had ever owned a car, or could have afforded Driver’s Ed when I was in school, I’d already know how to drive. Besides, learning isn’t the problem. Saving is.”

“Hang in there. Who knows? Some customer might just leave you a thousand dollar tip tomorrow.”

 “Pssh. We’re talking Elk Flats, Montana, not New York City. The biggest tip I’ve ever gotten is six bucks. Old man Bentley left it after he pinched my backside and I didn’t slap him.”

Micah laughed. “With his arthritis, I’m surprised you felt anything.”

“That was two years ago. He doesn’t come in much these days.” The truck was warm, so she pulled off her hat and gloves. “Speaking of coming into town, I’m surprised to see you so soon. You normally don’t show up twice in one week.”

He stopped for a red light. “This month’s co-op meeting was moved up at the last minute. I also have a meeting with my grandfather’s lawyer in the morning.”

“You staying in town, then?”

RELEASE DAY: Phineas Foxx "Last of the Mighty"

Blurb

Centuries ago, an elite band of thirty-seven, holy warriors called the Mighty would routinely slay thousands in a single battle. Today, the offspring of these heroes of old have all been hunted and killed.

Save one.

Augustine Caffrey is fifteen years old, seven feet tall and star of his high school wrestling team. Known as Og, the born fighter has never backed down from any human. Problem is the ungodly half-man/half-demon who has come to slaughter him today isn’t really human. And when Og refuses the crossbreed’s offer to join the wicked, his first battle against the demonic begins.  

Og soon discovers that the father he has never met is responsible for the war that has come to his doorstep. A probe into his father’s identity leads Og to a secret history of angels gone bad, a sacred law dating back to the Flood that clearly condemns the kid and blood ties that explain why both Heaven and Hell want Og dead.

 

About the Author:
Phineas Foxx lives in a small beach village with his incurably gorgeous English wife, two perfectly beastly teenagers, a rotund Chihuahua and an elderly cat that may live forever. Last of the Mighty is his first novel.
     
 
  

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

The ugly dog-thing’s massive jaws were two feet from my throat when it all went quiet and time finally slowed.

Like everything was suddenly underwater.

Except me. I was still moving at full speed.

A foot away now, the giant cranked open its maw even more, readied for clampdown. His disgusting yellow teeth could taste me already.

I arched back to let the hyena-beast sail by and seized him by the scruff. With my other hand, I struck—a hammerfist, rock-hard, to the middle of the monster’s neck. The dog’s yelp told me he was not immune to pain. The muffled snap of bone meant he was not made of iron. And when the mongrel’s limp body hit the ground and kept rolling, I knew the mutant hellhound was mortal.

Though the animal appeared dead, I had to be sure. Suppose I could’ve busted out a mirror to make sure his breath didn’t fog it. I opted for a double stomp kick to the spine instead.

“Never liked that one anyway.” A craggy voice came from behind me.

I spun to face the speaker, in Cat stance, ready for another attack.

I stumbled back, shocked at the size of the guy. Seven-and-a-half feet tall with broad shoulders and a bull neck. He stood with the challenging stance of an old west gunslinger—feet spread, beefy hands cocked at the hips. I caught a whiff. Dude was all sweat and tobacco. A shaft of sun grazed across the stubble of his jaw, but the rest of his face was hidden in the shade cast by the upturned hood of a dark cloak. Despite the dim, I caught a glint of an eerie eye peering out from the shadows.

He sparked up a thick, half-smoked cigar, stoked it to life. Between puffs, he croaked, “So. You’re Augustine.”

“O-Og.” I tried to sound tough, didn’t quite get there. “Why’d ya sic that dog on me? You got a—”

“Og, huh?” he grunted, then blew out some smoke. “Charming.” He snickered.

That bugged. The snickering and the interrupting. I was raised in a convent with a bunch of nuns, where good manners were expected, demanded.

“Well…Og,” he grumbled, again with the mocking.

Now I wasn’t a violent kid, but come on. First he sends the dog and now this? I thought of how nice it would’ve felt to let my foot cave in his face. The guy’s size was a factor, but I, too, was freakishly large. Fifteen-and-a-half years old and I was already seven feet tall. On top of that, I’d been studying martial arts since I was four.

“You and I have business.” He hit the lung dart again, and held in the smoke for a good ten seconds, studying me.

A school bell clanged in the distance. Could have been The Committee in my head, but I doubted it. Looked like I was going to be late to first period. Again.

“Business?” I asked.

“Yes, Og.” There it was again. Poking fun at my name. “Or as you might say, bid-nit. There. Is that better…punk?”

My lip twitched at the insult. Though I was a black belt in aikido, wing chun, Krav…you name it, I rarely fought outside the dojo. Mostly because I was a nice guy—like the gentle giant in a Disney movie—and partly because I’d promised my mother I’d only fight in tournaments and club competitions. But Mom was dead now.

I wanted to reply with something witty and mean, but instead, Mr. Disney giant went with, “You got a problem, pal,” and I tried to wrap that last word with enough taunt to provoke a swing from Jesus.

He just stood there, all cool and quiet, his face still hiding in the shadow of his hood. He took another drag off the cigar, then chirped out a short whistle.

Leaves crackled in the nearby woods.

My eyes slid over to see a pair of mutant canines.

            Even bigger than the one I’d just killed.