RELEASE DAY: Stephy Smith "Why Me, Cowboy?"

 

 

Blurb:

From the first time Tansy Adam’s set eyes on Gulch her heart pounded at the sight of him. His charisma and magnetic personality drew her into his web. Then he changed into a deceitful, demonic cowboy who mystified her. Everyone kept telling her he was not who she thought he was. Who was he? The passionate gentleman whose kisses set her core on fire or the cold hearted cowboy boss that infuriated her?

 

Gulch knew he had to do whatever it took to protect the beautiful Tansy even if it meant driving her away from his life forever. He hated the way he had to treat her, but if it saved her life, he was willing to do anything to keep her from the murderous clutches of the rustler out to destroy the Grow ‘em Feed Yard. How could he expect her to forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself?

 

Author:

Stephy Smith was born and raised in the Northwest Texas Panhandle. She owns and operates her own ranch. Most of her inspiration comes from the weather, wildlife, and imagination from country living. When she not spending time with her three sons, she loves to read, ride horses, watch rodeo’s and paint. Stephy is a member of Panhandle Professional Writers, American Quarter Horse Association, and Foundation Quarter Horse Association.

Stephy is an award-winning author of Shining Moon Rises. You can find her books at www.barnesandnoble.com www.amazon.com www.audible.com www.smashwords.com and www.kobo.com

 

 

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

“Mom, you know Mississippi will always be my home. It’s time for me to strike out on my own. Make a life for myself.” Tansy Adams hugged her mother, Eva. She wiped the tears from Eva’s face.

“I just don’t like you going all the way to Texas. That’s a long way off.” Eva’s voice cracked as she tried to talk.

“I know. I can always call and besides, it’s a great opportunity for me.” Tansy’s heart picked up a beat.

“You better get going. Jema is a bit antsy.” Eva pointed to the horse trailer hooked to the back of Tansy’s pickup. The five-year-old mare thumped her hoof on the wooden floor as if to back up Eva’s words.

Tansy slid in the driver side and pulled down the drive of the old plantation house she had lived in all her life.

After two days of travel the subtropical climate transitioned to the arid, dust-blown great plains of the northwest Texas Panhandle. Each state Tansy passed through seemed just as beautiful in its own way. She soaked it all in. Tansy and Jema rolled into the small town.

“Millstone, Texas. Population 12,356. We made it, Jema.” Tansy said out loud, even though she knew the horse couldn’t hear her. Her heart picked up a beat. Light, butterfly-type movements fluttered in her stomach.

Tansy drove straight for the Grow ‘em feed yard to meet with Benny Whipple and the cowboy boss. They met her in the parking lot.

She stretched as her feet touched the ground. An older man rushed toward her.

“Benny Whipple. You must be Tansy Adams.” The old man thrust his hand out to her. She smiled and took his pudgy hand in hers. “Get your horse and we’ll get her settled in while we talk.” Benny stood beside the trailer and waited for Tansy to unload Jema. The cowboy boss leaned casually against a nearby pipe fence with his feet crossed at the ankles.

Benny owned the feed yard. His blue eyes were clear and sparkled with a hint of amusement. Although his hair was gray, the fifty-eight year old man seemed to be in better shape than most forty year olds Tansy knew. And he was better looking than they were to boot. He had a pleasant, calm air about him that made Tansy relax.

Jema backed out of the trailer. Tansy caught the lead rope. She retrieved her tack and tossed the saddle blanket and saddle on the mare's back. Jema didn’t even flinch. Tansy folded the bridle across her elbow and followed Benny through the gate he rushed ahead to open. Jema’s ears perked up and she gazed toward a feed bunk.

“There’s your shed to keep your tack and feed in. We expect you to clean your own shed and stall. As calm as your horse is, I get the feeling you’ve put in a lot of hours horseback. It’s your responsibility to keep your tack in good working order. Here’s a lock and key for the door. We like to think no one will tamper with your equipment, but the cowboys are always up for a good, old-fashioned rodeo. They don’t mean any harm even if they instigate it themselves.”

“I know cowboys are just overgrown kids at heart. As soon as Jema, my mare, rest up from the trip, I plan on getting her accustomed to her new surroundings. If that’s ok.” Tansy unloaded her saddle and blanket from the horse's back and carried them into the shed.

Benny thumbed over his shoulder. “This here’s Gulch. He’s the cattle manager and he’s in charge of all the pen riders. If you have gripes about the cowboys, I want to hear about it. If you got questions about the job, go to him.”

RELEASE DAY: Sara Burr "Underground Rose"

Blurb:

After her surprise discovery of a mystical gift, fourteen-year-old Rose Wilson thinks her life is ruined. It turns out she comes from a long line of gifted women, and despite her protests, Rose’s mom ships her off to her grandmother’s house to spend the summer learning about her family’s well-hidden secrets. To make matters worse, Rose is expected to carry out this tradition alongside her mousy, bookworm cousin, Megan. What a waste of a summer.

With some effort, Rose and Megan manage to find common ground and by the time they get home, they’re working together to adjust to their new life. But everything is turned upside down again when their families are exposed by witch hunters who call themselves The Witches’ Hammer. With killers on the loose, their tiny town isn’t safe anymore. Rose’s entire family is fragmented and forced to flee through a network of hiding places, dubbed The Witches’ Underground Railroad.

As she journeys to the sea, Rose learns more and more about who she really is. The closer she gets to her destination, the more danger she encounters, until she is forced to make the ultimate decision: follow her family’s edict of non-violence and become an orphan, or save her mom’s life.

 

 

Author:

Sara has been entranced by the written word for as long as she can remember. The daughter of a school teacher, she fell in love with books as soon as she could read them. She wrote her very first story, about a girl who ran away and hid in her cousin’s lilac bush, when she was just eleven. Although her stories have grown more complicated and less petulant since then, Sara still loves to entertain kids with her words.

When she isn’t writing, Sara has a big family to keep her busy: a husband who is her other half, and four children who are wonderfully individual. They live next to a beautiful lake in a tiny town with no street lights. Sara spends lots of time taking care of little superheroes. She likes to camp with her family, enjoys traveling, and hopes to see the Northern Lights someday.

 

 

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Excerpt:

Prologue

Staring into the shadowy woods through the wooden bars of her cage, the girl vaguely wondered if they would burn her at the stake, or if they would sink her into the lake with stones in her pockets. That’s how they had killed her cousin, Catherine.

The girl had been declared a witch and there was nothing she could do about it now. They were going to kill her. She had panicked and wept for days when the realization of this had sunk in, but now she was empty, all emotion gone from her.

The awful priest came back and poked his stick through the bars to make her move back. He got her right between two ribs, and the pain of it made her cry out.

“Shut up, evil girl!” he screamed at her, spittle flying from the corners of his cracked lips. “Your horrible spells and incantations must not be uttered again.”

Putting her head down to avoid eye contact, she peeked at him through her dirty strands of red hair, studying his bulbous nose and thick dark eyebrows. She didn't understand how anyone could think he was honestly a man of God. Nothing about him was good or kind, and the man wasn’t charming or even nice. How had he convinced them all?

When they first captured her, she had cried endlessly and tried to convince them she had not made a pact with the devil. She didn’t understand how this had all happened. It was just a talent of hers, it wasn’t evil – it was more useful than anything she could do. Hurting the boy had been an accident. The fire had just gotten out of control.

She didn’t feel afraid anymore – she didn’t feel anything. It was like she was watching all of this happen to someone else. The sooner they killed her, the sooner she would be out of this miserable, caged existence. Truthfully, she could have burned the cage long ago and escaped, but it would be pointless. They would only hunt her down like an animal. And there was nowhere to run in these woods. There were plenty of stories about people disappearing into them, never to return.

The irony of the whole situation made her laugh, a hollow, emotionless sound, even to her own ears, and the priest poked her with his stick again. Feeling a burst of anger, she looked him in the eyes – a dangerous thing that may earn her another beating – and his stick burst into flame, burning his hand. He cried out and dropped it.

She laughed again. Burning the priest had been an accident, too. She hadn’t even meant to burn his stick. The unpredictable nature of this gift was what had gotten her into trouble to begin with, however this time, it was a happy accident.

Before he could retaliate, the whip cracked in the air and the horse began pulling. The wheels beneath her cage creaked and groaned as if they were dying of the plague, and then they lurched into motion, moving more slowly than a walking pace.

She was being taken to a monastery where the monks could determine her innocence or guilt, but she already knew the outcome. Once a woman was accused of witchcraft, she was always condemned to death. Besides, there was too much evidence against her, especially now that she had burned the priest.

“Do not despair, child,” the priest said, walking in pace with her cage. The horrible smirk on his pockmarked face combined with his yellow teeth made her cringe. “We will make sure you pay for your sins. Each and every one of them. You will do your penance, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.” He made the sign of the cross from his forehead to his chest and shoulders.

As he moved to walk away, the girl heard a strange noise, like a combination of rattling trees and a pot boiling over into the fire. It was hard to tell from which direction it came.

The priest cocked his head and peered into the trees. “What do you suppose that noise is?” he said to the driver.

The driver just shrugged his skinny shoulders and urged the horse forward.

As the noise grew progressively louder, the priest studied the girl with suspicion. “This better not have something to do with you, witch,” he said, as he stalked towards the trees to investigate.

Just as he reached the tree line, he was swept off his feet by a rushing wave of water as high as his knees. He cried out and reached for the nearest branches, but he was swept away.

Understanding dawned on the girl. The stream they had been traveling alongside had somehow overflowed its banks. It made no sense – there was no rain. She gazed into the beautiful blue sky. There was not a cloud in sight, yet the growing mass of water was angrily searching for a new place to run to.

She thought she was ready to die, but she certainly had not expected it to be like this. Feeling lightheaded from panic, she stared hard at the wooden bar that held the lock to her cage. Concentrating as hard as she could, she hoped to produce a burst of flame, but she only saw a small wisp of smoke. Then, as she thought of the priest and his horrible sharp stick, a lick of flame immediately bloomed, releasing her from her prison.

By now, the noise of the raging water was deafening, and as she jumped from the burning cage, the water came all the way to the middle of her thighs. There was no dry ground in sight. Grabbing a nearby tree to remain upright, she surveyed the scene.

The priest was nowhere to be seen, and the horse was barely holding its footing. It was agitated and ready to bolt. Having lost control of the reigns, the driver balanced precariously on his seat.

The girl felt a hand on hers, and bracing herself for a battle, she tensed.

“Anna!” she heard a familiar voice cry.

Looking more closely, she saw that the person at her side was her sister. “Mary!” she cried, hugging her tightly. “You did this?”

New Release: From the Ashes

FROM THE ASHES

by Janet W. Butler

Can love mend a broken spirit?

Concert artist James Michael Goodwin has been in a race against time and lost: crippled and unable to perform, he decides to end it all. But fate intervenes in the form of Melody Rowland, who reaches him on a level no woman has done before. Can James trust Melody with his music…and his heart?

Melody Rowland is on the verge of launching her performing career when James Michael Goodwin walks into her life again, after nearly destroying her four years before. Soon, she realizes that playing his music is one thing; admitting she’s never stopped loving him is another…

****

About the Author:

Janet W. Butler couldn't decide whether to be a musician or a writer—so she's elected to do both. After earning her degree in Music Theory from Roosevelt University, she married a percussionist, sang in a madrigal group, discovered the world of opera choruses…and scribbled stories, something she's been obsessive about since the age of ten. She also presently belongs to the IPFW Choral Union, in which at times she sings soprano notes only dogs can hear.

Originally from Chicago, she's a transplant to northeast Indiana, where she lives with her husband, Patrick, daughter, Jessica, and Cassandra “Trouble” Butler, SRC (Spoiled Rotten Cat). When she has the occasional profound thought, she blogs at www.catholicwriterchick.blogspot.com.

Now available at

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Excerpt:

“You did it, Goodwin! You son of a gun!”

James Michael Goodwin had savored those words when he first stepped offstage. But now, in the early hours of a midwinter morning, his friends’ exuberance rang hollower with each step.

Through the stage door leading out of the depths of Symphony Hall, toward the parking garage where an attendant stood ready to retrieve his black convertible, the truth now tolled like a somber bell inside his head, a macabre counterpoint to the remembered applause still ringing in his ears.

He closed the driver’s side door, switched to a public-radio jazz show on the car stereo, then swung the Mercedes through the side streets toward home. He was finished.

Too soon.

At last.

Fifteen years, he’d had, good years. Even when he never got enough sleep, playing jazz piano in smoky two-bit college rooms and seedy bars all night, then dozing in between fits of scribbling down charts in the back of the band bus. The hard work paid off in time. The crowds got bigger, the critics kinder. The CDs sold. And then came years of Grammys and flying first-class…

…and tonight, a five-minute standing ovation from a crowd known to be stingy with its praise.

Boston’s upper crust had thrown him a whale of a party. Never mind James could barely hold his champagne glass without dropping it, couldn’t shake hands without wanting to cry out in pain…

Looking down as he drove, he felt sweat bead on his upper lip. How were those gnarled, twisted fingers controlling the steering wheel? Were they this bad onstage? Had anyone known how hard he fought to play his own music? Had the crowd suspected they were watching his swan song?

He parked the car and locked it. All that mattered now was he’d left them smiling. Wasn’t that the best any man could hope for, in the end?

Inside his townhouse, the trappings of his life made a surreal, dark portrait: the oak worktable, covered with orchestral score paper and nubby pencils, the bottle of India ink, the calligraphy pens. Shrugging out of his topcoat, he crossed the room and picked up an oversized manila envelope, then slid onto a polished bench fronting a sleek ebony Bösendörfer grand. He moved to switch on the piano lamp, then decided against it, slipping the narrow sheaf of score paper out by feel. Light wouldn’t make any difference on it now.

He knew the title page already read Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, and his name. The first concerto — the one he’d played tonight — had been a gamble, a dare to himself, to reckon back to his classical training for a serious piece.

That bet he’d won. But lightning never struck the same man twice. This second time he’d tempted fate, writing that page so soon, and he’d paid for it. Stuck at the second movement, against a wall he couldn’t penetrate, he’d pleaded with the caged Muse, only to have his petitions drop into a fathomless void.

Now, one month shy of his thirty-first birthday, James Michael Goodwin was a man with his best days behind him, a man who’d outlived his usefulness. Now his failure was complete, and his silence would be eternal.

“Has-been,” Toni had taunted him. And his ex-wife had been right.

Gently, he slipped the manuscript back under cover, rose and placed it on the piano bench. It could stay as it was. Maybe someone in the music world would treasure it more that way. Like Schubert’s unfinished Eighth Symphony.

Opus posthumous.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched down and opened a squat oak cabinet, took out a half-empty bottle of scotch and a glass. He willed himself to ignore the slight spill as he poured, amber drops over the side of the glass bespeaking his unsteady grip. One finger, two fingers. He tossed down the burning liquid, quelled the urge to choke. This was his celebratory toast to himself, for knowing when to leave. A man couldn’t lose it on that.

He paused a few moments, allowed the liquor to warm and numb his senses. Then he unlocked the side door on the cabinet and drew out a third object from its secret place. His hands shook a little cradling the cool blue steel, but these quavers were born less of infirmity or even fear than genuine, if bittersweet, relief. He could stop pretending now. He could stop smiling on the outside while despair tore him in two below the skin.

It was over.

Breathing shallowly, he settled at the worktable. Swallowed back the aftertaste of scotch and defeat. Grasped the ready .38 in his left hand. Felt one last, fleeting jolt of pain as he drew the weapon upward, as he positioned it carefully at the spot where a pulse throbbed beneath his temple. Then James closed his eyes, slipped his index finger around the trigger. Caressed it for a moment. And, gently, squeezed.

RELEASE DAY: "Secondhand Shadows" by Elizabeth Belyeu

  

Blurb:
It's supposed to be a symbiotic relationship: the Shadow serves and protects the human Lumi, the Lumi feeds and cares for the Shadow. But when Damon’s Lumi died young and severed the bond between them, he declined to go with her like a good little Shadow. Yes, it hurts. Yes, he's cold and hungry all the time. And yes, his own people call him an abomination. But for the first time, Damon's life is his own, and he’s never going back.

Or so he thinks, until he meets Naomi, a pregnant college student… and bonds to her as his new Lumi. Which has never happened to a Shadow before.

Naomi has enough problems on her plate, juggling college and a crappy survival job, preparing for a baby, and getting over her cheating ex-husband. The last thing she needs is a dark, brooding fellow like Damon depending on her physically and emotionally, and hating her for it. But a vigilante among Damon's people has his sights set on Naomi – and they both know Damon is her only chance for survival.

 

About the Author:

Elizabeth Belyeu is 29 years old and lives in Alabama, where she supports herself, her cat, and her steadily growing TBR pile as a library assistant. She graduated from Troy University in 2008 with a bachelor's in English (Creative Writing minor). This is her first novel, but she has been writing since she could hold a pencil, and plans to continue until she is too senile to type.

 

 

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Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Elevator Ghosts

NAOMI

 

“…hardly the Dread Pirate Roberts, Dad. Can you really see him ripping someone’s throat out with his teeth?”

I froze outside my English professor’s office door, and decided I did not want to interrupt that conversation. My hand didn’t get the memo and knocked anyway. I snatched it back and bit it, but it was too late.

From inside came silence, then Dr. DiNovi’s voice. “Come in.”

I debated running away instead. Or waddling away, since the U.S.S. Third Trimester wasn’t achieving warp speed anytime soon. But I opened the door.

We all do dumb things.

Dr. DiNovi was sitting at his desk in a perfectly normal way, which was all wrong. Dr. DiNovi was a feet-on-the-desk, head-in-the-clouds kind of guy, not a feet-on-the-floor, head-in-his-hands kind of guy. I’d never seen his bald spot before, peeking out of dark hair like a moon on a cloudy night. Maybe he grew the beard to compensate for the bald spot. He looks good with the beard, in a professorial kind of way.

The other guy in the room did not look professorial. He looked grim and dark and scruffy and altogether Strider-like. All he needed was a cloak. The leather jacket, I decided, was a satisfactory modernization.

Of course, if he was Strider, I was apparently a Ringwraith, because he was looking at me like he couldn’t decide whether to run away or run me through. I fully expected him to snarl.

“Ah, Naomi,” Dr. DiNovi said. “Come to throw your term paper on my tender mercies?” His voice was casual and cheerful and did not match the way he kept glancing from me to Strider.

“Yes, sir.” It was hard to look away from Strider, but easier than continuing to look at him. He reminded me of a firework my grandfather lit once, that sizzled and smoked and then went quiet — just before blowing up in his face and burning his beard off. So talk quick and get out of here before he explodes. “I need an extension, sir. Please.” Dr. DiNovi was not famous for cutting anyone a break on deadlines. I had marshalled all kinds of arguments to cover the fact that I flat forgot about my term paper. I could not remember any of them now. Please, sir, I’m very pregnant. I cry easily, and if you make pregnant women cry you go to hell. I’d hate to see that happen to you, sir.

Dr. DiNovi gestured at Strider. “I don’t know if you’ve met my son, Ga—”

“Damon.” His voice was rough, as if he’d been screaming. Without meaning to, I looked back toward him, and he flinched. So did I. He seemed to burn my retinas.

“Damon,” Dr. DiNovi continued, “this is one of my Brit Lit students, Naomi Winters.”

“Naomi,” he repeated, his voice even more choked, as if my name were razors in his mouth. He glanced at his father. “I have to go.”

I was still standing more or less in the doorway. I tried to dodge him, and he tried to dodge me, and my shoulder bounced off his. He hissed — seriously, hissed, a sort of gasp between clenched teeth — and was out the door and gone.

I bit my lip and glanced at Dr. DiNovi, my cheeks going hot even though I hadn’t done anything. That’s why I always got in trouble when my little brother broke something. “Guilty” is my default expression.

 

RELEASE DAY: "Heart on a String" by Susan Soares

  

Blurb:
Marissa tells lies.
To herself, about the fact that her brother abandoned her.
To her grandmother, when she says “everything’s fine.”
To the world when she pretends her mother is at home or working late. When she doesn’t tell them her mother is dead.

She doesn’t even question the wisdom of living in a world built on lies anymore—until she meets Brandon. Unlike Marissa, Brandon faces his grief head-on. As their relationship sweetens, Marissa realizes the value of letting someone in and not letting her grief destroy her. But when her past filled with denial catches up with her, Marissa is forced to tell Brandon her darkest secrets, or risk losing him.

The only thing harder than lying about her life? Facing it.

 

About the Author:

Susan Soares lives in a small town in Massachusetts where she balances writing fiction with raising her three daughters. When she’s not writing she can be found reading, experimenting with photography and planning her next Disney World trip.

Susan recently received her master’s degree in Creative Writing and English from Southern New Hampshire University, and will be pursuing teaching soon. You can follow her on twitter: @susansoares1 and on YouTube: shewritesbooks, and on Facebook: Author Susan Soares.

 

 

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

 

I held my breath as I ran past the cemetery. Stupid, I know. Regardless, it’s one of those idiotic things that stick with you from your childhood. Like fragments of your being that imprint themselves on your chemical makeup. It was my older brother, Marc, who had told me that once when we were in the backseat of Mom’s old hatchback and were driving past the Sacred Path Cemetery.

Marc poked me in my side. “Quick, hold your breath,” he said before taking in a puff of air and holding it in.

“What? Why?” I looked around from side to side.

He didn’t answer me. Instead he just kept motioning with his hands, pointing out the window, putting his hands around his neck like he was choking or something. Finally, when we turned left onto Harper Street he let out a big exhale.

“Oh man, now you’re toast.” He pointed at me and laughed. That maniacal laugh only older brothers know how to do. I was seven at the time, and Marc was ten. “You probably have a ghost inside you now.” He grinned like a devious villain.

“A ghost?” I said.

“You didn’t hold your breath while we drove past the cemetery. Again I state — you’re toast.” He began drumming on his lap with his hands.

I didn’t comprehend what he was telling me, but I knew I didn’t like it. Tears started forming in my eyes, and I knew I had to rely on my failsafe. “Mooommm,” I cried out, and immediately I felt Marc’s sweaty hand over my mouth.

“Yes, Marissa?” Mom’s sweet voice carried from the front of the car to the backseat.

“She’s fine, Mom. I got it.” Marc’s tone was of the dutiful son. He unclamped his hand from my face. “Listen,” he began, talking kind of slow. “You’ve got to remember this. I’m going to give you a life lesson here. Are you ready?”

His green eyes were sparkling, and I nodded my head in agreement.

“Okay.” He crouched down a bit so he was eye-level with me. “You must always, and I mean always, hold your breath when you drive past a cemetery. And if you’re walking past one, you must run — run and hold your breath until you’re clear. Otherwise, the spirits of the undead could invade your body. And you don’t want that to happen. Do you?” I almost couldn’t tell if the last part was a question or a statement.

“But I didn’t hold my breath back there, and all the times before. What if one’s in me right now?” I began pawing at my body.

Marc threw his head back and laughed. “Nah, you’re fine. Just be careful. Now that you know you have to do it, always do it. Understand?”

Again I shook my head. Marc gave me a thumbs-up, and I begged Mom to take Chester Street instead of Maple because I knew there was a big cemetery on Maple. Luckily she agreed.

So now, here I was ten years later, holding my breath as I ran past Sacred Path Cemetery. While I ran, my new sneakers — the ones I had to work double shifts on Saturdays for three weeks to get — started rubbing the back of my left heel, and I knew I’d have a blister the size of a quarter later on. It’s hard to keep your pace when you’re holding your breath. Luckily Sacred Path Cemetery isn’t that big. Just big enough. It’s just big enough. That’s what my grandmother said anyway. I was almost halfway through when I heard the clicking of the tips of my shoelace on the ground. My thoughts concentrated on what those tip things were called, anything to get my mind off the cemetery. Aglets, I remembered! My aglets were hitting the pavement, and I knew if I didn’t stop and retie that lace, then I would land flat on my face. Grace has never been a character trait of mine. My mother, yes, but not me. Marissa No-Grace McDonald should have been my legal name. How my mother came up with Scranton for my middle name I’ll never know.

The last thing I wanted to happen was to fall face first in front of the cemetery. Complete body invasion for sure then. I couldn’t hold my breath that long. So I did what I had to do. I stopped, turned my face the opposite direction of the cemetery, and took one big breath in and held it. Next, I bent down and furiously retied that lace. Why is it that whenever you try doing something in a rush it never comes out right? Somehow I tied my finger into the knot. Then, I couldn’t get the loops to line up right. Just as I was finally conquering the over-under shoelace tying technique that Marc had taught me when I was five, I heard muffled sounds coming from inside the cemetery. I searched for the source of the sounds. As I looked near the line of big oak trees that lined the right-hand side of the cemetery, I saw the profiles of a family. What I assumed was a family, anyway. There was a woman, about my mom’s age, a guy about my age, and a younger boy, maybe six or seven. The little boy was holding a metallic balloon, which was red and in the shape of a heart. Bright sun caught the corner of it, creating a glare that momentarily impaired my vision. When my eyes refocused, I was suddenly aware of my body and extremely aware of the fact that I was watching this family’s private moment, in the cemetery, in this cemetery. My heart beat frantically, and I became aware that my forehead was covered in perspiration. I stood up, held my breath again, and ran the next half a block without stopping, my aglets clicking against the pavement all the way.

 

 

New Release: Beulah the Bull - C. C. Troy

Susan Ann Jones created the perfect, self-sufficient world for herself. She's organized, unattached, childless, and has worked in the same business office for twenty-two years. She's the only child of devout Catholics, but does just fine without spirituality. It's when her life hits a wall---her company is outsourced the same week she turns forty---that she concludes she’s disappointed herself and everyone else by not extending herself more. In a depressed mood late one night, she goes against well-ordered character and lowballs a bid on five acres of vacant ranch land in her native state of Arizona. Times being what they are, she's shocked a few days later to learn her bid was accepted! For the escape she throws herself into “the mistake” and decides to go camping. Yet, it’s here that God will tell her how much she means to Him by sending a unique angel: Beulah, a British White Bull raised by a little girl who died of cancer and whose father became a minister after her loss. With a funny and touching style, Susan tells her story of blossoming faith in herself, in others, and especially in things known only to the soul.

This title is available on Amazon Only for $1.99!