Insights from Author Pam Hillman

I've been following author Pam Hillman on her extensive Blog Tour promoting her new Christian Romance book, Claiming Mariah.

On today's Blog Tour stop, Pam talks about God's blessings, her book, and her love of the Old West.  And, of course, there are contests to enter and great prize giveaways.  Check it out here: http://bit.ly/13uSVGJ

Excerpt of CLAIMING MARIAH by Pam Hillman

CLAIMING MARIAH is also only $1.99 today.  Stop by Tyndale's Ebook Extra page and get your copy at this terrific sale price.

Read the following excerpt of this great book:
*excerpt below posted with permission from Pam Hillman



Wisdom, Wyoming TerriTory
LaTe spring, 1882

Dust swirled as the two riders approached the house.
They stopped a few feet shy of the steps, and Mariah
Malone eyed the men from the shadowy recesses of the
porch. Both were sun-bronzed and looked weary but tough,
as if they made their living punching cows and riding fences.
One man hung back; the other rode closer and touched
his thumb and forefinger to the brim of his hat. “Afternoon,
ma’am.”
“Afternoon.” Wavy brown hair brushed the frayed collar
of his work shirt. A film of dust covered his faded jeans, and
the stubble on his jaw hinted at a long, hard trip. “May I
help you?”
I’m here to see Seth Malone.” His voice sounded husky
as if he needed a drink of water to clear the trail dust from
his throat.
At the mention of her father, a pang of sorrow mixed with
longing swept over her. “I’m sorry; he passed away in January.
I’m his daughter. Mariah Malone.”
The cowboy swung down from his horse and sauntered
toward the porch. He rested one worn boot on the bottom step
before tilting his hat back, revealing fathomless dark-blue eyes.
“I’m Slade Donovan. And that’s my brother, Buck.” He
jerked his head in the direction of the other man. His intense
gaze bored into hers. “Jack Donovan was our father.”
Oh no, Jack Donovan’s sons.
A shaft of apprehension shot through her, and Mariah
grasped the railing for support. Unable to look Mr. Donovan
in the eye, she focused on his shadowed jaw. A muscle jumped
in his cheek, keeping time with her thudding heart.
When her father died, she hadn’t given another thought
to the letter she’d sent Jack Donovan. She’d been too worried
about her grandmother, her sister, and the ranch to think
about the consequences of the past.
“Where is . . . your father?” Mariah asked.
“He died from broken dreams and whiskey.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, knowing her
own father’s sins had contributed to Jack Donovan’s troubles,
maybe even to his death. How much sorrow had her father’s
greed caused? How much heartache? And how much did his
son know of their fathers’ shared past?
The accusation on Slade Donovan’s face told her, and the
heat of fresh shame flooded her cheeks.
“My pa wanted what was rightfully his,” he ground out.
“I promised him I would find the man who took that gold
and make him pay.”
Tension filled the air, and she found it difficult to breathe.
“Take it easy, Slade.” His brother’s soft voice wafted
between them.
Mariah caught a glimpse of Cookie hovering at the edge
of the bunkhouse. “Miss Mariah, you need any help?”
Her attention swung between Cookie and the Donovan
brothers, the taste of fear mounting in the back of her throat.
An old man past his prime, Cookie would be no match for
them. “No,” she said, swallowing her apprehension. “No
thank you, Cookie. Mr. Donovan is here to talk business.”
She turned back to the man before her. Hard eyes searched
her face, and she looked away, praying for guidance. “Mr.
Donovan, I think we need to continue this discussion in my
father’s office.”
She moistened her lips, her gaze drawn to the clenched
tightness of his jaw. After a tense moment, he nodded.

* * *

Malone was dead?
Leaving Buck to care for the horses, Slade followed the
daughter into the house. She’d swept her golden-brown hair
to the top of her head and twisted it into a serene coil. A few
curls escaped the loose bun and flirted with the stand-up lace
of her white shirtwaist. She sure looked dressed up out here
in the middle of nowhere.
Then he remembered the empty streets and the hand-
ful of wagons still gathered around the church when they’d
passed through Wisdom at noon. He snorted under his
breath. Under other circumstances, a woman like Mariah
Malone wouldn’t even deem him worthy to wipe her dainty
boots on, let alone agree to talk to him in private. He couldn’t
count the times the girls from the “right” side of town had
snubbed their noses at him, their starched pinafores in sharp
contrast to his torn, patched clothes. At least his younger
brother and sisters hadn’t been treated like outcasts. He’d
made sure of that.
He trailed the Malone woman down the hall, catching a
glimpse of a sitting room with worn but polished furniture
on his right, a tidy kitchen on his left. A water stain from a
leaky roof marred the faded wallpaper at the end of the wide
hallway. While neat and clean, the house and outbuildings
looked run-down. He scowled. Surely Seth Malone could
have kept the place in better repair with his ill-gotten gain.
Miss Malone led the way into a small office that smelled
of leather, ink, and turpentine. She turned, and he caught a
glimpse of eyes the color of deep-brown leather polished to
a shine. The state of affairs around the house slid into the
dark recesses of his mind as he regarded the slender young
woman before him.
“Mr. Donovan,” she began, “I take it you received my
letter.”
He nodded but kept silent. Uneasiness wormed its way
into his gut. Did Miss Malone have brothers or other family
to turn to? Who was in charge of the ranch?
“I’m sorry for what my father did. I wish it had never hap-
pened.” She toyed with a granite paperweight, the distress on
her face tugging at his conscience.
He wished it had never happened too. Would his father
have given up if Seth Malone hadn’t taken off with all the
gold? Would they have had a better life—a ranch of their
own maybe, instead of a dilapidated shack on the edge of
Galveston—if his father hadn’t needed to fight the demons
from the bullet lodged in his head?
He wanted to ask all the questions that had plagued him
over the years, questions his father had shouted during his
drunken rages. Instead, he asked another question, one he’d
asked himself many times over the last several months. “Why
did you send that letter?”
Pain turned her eyes to ebony. “My father wanted to ask
forgiveness for what he had done, but by that time he was
unable to write the letter himself. I didn’t know Mr. Donovan
had a family or that he’d died.” She shrugged, the pity on her
face unmistakable.
Slade clenched his jaw. He didn’t want her pity. He’d had
enough of that to last a lifetime.
She strolled to the window, arms hugging her waist. She
looked too slight to have ever done a day’s work. She’d prob-
ably been pampered all her life, while his own mother and
sisters struggled for survival.
“I hoped Mr. Donovan might write while my father was
still alive, and they could resolve their differences.” Her soft
voice wafted on the still air. “I prayed he might forgive Papa.
And that Papa could forgive himself.”
“Forgiveness is too little, too late,” Slade gritted out, sat-
isfaction welling within him when her back stiffened and her
shoulders squared.
She turned, regarding him with caution. “I’m willing to
make restitution for what my father did.”
“Restitution?”
“A few hundred head of cattle should be sufficient.”
“A few hundred?” Surely she didn’t think a handful of
cattle would make up for what her father had done.
“What more do you want? I’ve already apologized. What
good will it do to keep the bitterness alive?”
“It’s not bitterness I want, Miss Malone. It’s the land.”
“The land?” Her eyes widened.
He nodded, a stiff, curt jerk of his head. “All of it.”
“Only a portion of the land should go to your family, if
any. Half of that gold belonged to my father.” Two spots of
angry color bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes sparked like
sun off brown bottle glass. “And besides, he worked the land
all these years and made this ranch into something.”
Slade frowned. What did she mean, half of the gold
belonged to her father? Disgust filled him. Either the woman
was a good actress, or Malone had lied to his family even on
his deathbed.
“All of it.”
She blinked, and for a moment, he thought she might
give in. Then she lifted her chin. “And if I refuse?”
“One trip to the sheriff with your letter and the wanted
poster from twenty-five years ago would convince any law-
abiding judge that this ranch belongs to me and my family.”
He paused. “As well as the deed to the gold mine in California
that has my father’s name on it—not your father’s.”
“What deed?” She glared at him, suspicion glinting in her
eyes. “And what wanted poster?”
Did she really not know the truth? Slade pulled out the
papers and handed them to her, watching as she read the
proof that gave him the right to the land they stood on.
All color left her face as she read, and Slade braced himself
in case she fainted clean away. If he’d had any doubt that she
didn’t know the full story, her reaction to the wanted poster
proved otherwise.
“It says . . .” Her voice wavered. “It says Papa shot your
father. Left him for dead. I don’t believe it. It . . . it’s a mis-
take.” She sank into the nearest chair, the starch wilted out of
her. The condemning poster fluttered to the floor.
A sudden desire to give in swept over him. He could
accept her offer of a few hundred head, walk out the door,
and ride away, leaving her on the land that legally, morally,
belonged to him. To his mother.
No! He wanted Seth Malone to pay for turning his father
into a drunk and making his mother old before her time. But
Seth Malone was dead, and this woman wouldn’t cheat him
of his revenge.

Excerpt of WHERE TREASURE HIDES by Johnnie Donley

WHERE TREASURE HIDES is also only $1.99 today.  Stop by Tyndale's Ebook Extra page and get your copy at this great low sale price.

Read the following excerpt of this wonderful book:
*excerpt below posted with permission from Johnnie Donley

Chapter One

August 1939

The stringed notes of “Rule, Britannia!” grew louder as the crowd quieted, eyes and ears straining in their search for the violin soloist. The patriotic anthem echoed through Waterloo Station’s concourse, and as the second chorus began, sporadic voices sang the lyrics. Travel- weary Brits stood a little straighter, chins lifted, as the violinist completed the impromptu performance, the last note sounding long after the strings were silenced.

Alison Schuyler gripped her leather bag and threaded her way through the crowd toward the source of the music. As the final note faded inside the hushed terminal, she squeezed between a sailor and his girl, murmuring an apology at forcing them to part, and stepped onto a bench to see over the crowd. A dark- haired boy, no more than seven or eight, held the violin close to his anemic frame. His jacket, made of a finely woven cloth, hung loosely on his thin shoulders. The matching trousers would have slipped down his hips if not for his hand- tooled leather belt.

Either the boy had lost weight or his parents had purposely provided him clothes to grow into. Alison hoped for the latter, though from the rumors she’d heard, her first assumption was all too likely. She stared at the cardboard square, secured by a thick length of twine, that the boy wore as a cheap necklace. The penciled writing on the square numbered the boy as 127.

Other children crowded near the young musician, each one dressed in their fine traveling clothes, each one labeled with cardboard and twine. Germany’s castaways, transported to England for their own safety while their desperate parents paced the floors at home and vainly wished for an end to these troublesome days.

“Now will you allow him to keep his violin?” A man’s voice, pleasant but firm, broke the spell cast over the station. The children fidgeted and a low murmur rumbled through the crowd. The speaker, dressed in the khaki uniform of a British Army officer, ignored them, his gaze intent on the railroad official overseeing the children.

“He better,” said a woman standing near Alison. “Never heard anything so lovely. And the lad not even one of the king’s subjects. I’d take him home myself— yes, I would— if I’d a bed to spare.”

Alison mentally sketched the tableau before her, pinning the details into her memory. The officer’s hand resting on the boy’s shoulder; the official, a whistle around his neck, restlessly tapping his clipboard with his pencil; the dread and hope in the boy’s eyes as he clutched his prized instrument. The jagged square that tagged his identity.

The travelers at the edge of the children’s irregular circle collectively held their breaths, waiting for the official’s reply. He shifted his glance from the nervous boy to the expectant passengers, reminding Alison of a gopher she had once seen trapped between two growling mongrels. The memory caused her to shudder.

“He might as well. Don’t know what to do with it if he left it behind.” The official waved a plump hand in a dismissive gesture. He certainly hadn’t missed many meals. He blew his whistle, longer than necessary, and Alison flinched at its shriek.

“Get organized now. Numbers one through fifty right here. Fifty- one through a hundred there. The rest of you . . .”

The show over and the hero having won, the onlookers dispersed, their chatter drowning out the official’s instructions to his refugees.

Alison remained standing on the bench, studying the man and the boy. They knelt next to each other, and the boy carefully laid the violin into the dark- blue velvet interior of its case. His slender fingers caressed the polished wood before he shut the lid. The man said something too softly for her to hear, and the boy laughed.

The spark flickered inside her, tingling her fingers, and she knew. This glimpse of a paused moment would haunt her dreams. It rarely occurred so strongly, her overwhelming desire to capture time, to freeze others within movement. She quickly pulled a sketch pad and pencil from her bag. Her fingers flowed lightly over the paper, moving to a rhythm that even she didn’t understand. Tilting her head, she imagined the notes of the violin soaring near the high ceiling, swooping among the arches.

Her pencil danced as she added determination to the man’s jawline and copied the two diamond- shaped stars on his collar. She highlighted the trace of anxiety in the boy’s eyes, so at odds with his endearing smile. What had he left behind? Where he was going? She drew the cardboard square and printed the last detail: 127.

The man clicked shut the brass hinges on the violin case and, taking the boy’s hand, approached the station official. Alison hopped down from the bench and followed behind them, awkwardly balancing the pad, pencil, and her bag.

The brown hair beneath the officer’s military cap had been recently trimmed. A pale sliver, like a chalk line, bordered the inch or so of recently sunburned neck above his crisp collar. Alison guessed he was in his midtwenties, a little older than she. Identifying him, from his bearing and speech, as gentry, she positioned herself near enough to discreetly eavesdrop.

“Where is young Josef here going?” asked the soldier. “Has he been assigned a home?”

The official gave an exaggerated sigh at the interruption. He lifted the cardboard square with his pencil. “Let me see . . . number 127.” He flipped the pages on his clipboard.

“His name is Josef Talbert.”

“Yes, of course, they all have names. I have a name, you have a name, she has a name.” He pointed the eraser end of his pencil, in turn, to himself, to the soldier, and to Alison.

The soldier looked at her, puzzled, and she flushed as their eyes met. Flecks of gold beckoned her into a calm presence, sending a strange shiver along her spine. She turned to leave, but her stylish black pumps seemed to stick to the pavement. She willed her feet to move, to no avail.

When the soldier turned back to the official, Alison thought the spell would break. She needed to go, to forget she had ever felt the pull of his calm determination, to erase those mesmerizing eyes from her memory. But it was too late. The Van Schuyler fate had descended upon her, and she was lost in its clutches. Her heart turned to mush when the soldier spoke.

“My name is Ian Devlin of Kenniston Hall, Somerset. This lad’s name, as I said, is Josef Talbert, recently come from Dresden. That’s in Germany.” He stressed each syllable of the country. “And your name, sir, is . . . ?”

The official scowled and pointed to his badge. “Mr. Randall Hargrove. Just like it says right here.”

Ian nodded in a curt bow and Josef, copying him, did the same. Alison giggled, once more drawing Ian’s attention. 

“Miss?”

She flushed again and almost choked as she suppressed the nervous laughter that bubbled within her. “So sorry. My name is Alison Schuyler.”

“You’re an American,” said Ian, more as a statement than a question.

“Born in Chicago.” She bobbed a quick curtsey. “But now living in Rotterdam, as I descend from a long and distinguished line of Dutch Van Schuylers.” Her fake haughtiness elicited an amused smile from Ian.

Mr. Hargrove was not impressed. “Now that we’re all acquainted, I need to get back to sorting out these children.”

Ian’s smile faded. “Mr. Hargrove, please be so kind as to tell me: where are you sending Josef?”

“Says here he’s going to York.” Mr. Hargrove pointed at a line on his sheaf of papers. “He’s got an uncle there who has agreed to take him in.”

Ian knelt beside Josef. “Is that right? You’re going to family?”

“Ja,” Josef said, then switched to English, though he struggled to pronounce the words. “My father’s brother.”

“All right, then.” Ian patted the boy’s shoulder. “Keep tight hold of that violin, okay?”

Josef nodded and threw his arms around Ian’s neck, almost knocking him off balance. “Danke. Tausend dank.”

“You’re welcome,” Ian whispered back.

Alison signed and dated her sketch, then held it out to Josef. “This is for you. If you’d like to have it.”

Josef studied the drawing. “Is this really me?”

“Ja,” Alison said, smiling.

Josef offered the sketch to Ian. “Please. Write your name?”

Ian glanced at Alison, then put his hand on Josef’s shoulder. “I don’t think I should—”

“I don’t mind,” she said. 

“You’re sure?”

“For him.” She whispered the words and tilted her head toward Josef.

Borrowing Alison’s pencil, Ian printed his name beside his likeness. He returned the sketch to Josef and tousled the boy’s dark hair. Ian opened his mouth to say something else just as another long blast from the official’s whistle assaulted their ears. They turned toward the sound and the official motioned to Josef.

“Time to board,” he shouted. “Numbers 119 to 133, follow me.” He blew the whistle again as several children separated from the larger group and joined him.

“Go now, Josef,” Ian urged. “May God keep you.”

Josef quickly opened his violin case and laid the sketch on top. He hugged Ian again, hesitated, then hugged Alison. They both watched as he lugged the violin case toward the platform and got in the queue to board the train. He turned around once and waved, then disappeared, one small refugee among too many.

***

At just over six feet in height, Ian was used to seeing over most people’s heads. But he couldn’t keep track of little Josef once the boy boarded the train. Watch over him, Father. May his family be good to him.

“I hope he’ll be all right,” said Alison.

“I hope so too.”

“So many of them.” She gestured toward the remaining children who waited their turn to board. 

Ian scanned the young faces, wishing he could do something to take away the fear in their anxious eyes. “Their families are doing what they think best.”

“Sending them away from their homes?”

“Removing them from Hitler’s reach.” Ian turned his attention to the American artist. He could detect her Dutch heritage in her features. Neither tall nor slender enough to be called statuesque, she wore her impeccably tailored crimson suit with a quiet and attractive poise.

“It’s called the Kindertransport.”

“I’ve heard of it. Are they all from Germany?”

“A few come from Austria. Or what used to be Austria before the Anschluss. The lucky ones have relatives here. The rest are placed in foster homes.”

“Jewish children.”

“Most of them.”

While he spoke, he held Alison’s gaze. She reminded him of a summer day at the seashore. Her blonde hair, crowned with a black, narrow- brimmed hat, fell in golden waves below her shoulders. Her pale complexion possessed the translucent quality of a seashell’s pearl interior. The gray- blue of her eyes sparkled like the glint of the sun on the deep waves.

“Josef played beautifully.” Even her voice felt warm and bright. “He’s very talented.”

“So are you. Your sketch was skillfully done.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” A charming smile lit up her face. “At least I’m good enough to know how good I’m not.”

Ian took a moment to puzzle that out and chuckled. “You made me better- looking than I am, and I appreciate that. For Josef’s sake, of course.”

“I assure you, Mr. Devlin, there was no flattery.”

Ian smiled at her American accent and tapped his insignia. “Lieutenant. But please, call me Ian.”

“Ian.” Alison tucked away her pad and pencil. “I suppose I should go now.”

Her words burrowed into Ian’s gut. He couldn’t let her leave, not yet. “To Rotterdam? Or Chicago?”

She glanced at her watch. “Apparently neither. I found myself so inspired by a young boy and his violin that I missed my train.”

Ian felt as if he’d been handed a gift. Or had he? Suddenly aware of an absence, he looked around expectantly. “Are you traveling alone?”

A twinge of her apparent impropriety tensed Alison’s mouth and chin but didn’t dim the sparkle of her clear eyes. “Quite modern of me, don’t you think?”

“Rather foolish,” Ian began, but stopped himself. “Though it’s not for me to say.”

“You’re perfectly right, of course. My great- aunt accompanied me to Paris, but she became ill and I couldn’t stay away any longer. So I left her to recuperate within walking distance of all the best dress shops on the Champs- Élysées and, voila! Here I am. Alone and unchaperoned.”

Ian drew back in surprise and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Wait a minute. You’re traveling from Paris to Rotterdam via London? Most people take the shortcut through Belgium.”

“Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a roundabout way.” She avoided his gaze and the awkward moment pressed between them.

“It’s really none of my business.”

“Perhaps not. But there’s a simple explanation.” Her voice sounded too bright, and Ian sensed the nervousness she failed to hide. “I had a . . . a commission. A portrait.”

Her expressive eyes begged him to believe the lie they both knew she had just told. With the slightest nod, Ian agreed, though he was curious to know her secrets. He suddenly pictured the two of them wandering the fields and woods on his family estate, talking about everything and nothing, Ian capturing her every word and safeguarding it deep within himself. But he doubted a woman who traveled alone across northern Europe, especially in these unsettled times, would enjoy the quiet boredom of country life.

He had tired of the unchanging rhythms of village traditions himself in his teen years. But after several months of combat drills and facing an uncertain future, he had been looking forward to a few days of idleness and local gossip.

Until now.

“I feel somewhat responsible,” he said.

“That I missed my train?” She shrugged. “A small inconvenience. I’ll leave early in the morning and be home in time for supper.”

“What about supper tonight?” 

Alison chuckled. “It’s too early for supper.”

Ian glanced at his watch. “Though not too early for tea. A British tradition, you know.” 

Conflict flitted across her features. She wanted to say yes, but something held her back.

“I’m not exactly a damsel in distress.”

“It’s only tea.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

“Would you have taken Josef to, what was it? Kenniston Hall? If he hadn’t had an uncle waiting for him?”

Ian hesitated, not wanting to tell this beautiful woman how his father would have reacted if he had arrived home with the young Jewish boy. True, he could have made up some story to explain the boy’s need for a place to stay. Even if his father suspected the truth, he’d have the story to tell those neighbors whose thinly veiled anti- Semitism skewed their view of what was happening in Germany. As he so often did, Ian wondered how long the blindness would last. What would Hitler have to do before his insatiable thirst for power was clear for all to see? “I don’t know.”

“He played that piece so magnificently. No one who heard it will ever forget this day.”

“I don’t think Mr. Randall Hargrove was too happy about it. But at least Josef got to keep his violin.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Hargrove wanted to confiscate it. He insinuated Josef had stolen it, that it was ‘too fine an instrument’ for a child like him to have in his possession.”

“So you stood up for him.”

Ian flushed with sudden embarrassment, but smiled at the memory. “I asked the lad if he could play. And he did.”

“You are a chivalrous knight, Lieutenant Devlin. I will never forget you.”

“That sounds too much like a good- bye.”

“Just because I missed my train doesn’t mean you should miss yours.”

“My train doesn’t leave till late this evening.”

“But I thought—”

“I only arrived in time to see Hargrove making a ninny of himself.”

“Surely there’s a train you could take without waiting till this evening.”

Ian glanced around as if to be sure no one was paying attention to them and leaned forward. “True,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But my commanding officer entrusted me with a secret commission. I’m to deliver an important message to a lovely young woman who lives in the West End.” With a flourish, he pulled a pale- blue envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Alison.

***

The thick envelope, made from high- quality paper, had been sealed with gold wax and embossed with two Ms entwined in a scripted design. Alison guessed that the stationery inside would be of similar color and quality. The commanding officer was evidently a man of good breeding and taste. She turned the envelope over and read the broad black strokes written on its face: To My Darling Trish.

“His girlfriend?”

“His wife,” Ian whispered with a furtive glance around them.

Alison played along. “Your commanding officer must think quite highly of you to trust you with such an important mission.”

He slipped the envelope back into his pocket with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “He knows I wouldn’t pass through London without seeing Trish.”

“Oh?” A slight tremor in the simple syllable betrayed her interest.

“I loved her first, you see.”

A thousand questions raced through her mind. But it didn’t matter. After today, she would never see him again. His past didn’t matter. Whom he loved didn’t matter.

Except that it did.

Aware that the man who had unwittingly, almost negligently, captured her heart couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, Alison found one safe response. “But she chose him instead.”

Realizing her failure to achieve just the right amount of nonchalance and pity, she tried again and found herself asking the very question she wanted to avoid. “Did she break your heart?”

Again, Ian leaned forward as if divulging a great secret, and Alison bent her head toward his so as not to miss a word. “Something so personal shouldn’t be discussed in the midst of Waterloo Station. But there’s a little place near the Westminster Bridge that serves the most delicious cherry scones you’ll ever eat.”

“You mean Minivers?”

“You know it?”

“My father took me there for my sixteenth birthday. He ordered a cherry scone for each of us and stuck a pink candle in mine. Then he sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.” She remembered closing her eyes before she blew out the candle and wishing that every birthday, every holiday, could be spent with her father. That he and her grandfather would make up their quarrels so that she no longer had to choose between them. But she had hugged the futile wish to herself, telling it to no one, and laughed at her father’s clumsiness with the dainty teacups and miniature pastries. The cheerful memory felt as perfect, yet fragile, as the pristine white linens and delicate china that graced Minivers’ cozy tables. 

“He felt awkward there, I think. It’s not exactly a gentleman’s place of choice, is it?”

“The scones are worth a bit of discomfort.”

“What about your secret mission?”

His eyes twinkled. “Trish isn’t expecting me, so she won’t know if I’m late.” 

The corners of Alison’s mouth twitched and she turned from Ian’s hopeful smile toward the entrance of the station. She couldn’t see the telegram office from where she stood, but it was there, looming before her like a scolding parent. Missing the train had been foolish, but spending the rest of the afternoon with Ian was sheer stupidity. He was a soldier on the eve of war. That was reason enough to guard against any romantic entanglements. 

But worse, she was a Schuyler. He couldn’t know how his warm hazel eyes affected her, how drawn she was to his confident demeanor and gallant charm. Or the sting of jealous curiosity she endured when he spoke of this other woman. Though she felt his mutual attraction, it was better that he never know that he already held her heart in his hands. The Van Schuyler fate may have destined him to linger forever within her, but she could still make her own decisions. 

She squared her shoulders and faced him.

His smile charmed her as he offered his arm in a boyish gesture. “Shall we?”

Alison hesitated, then tucked her hand within the crook of his elbow. “I should exchange my ticket first.”

Excerpt of MIND OF HER OWN by Diana Brandmeyer

MIND OF HER OWN is only $1.99 today.  Stop by Tyndale's Ebook Extra page and get your copy at this super low sale price.

Can't decide?  Read the following excerpt of this excellent book:
*excerpt below posted with permission from Diana Brandmeyer

Chapter One

Rain pelted the ceiling- to-floor windows of the family room. The grayness of the evening invaded Louisa Copeland’s mind and home. The oversize chair she snuggled in helped hide her surroundings. The thick romance in her hand further darkened her mood as she read how the hero whisked away the heroine for a surprise dinner on some pier. Were there relationships like that? She didn’t know of any. 

“Give it to him!” Joey, her five- year-old son, joined the fray as Madison, her twelve- year-old daughter, dangled a plastic horse over the head of Tim, her youngest son, just out of his reach.

Jolted from the fantasy world into the real one, where rainy days turned children into caged animals, Louisa gripped the book tight and took five deep breaths. “Madison, if you don’t give it back to Tim now, I will take your phone away for the rest of the day.”

Madison’s eyes narrowed. “Daddy won’t let you.”

“He isn’t here at the moment. He is working but will be home for dinner, and you can discuss it with him then. But for now give it to Tim.” 

“Baby.” Madison sneered at Tim. “Take your stupid horse.”

Problem solved, Louisa retreated into the book to finish the chapter. Done, she sighed and laid the book face up on the side table next to her reading chair. The love- struck characters standing in front of a houseboat mocked her from the cover and filled her with jealousy. She longed to be the woman between those pages. She closed her eyes, pursed her lips against her hand, and tried to imagine the feel of Collin’s lips on hers.

She couldn’t. Her hand didn’t smell woodsy like Collin. Why would it? They hadn’t slept together in over a week. Not since that hurtful night when he’d accused her of not loving him enough. And until he apologized, he wouldn’t be back in her bed. She wasn’t going to give in this time, even if she did toss and turn all night in that enormous bed because she missed him. But letting him back in her bed without a true “I’m sorry” would mean he’d won, and she couldn’t accept that. He would have to come to her first, and sending her those two dozen roses didn’t count either. She knew he had 

his secretary call the florist, and Louisa didn’t want a quick- fix apology. No, she wanted a heartfelt, grand gesture of some kind. She hadn’t quite figured out what it would take for Collin to make the sting of his words dissolve, but she knew it would have to come from him, not his office staff. 

“Mom? Are you kissing your hand?”

Startled by her son, Louisa felt her face flush. Her thoughts twirled around themselves as she tried to come up with a reason for her action. “I was pretending to be a jellyfish. See?” She put the back of her hand against her lips and wiggled her fingers like tentacles.

“Why?” His serious face moved closer to hers to inspect the gesture.

“Because I was reading a book that has the ocean and jellyfish in it.” She could tell Tim believed her the minute his hand went to his own face. He walked away with his own pretend jellyfish flailing its tentacles.

She considered the morality of lying to her child but dismissed it. Her children didn’t need to know she couldn’t remember how their father’s kisses felt. She and Collin had lost the spark, the excitement and joy. Even their communication had dwindled to no more than a few small phrases—“Where’s the paper?” and “Have you seen my phone?” Did his commitment to her exist any longer? Had he found someone else?

Her head started to pound again from a migraine that had first made its appearance when a save- the-date for her family reunion had arrived in the morning mail. She still couldn’t believe it. A save- the-date? When did my family get so fancy? A phone call from her mother had followed minutes later. She demanded that Louisa tell her whether or not she and Collin would be there. An argument had started about Louisa being a snob and not wanting to know her own family, not wanting to spend time with her mother, which then led into why Louisa and Collin weren’t taking the children to church. The call ended with the usual rebuttal of “We will when we find a church we like.”

Her mother always brought out Louisa’s obstinate side. Louisa knew she had that effect on her own daughter, but she wasn’t sure how to fix either problem. She rubbed a thumb knuckle into the center of her forehead the way the neurologist had shown her to ease the pain. She wouldn’t be scratching cleaning the van off her list today. Bending over made the pounding worse. 

This morning, Collin had promised he would be home for dinner— for the first time since he’d announced he wanted to make partner this year at his firm. He’d informed her that he would be working extra hours and expected her to take care of the family. So she did her part and his. Then, less than a month later, he’d accused her of loving the children more than she loved him. How could he make that judgment since he was never home? The roses his secretary sent the next day didn’t even make it to a vase. She’d trotted out to the curb and stuffed them in the trash, where he’d see them when he came home that night. Since then, the two of them had lived like oil and vinegar unshaken in a jar.

Thunder rolled and lighting sparked in the distance. Maybe Collin wanted to make amends tonight, and that was why he was making an effort to be home early. Or maybe he wanted to tell her something else, something she might not want to hear. Would she listen? What if he wanted to tell her she wasn’t the kind of wife a partner at his firm would need? She did complain about having to attend office functions. They made her feel small— just a stay- at-home mom. She couldn’t compete with the woman lawyers, especially Emmie, the tall, stick- thin beauty who had an office next to Collin. Louisa could share a recipe or where the best dog park was located, but nothing brilliant or witty crossed her lips anymore. She rose from her chair and walked to the glass door. The waves on the lake had increased in height. Cleo, their dog, was out there somewhere.

Did Collin love someone else? Like a virus, the image of Emmie with her cute clothes and bright smile at the Fourth of July party threaded from Louisa’s mind and invaded her spirit. She swallowed back the fear that rose from her heart and lodged in her throat. That just couldn’t happen. Collin was hers and only hers. He didn’t belong to the firm or anyone else. She had to find a way to make him understand that she did love him, that he came first in her life. She wished she could open up and tell him everything. Maybe then he would . . . no, he would never love her if he knew her secret. No, that story could never be told. She would have to find another way.

The first thing she’d do was prepare a meal so delicious he wouldn’t want to miss another one. She knew it was foolish to put such expectations on her cooking but held out that there might be a fraction of hope, a glimmer of a possibility.

Behind her, Madison shrieked at her brother, lurching Louisa back to her own reality show. “Give me back the remote!”

“It’s my turn!” Joey tried to outshout his sister.

“Yeah, it’s our turn!” four- year-old Tim echoed.

The noise brought fresh, sharp spears of pain to Louisa’s head. With a sigh, she ignored the opportunity to jump into the fray and yell herself. In her stocking feet she crossed the great expanse of the golden oak floor to the kitchen, which was located to the side of the family room. When they first moved in, it had seemed like a great floor plan, all open, but now she regretted having chosen it. It made her always available to the children, and if one room wasn’t picked up, the whole house looked like a mess.

The clock in the entryway chimed five times. The hour had come! If only she could cook like Emeril, she might have a chance to win back her husband’s love— or at least his presence at the table. Then again, Collin might break his promise to her and the kids again and not even come home for dinner.

She flipped through the cookbook that rested on top of a cobalt- blue stand, where it usually sat for looks. 

“Mom?” Tim ran circles around the kitchen island. “Joey and me want a snack.”

“Not now.” The page in front of her held a beautiful prospect for a meal, just not one made by her. Who cooks dinner like this? She flipped the page. Why had she bought this book? Surely she didn’t think she would ever have time to prepare a dish from it or be able to get her children to eat it. . . . She read the ingredient list. What is jicama?

“Mom, can we have Crunch Squares for dinner?” Tim interrupted her thoughts, tugging on the bottom of her shirt.

Louisa turned her attention from the cookbook pages. She placed her hands on her hips in her don’t- mess-with-me stance and stared down at two small, pleading faces. Her sons craved anything coated or sprinkled with sugar. “Sorry, boys, you cannot have cereal for dinner. You need protein and vegetables so you grow big and strong like your daddy.” She pried Joey’s fingers from the bright orange and red cardboard box.

“The commercial says it has all the vitamins and nutrients we need.” Madison bellowed her opinion from the family room.

“Don’t believe everything you see on TV, Madison.” Making dinner night after night for three kids and Collin had never entered her mind when she said “I do” at the church thirteen years ago. She closed the book, weary of its glossy pictures. She couldn’t pull off a gourmet meal tonight, not with this roaring headache. She’d be better prepared this weekend. Possibly Collin would eat with them Sunday night if she gave him enough notice.

“We’re having grilled chicken.” She looked down at the two waifs standing in front of her. Joey and Tim both frowned in unison. She blinked at their action and shrugged it off. Some days she thought those two had to be twins, even though that was physically impossible since she had given birth to them twelve months apart. “You two, pick up the fort you’ve assembled in the other room. I don’t want to see or step on even one plastic block tonight.”

“It’s not a fort. It’s a space station.” Tim scrunched his face in disgust. “I told you a hundred times, Mom.”

“It’s a grand space station, but you still need to put it away.” She watched them leave the room, thinking a sloth could move faster than those two when it came to cleaning.

Chicken— that’s what she was doing, wasn’t it? What else should she put on the table? Maybe a salad and mac and cheese, she thought. Yes, that would be best. It would cause less tension around the table if everyone had something they liked.

Cleo whimpered at the back door. Her nails scratching against the glass felt like tiny needles pushing into Louisa’s optic nerves. It ratcheted her headache higher on the pain- management scale. She had never wanted a big dog, but Collin wouldn’t settle for anything small. Not even medium size. It had to be a brindled Great Dane, the gentle beast, to make him happy. It didn’t matter to him that she would be the one hauling the dog to the vet and puppy day care for socialization and training classes. She tried to ignore the pathetic whining coming through the door. Maybe the kids would let the dog inside. 

Peering through the open archway, Louisa checked to see if anyone was moving. She could hear a satisfying plunk of plastic hitting plastic— the boys were picking up like she’d asked. Slow, but at least the rug had begun to appear. She had been cleaning for most of the day and wanted to enjoy an orderly space after dinner. Madison lay on the couch with her head hanging over the end. Her blonde hair almost touched the floor as it moved in time to a music video. 

“Madison, let Cleo in before she chews through the door.”

“But, Mom, this is my favorite song,” Madison whined from the couch. “Can’t Joey let her in?”

“No. I told you to do it.” Louisa squatted down in front of the cabinet and grabbed a pot for the macaroni. As it filled with water, she rubbed her temples with her fingers. Cleo scratched against the door again.

Louisa felt herself stiffen as she prepared to go into battle with Madison. She turned to see what her daughter was doing. Madison had stood but had not moved in the direction of the door. Instead she watched the television screen and swayed to the beat of the music.

“Madison, step away from the TV.”

“I’m going. You don’t have to tell me everything twice. I’m not stupid.” She glared at her mother.

This is what the counselor they were seeing called a standoff. She and Collin were supposed to be stern in their commands and follow through with them. Well, she didn’t have any problem with following through, but Collin did. All Madison had to do was turn her lower lip down into a pout and Collin backed off, afraid to upset his little girl. There was a time when Collin would do anything for me, too, she thought. Those days disappeared the minute Madison said “Daddy.”

Louisa removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. The intensity of the headache rose. “Thank you, Madison, for promptly doing what I asked.”

Madison clenched her lips tight, straightened her back, and stomped over to the door and yanked it open. Cleo came bounding through, her nails clicking over the wooden floor like fingers on a keyboard. Madison turned, whipping her long hair around like a weapon, and stared at Louisa as if to say, “I did it. Don’t ask me to do anything else ever again.”

“Thank you.” Louisa slid her glasses back on and smoothed her hair behind her ears. She checked to make sure the boys were still doing as she’d asked. They were making progress. 

The clock in the entryway weakly imitated England’s Big Ben at the half- hour mark. It wouldn’t be long before Collin came home. Maybe he would relieve her tonight. A hot bath— no, a long, hot bath, she corrected herself— sounded wonderful if not dreamlike. Please, God, let him be in a good mood and willing to play with the kids tonight, she offered in silent prayer. She loved these kids; she really did. It was just that today, with all their requests, they had drained her of the will to live. School had begun less than a month ago. Why the school board felt the teachers needed to take off already for a two- day conference escaped her tonight.

Back in the kitchen, Louisa picked up a glass from the counter, a dribble of milk left in the bottom. A quick rinse under the faucet, and then she placed it in the dishwasher. 

All the small chores were done. The counter no longer held books, toys, or dirty dishes. Louisa opened the pantry door and caught a cereal box as it fell. She shook it. Almost empty. Someone had been snacking in secret, probably Madison. She reached for the indoor grill on the top shelf. The cord dripped over the edge and dangled in her way. She wrapped it around her hand to keep it out of her face. Standing on tiptoes, she used her fingertips to work the grill out.

Barking, Cleo burst through the kitchen, chased by Joey.

“Stop running in the house!” They wouldn’t; she knew from past experience. Once Cleo began a game, she wouldn’t quit until she wanted to. Louisa almost had the grill in her hands. If she were just a little taller . . . there! She balanced it on her fingers.

“Look out!” Joey screamed.

Louisa jerked her head around and saw the tiger- striped 120- pound dog skidding across the floor, straight for her. The “gentle giant” rammed into her leg. She felt her sock- clad feet give way and slide out from under her. The grill slipped from her grasp as she fell to the floor. Her last thought was that dinner would be late.

***

Salt water burned her lips as she floated onto a white, sandy beach. Piccolo notes from seagulls called to her as they landed in an uneven line onshore. They hunted for forgotten corn curls and abandoned sandwich crusts, their tiny claws etching the sand behind them. A flash of white danced into her 

view. She glanced at the gauzy skirt grazing her ankles and wondered when she’d changed clothes. Then she noticed her hand held a bundle of calla lilies tied with a dark- green satin ribbon that trailed to her knees. 

Next to her, the ocean increased its crescendo. Froth swirled around her bare feet, and the small white bubbles tickled her toes. Like a child, she wove up and down the shore, playing a game of tag with the swash marks on the sandy shoreline. She slowed her steps as a man ahead of her grew larger and larger until she finally stood next to him. He didn’t have a name, but she knew she would marry him this day. Her lips began to form the words “I do” when a voice crashed her wedding.

“Come on, baby, wake up.” Warm fingers brushed across her cheek. Startled, she tried to open her eyelids, but they felt weighted as if someone had stacked pennies on them. Peeking through her lashes, she discovered a pair of chocolate- brown eyes gazing into hers. And not the milk- chocolate kind but the dark, eat- me-now-and-I’ll-solve-your-problems kind. She tried to sit, but the onslaught of pain in her head stilled her like Atlanta traffic in a snow shower. Bright light lit the room around her, but it wasn’t a room she knew. 

“Louisa, baby. You gave me quite a scare. How do you feel?” His hand trembled as it gently swept across her forehead.

“I’m Jazz.” Her words oozed like cold honey past her thickened tongue. She was desperate for information and a cool drink of water. “Wrong woman. Where am I?”

His hand dropped to his side, and he stepped back from her. “Dr. Harrison?” His weight shifted from one foot to the other.

The man she assumed to be the doctor maneuvered past Mystery Man. From his pocket, he pulled out a penlight and shone it into her eyes.

“Evil man. That’s a bit torturous to my brain.” She swatted at his hand but pulled back before making contact, realizing his purpose was to help, not hurt her.

“You’re in the ER. You suffered a nasty bump on the head, Louisa. You have a concussion, which is making your head hurt.” He clicked off the light and placed it back into the pocket of his lab coat. “Your scan came back clean. There is no bleeding in your brain. I’ll have the nurse come in and unhook the heart monitor in a minute. You can go home with your husband in a little while.”

“Husband?” The monitor showed a jump in her heart rate. “Please, I’m not who you think I am.” She wished for them both to dissolve from her sight and for someone, anyone, even a disgruntled fan, to appear in their place. Something like wind seemed to roar in her ears, and she struggled to catch her breath. 

“Just calm down. Take a few breaths.” Dr. Harrison patted her hand.

The old, reliable remedy— take in oxygen and the world’s problems will be solved. Somehow that made her feel normal. She could go home soon, or at least Louisa could. She closed her eyes, willing the two of them to go away.

“Open your eyes, Louisa,” the doctor ordered.

Still not willing to play their game, she compromised and opened one. “Light hurts. I’m not Louisa.”

“You’re just a bit confused right now. Your name is Louisa, Louisa Copeland. The bang on your head gave you quite a headache, didn’t it?” The doctor patted her arm as if doing that would change her identity. “This is all to be expected, just a bit of disorientation. Don’t worry. Once the swelling goes down, you should remember everything.” 

Respect for his position kept her from saying that maybe he needed to switch places with her. After all, she knew she was Jazz Sweet. 

The doctor turned his back to her. “Collin, I think you need to take her home. Once she’s home in familiar surroundings, I believe her memory will return.”

Collin. She considered the name. Irish, she thought. A romance hero’s name. Maybe she would use it in her next book. He certainly looked the part— strong chin and thick brown hair that begged for a path to be wound through it with willing fingers. 

“What if she doesn’t?” Collin asked.

“Take her to your family doctor for a follow- up tomorrow. Wake her a couple times tonight and ask her questions. Make her answer with words; full sentences would be even better.” She heard the familiar rough scratch of pen on paper. “Give her acetaminophen or ibuprofen tonight.” He tore the paper from his pad and slapped it into Collin’s hand. “Fill this for pain if she needs it.”

Home? Whose home? Jazz dropped the characterization of her newest hero. Home with Collin? She focused on those three words. That couldn’t be right— she loved adventure, but going home with a man she didn’t know went beyond what she would do for book material. She didn’t go anywhere without a folder full of notes, and she hadn’t spent any time researching living with this man. Panic ran like ice water down her neck.

She struggled to prop herself up on an elbow and demand an explanation. The end of the bed wavered like a desert mirage, causing her to wonder if the head injury had affected her sight. She squinted, trying to sharpen her vision, but it didn’t help much.

She needed to tell the doctor— maybe then he wouldn’t send her with this man. Jazz started to call out, but the white of the doctor’s coat blurred out of her sight before she could recall his name. 

Collin bent over her. She noticed that for a man who’d been working all day, he still smelled nice. “Well, honey, you heard him. Let’s get you back home.”

“Water. Please.” She pointed to a sweating water bottle that beckoned just out of her reach. Collin put it in her hand but held on to it. For a moment she thought he planned to help her bring it to her lips like an invalid. Good thing he didn’t or he’d be wearing it, she wanted to say, but thirst won over talking. 

The liquid slid down her parched throat. Feeling better, she returned the bottle to him and then hit him with the big question. “Tell me who Louisa is and why you think I’m her!”

***

Collin sank down in the chair next to Louisa’s bed. She looked paler than his daughter’s collectible porcelain dolls. “You don’t remember us?”

“Remember you? No. I’ve never met you. Wait, you weren’t at Jen’s party, were you?” Hope touched the edge of her voice.

“Who’s Jen?” He rubbed his earlobe while he went through a quick list of Louisa’s friends.

“My agent. Jen is my agent.” 

“Agent? For what?” He knew they hadn’t been communicating well, but when did she decide to sell their house? No, she’d said her agent, not ours.

“I write inspirational romance novels.” She crumpled the edge of the bedsheet between her fingers.

“Romance?” Collin felt like he had fallen into another dimension. Louisa had never written a word, much less a book or books. She had said novels, as in more than one. Hadn’t she? He assessed the situation. It had to be a grasp for attention. He had been working hard, and yes, he probably deserved this. He’d play along for a little bit. “Who do you think you are?” 

“Jazz Sweet. I live at . . . on an island or the coast. Florida, I think.” She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. 

“Louisa, you win, okay? I’m sorry— I really am— about what I said.” He squeezed his hand into a fist and then released it, a futile attempt at ridding himself of the tension in his body. “Let’s not play games here. It’s late, and it would be nice to go home, wouldn’t it?” 

“Games? What games are we playing?” She cocked her head at him, her eyebrow raised in question.

The look she gave him wasn’t one he recognized. She truly looked lost and confused. His gut clenched. She really didn’t know who she was. “Never mind, it’s not important. Once you get home, I’m sure you’ll be back to normal.” 

“Go find your wife. Maybe she’s in the next room.” She waved her hand at him as if to dismiss him. The diamonds on her finger caught the overhead light and winked at him.

Collin grasped her hand out of the air. He felt a tug at his heart as she struggled to pull away from him. “Wait. Look at your hand. See, you have a wedding ring; it belonged to my great- grandmother.” He traced it with his finger. “Honey, you’re not a writer. And you live with us in Hazel, Illinois.” 

She brought her hand close to her face and inspected the ring as if she had never seen it before. She jerked her face toward his, and comprehension of the plural word rode across her face. “Us? How many people make an us?”

“You, me, and . . .” 

She tapped her lower lip with two fingers as she concentrated on the information he was giving her. 

“The kids.” He leaned back in the chair, confident she would remember the children.

Louisa splayed her hand against her chest. “Kids? What kids?” she squealed as if he’d said she lived with a rowdy bunch of sailors. “I think I had better call Kristen now.”

Collin grew even more confused, starting to doubt he was looking at his own wife. Louisa loved those kids. How could she not remember them? 

“Who’s Kristen?” he managed to ask while massaging the back of his neck with his hand.

“She is my assistant. She’s organized and knows all my plans. I can’t keep any deadline without her.” She peered around him. “Is there a phone in here?”

Collin looked at the ceiling and counted the white tiles over the bed. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’ll call Kristen if you give me her number.”

“I– I don’t know it,” Louisa stuttered. Her blue eyes filled with tears, and she whipped her face away from him. The tension in his shoulders eased. This was a behavior he recognized. Louisa never let him see her cry.

“Then for now, why don’t you come home with me?” He used the persuasive voice he typically saved for jurors.

“But . . .”

He placed his fingers on her lips to silence her. “I know you’re my wife, even if you can’t remember. So I’m thinking, why not come home with me and see if your memory returns?”

“You really think I’m your wife?” She glanced at the door expectantly as if waiting for someone to come and tell him differently. 

“I know it. And I can prove it when we get home. I’ll show you our wedding pictures.” Louisa had organized their photos in matching albums. It wouldn’t take any effort to find the right year. 

“Did we get married on the beach?” Uncertainty shone on her face, but her voice held confidence that he would say yes.

Collin took another punch to his gut. She didn’t remember the expensive wedding— her very own fairy- tale day, she’d called it. He shook his head. “No, Louisa. We were married in your parents’ church.”

“Again, not me.” Louisa swung her legs to the edge of the bed. She grabbed her head with both hands. “Ouch. What happened to me, anyway?”

“The indoor grill fell on your head.” 

She snorted. “Right, like I own one of those.”

“You do. While you were getting it off the shelf, Cleo knocked you down.”

“Is Cleo your daughter?”

Collin rubbed his chin with his hand and held back a groan of frustration. “Cleo is our dog, a Great Dane, our gentle beast.”

“Collin?” Her voice softened, and he leaned in closer to hear. “How many kids are there?” 

“Just the three,” he said.

“Three? Just three? Do you— we—have a nanny?” She rubbed the side of her face with the palm of her hand.

Collin laughed at the absurdity of the question, then sobered, realizing she didn’t know the answer to her own question. This could not be good. He summoned his patience before speaking. “Louisa, you didn’t want a nanny for them, remember?”

“No. I don’t remember. I’m Jazz— have you forgotten? 

And I’ve decided. I will not be going anywhere with you. Who knows? You might be a serial killer or a stalker.” She crossed her arms and held them against her chest.

“I’m not either of those things. Look, honey, I’m tired. I’ve worked over twenty- five hours this week and it’s only Tuesday. I shouldn’t even have come home when I did, but I promised you that I would make it for dinner.”

“Please don’t call me ‘honey,’ ‘cutie,’ or any of those couple names. We’re not a couple, and besides, they sound silly.”

He didn’t know what to say. Louisa liked his terms of endearment. Didn’t she? The differences between the wife he had left at home this morning and this seemingly new one dumbfounded him.

“Why did you get married and have a family if you weren’t going to participate? What kind of important career do you have? Do you save peoples’ lives? Are you a surgeon?” She glared at him, waiting for an answer.

Her rapid- fire questioning made him feel like he was standing on the courthouse steps facing a battalion of reporters. It didn’t matter that the question was one he’d been asking himself lately— right now, being home wasn’t feasible. Not with several trial cases and the promise of a partnership dangling in front of him. He didn’t have time for anything. If Louisa wanted to be Jazz, he didn’t care as long as she kept their family life intact. “I’m a lawyer. That means I have a lot to do tonight. So get dressed and we’ll go home. I’m sure you’ll remember everything when we get there.”

“I’m not going with you.” Louisa slid her legs back onto the bed and pulled the sheet up under her chin like a child refusing to go to school. “I’ll get dressed as soon as you leave, and then I’m going to— to—”

“To what? Where are you going to go?” He waited to hear her plan, watching her eyebrows bob up and down while she thought. “Well?”

“I’ll go to a hotel. So there, problem solved. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You’re free to go.” Again, she waved her hand toward the door, dismissing him as she lay back against the pillow. “If you don’t mind, would you hand me my purse before you leave?”

“It’s at home.” He looked down at her. Her blonde hair feathered across the pillow and caught the light from overhead, softening the silky strands. He reached out to touch it as he often did, but her icy look kept him at a distance. “That’s what you want? To be here alone in a hospital, in this town, and not knowing anyone?”

She nodded and pointed to the door.

“Then I’ll go.” Collin paused at the doorway and turned to give her a chance to change her mind. She didn’t say anything, just lay there looking like a lost child, eyes wide and fighting tears. “Nice meeting you, Jazz Sweet.” He knew he needed to convince her to come home with him. He couldn’t leave her here until her memory returned. There had to be a way, but for now, he’d let her think she’d won this battle. He left the room and didn’t look back.

Author Jo Huddleston

Author Jo Huddleston has scheduled a blog tour for her book THAT SUMMER.
Find the blog tour links here: http://www.johuddleston.com/p/blog-tour-that-summer.html

That Summer is Book #1 in the Caney Creek Series. Book #2 and #3 are scheduled to release in April 2013 and September 2013, respectively. Follow the Callaway family through all three books. Live their triumphs, sorrows, achievements, and losses. Walk along with them as they meet faith challenges and fight to regain a rightful place in God's plan.

Hit the trail with author Pam Hillman!

Pam will be on tour - a blog tour that is - for the next couple of months.
Whew!  Pam's going to be really tired when she gets done.
But, it is all worth it and she's willing to go to great lengths to get out into the (digital) world and meet and greet readers from all over the world.  
Pam's blog tour celebrates the release of her newest novel CLAIMING MARIAH.
See the extensive list of blog tour links here: http://bit.ly/XX9olb

Pam also has a lot of contests and yes, lost of prizes, to celebrate CLAIMING MARIAH.  Check out her facebook page for information about winning a Kindle and a Nook: https://www.facebook.com/PamHillmanAuthor

Pam's book sounds fascinating.  I can't wait to read it.


Claiming Mariah description:
In light of her father’s death, Mariah Malone sends a letter that will forever alter the lives of her family. When Slade Donovan, strong willed and eager for vengeance, shows up on her front porch, Mariah is not ready to hear his truths: her father’s farm, the only home she’s ever known, was bought with stolen gold. With Slade ready to collect his father’s rightful claim and force Mariah and her family out on the streets, Mariah must turn to God for guidance. Though Mr. Frederick Cooper, a local landowner, promises to answer her financial woes if she agrees to be his bride, Mariah finds herself drawn instead to the angry young man demanding her home.

With the ranch now under Slade’s careful eye, he will unearth more than he ever imagined as a devious plot of thievery, betrayal and murder threatens more than the well-being of the ranch, endangering the lives of those who hold it dear. With days dwindling until the rest of the Donovan clan arrive to the Lazy M ranch, Mariah and Slade must rise above the resentment of their fathers and see their true feelings before greed alters their futures forever.

Fun short read - The Stem of Time

I'm a sucker for a good strong macho hero. I've found one in THE STEM OF TIME.  The hero, Holden, is actually a tough time enforcement officer who is sent back from the future to kill the heroine.

I'm also overjoyed when I find a short, fast, fun, quick read.  I'm often busy, and sometimes I like to just sit down with a good book and be able to read it straight through.  With longer books, of course that is impossible.  But, with a short book like THE STEM OF TIME, I can get my reading fix and still get all of my other things done too! 

And, best of all, I have it on good authority (really an insider tip :) that this fun read is free for 3 days only, starting today.  That's right - get it free at Amazon from 2/09/13 to 2/11/13 here: http://amzn.to/frOQ2u

The Stem of Time blurb:

Jillian is a scientist, determined to cure cancer, and she has the brains to do it too, she just doesn't have the time. In order to make more time, she invents a time stem, enabling her to slow time for herself and allow her to do the work of five people. 

But, she never expected the consequences this could have: she draws the unwanted attention of the Council, has an assassin sent after her, a bounty placed on her head and gains a new husband, whom she's never met. And all she wanted to do was to cure cancer.

Excerpt of THAT SUMMER by Jo Huddleston

The fairgrounds, 1928

"Hey, Callaway, look." Arthur poked an elbow into Jim's ribs.

"What?"

"Over there. There! In the green dress. That’s Callie. The girl I told you about last Sunday in church." An admiring grin stretched across Arthur’s thin face.

"Yeah, I see her." But Jim’s gaze had passed beyond the green dress and now rested on the most angelic face he’d seen.

"Didn’t I tell you she was pretty? Was I right?"

"Yeah, you’re right. She sure is pretty." Jim stood still and leaned forward, captivated by the simple beauty of the girl standing beside Arthur’s friend. Her fair skin glowed with a milky smoothness like that of the porcelain doll prizes at the penny toss booth back up the midway.

"Callie's just moved here from Maple Hollow. Somethin' about a stepmother livin’ at her house now. So she came to Newton to work at the hosiery mill. I met her when I delivered groceries to the boardinghouse for Mr. Henderson last Saturday."

"Yeah. She's real pretty." 

"Jim, are we talkin’ about the same girl?" No answer came from Jim and Arthur spoke again. "Callaway?"

"I know . . . you’re talkin’ about Callie. Uh . . . who’s that other blond-headed girl next to her? Who’s she?"

"I don’t know, but somethin' tells me we’re goin’ to have to find out somehow or another."

All thoughts about his drunken poppa, his momma's delivery of the new baby, and even his own weariness from the drudgery of farm work succumbed to the simple loveliness of the blond girl.

Jim followed Arthur as they made their way through the crowd to where Callie and her friend stood. Absorbed in each attempt to win the battle of the bottles, the girls didn’t notice them until Arthur spoke.

"Hey, Callie."

Callie smiled at him, but gave no hint of recognition.

"We met at Miss June’s." Callie made no attempt at conversation. "Last Saturday . . . when I delivered groceries to the boardinghouse. You sat on the front porch on the swing . . . I'm Arthur Gray."

Callie was as tall as Jim, about eighteen, with an unassuming sweetness about her. "Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first." 

It was Jim’s turn to poke Arthur in the ribs. "Callie, this is my friend, Jim Callaway."

"Hey, Jim, nice to meet you."

Cheers went up when a bottle fell over.

"Hey, Callie." Jim glanced at the girl beside her.

Discouragement registered on Callie’s face at Jim’s obvious lack of interest in her. She turned to the girl beside her. "This is my little sister, Louisa."

Louisa smiled at the tall, handsome boy and his friend. When they spoke to her, she lowered her head. But not before Jim looked into her mesmerizing blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, and felt them touch his soul. His pounding heart quickened its beat and his hands began to sweat when their eyes met again. Her glance lit up Jim’s thoughts and feelings brighter than all the county fair’s bright lights. Neither of them could look away, the attraction was so strong. Jim decided at that moment that Louisa would be his girl, even if she was probably only fourteen or fifteen.

Arthur attempted to break the trance that surrounded them. "Callaway, why don’t you show this crowd how to knock down milk bottles?"

Jim continued to look at Louisa and she at him, promise showing in her eyes. He tried to turn away. But it was no use. She oozed an innocence that grabbed him and demanded his silent vow of commitment.

And that’s how Jim and Louisa began. Two unspoken promises.

FInd the Kindle book at: http://amzn.to/Wt7JFB