Featured Title of the Day: Highland Magic by Christine Young

Highland Magic

Christine Young

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 4

Buy at: www.roguephoenixpress.com

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Scotland, Summer 1513:

For a moment the man's gaze met hers, bored into her heart, questioned. Blood curdling war cries rode the wings of death through the timeless night. Claymores clashed. Dark eyes the color of midnight flashed a challenge. The holy man's opponents hesitated then lunged once more.

Moonbeams reflected light from the gold chain he wore around his neck. Brown robes fell from massive shoulders. Three more enemies appeared from the trees. The priest fell to the ground, wounded by the broadside of his enemy's weapon. Motionless, he lay on her flower-strewn meadow, blood staining the grass and wildflowers, marring the colorful, summer landscape.

Keely Gray woke, heart pounding a rapid staccato. She pressed against her throbbing temples with sweat-slick palms, hoping to ease the horrific pain that always accompanied the dreams. Death--the scent of blood, fear and treachery still hung heavy in the darkened hut. The prickling sensation radiating from her spine to encompass her body was too familiar.

She listened and heard nothing.

A dark void impaled her. The usual night sounds stilled. She heard no hoot of owl, no chirp of crickets, no croak of frogs, nor could she hear the mournful sighing of the wind through the branches of the old oak trees.

Silence emptied her heart as well as her soul, leaving only an ever-present loneliness.

Keely wanted nothing more than to cuddle into her bed and pull the covers over her head. Despite the unspeakable agony deep in the pit of her stomach, she rose from her pallet. Her limbs trembling, she slipped a shapeless tunic over her head and soft-soled shoes onto her feet. As she swept past the front door, she grabbed her woolen cloak.

Light from a full moon illuminated the path. She could see, but she could also be seen, the moonlight both a curse and a blessing. Approaching the meadow she'd watched in her dreams, she slowed her pace and waited. Her fingers wound tightly around the amber pendant she always wore, her only keepsake from her mother.

The sounds and scents hovering on the wind would tell her if danger still lurked. Caution guided her. A vigilance she'd learned long ago held her motionless.

 A familiar dragging sound reassured her she wasn't alone. "Whipple?" she whispered.

A self-appointed guardian angel appeared as if from nowhere then nodded, though there was a wary cast to his faded blue eyes. "Aye, lass, I'm here. I heard ye leave your hut. I would not leave ye alone to face whatever dangerous mission awaited."

Keely waited for Whipple to close the distance between them before she spoke. "I would argue with you about your appearance here at this great hour, but I ken it would do no good. You should not be here. Your heart--"

Whipple spat. "My heart is fine."

She determinedly stepped forward, approaching the meadow of her dream, knowing she wouldn't like what she found.

"Have it your way, then." Given a choice, Keely wouldn't have come to this meadow. But she had to know the truth--had she seen the future or something happening at that very moment?

Whipple didn't reply. On his clubfoot, he followed her, his trailing leg sliding behind him with a soft swish. The hard thud of his crooked oak cane followed at a slightly skewed interval.

Together they crested the hill. Below her, she saw her dream. A priest lay on the ground, his head twisted at an odd angle. For a moment her heart stopped. She bit down on her lower lip while she studied the man.

Keely tried to ignore the helplessness pooling deep within, and attempted to push the burgeoning tears away. A frisson swept over Keely's skin.

She approached the priest cautiously; he could be playing with her, waiting for her to get within reach of those powerful hands.

Warily, she eyed Whipple. A few moments of silent observation convinced Keely the stranger wasn't lying in ambush. He was too still, not visibly breathing. Keely feared the man was dead. He lay utterly motionless; his limbs at awkward angles, his head wound oozing blood. The slow welling of blood from the wound told her he was still alive. She kneeled beside the priest. "He's not dead, Whipple." Her fingers hovered above his weak pulse. She watched the slight rise and fall of his sturdy, broad chest. Yet she did not dare touch him.

Whipple inhaled sharply. "Do ye mean to take him to your hut, lass? I cannae allow ye to do such a dangerous thing. Ye have no idea who or what he is. Ye do not ken his purpose here or his intent."

"He is a priest. Besides, there is nothing else we can do."

Featured Title of the Day Bones by K.J. Dahlen

K.J. Dhalen is touring with Goddessfish. Please follow her tour and make sure you comment. The tour schedule will be posted below.

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Bones by K. J. Dahlen

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 1

Buy at:  www.roguephoenixpress.com 

Max squatted near the opening in the rocky outcrop and took off his sunglasses. He was hot and tired and had just about given up finding this place. He wasn’t eager to go inside since the inside of the opening was dark and uninviting. But Max knew he had to go in there. The small hole in the side of the cliff was barely big enough for a child to scramble into let alone a full size man, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. God, I hate small places, he thought as he crawled inside. The hole was small and cramped and Max had to bend over to get through. I really hate small places, he emphasized as he struggled to get through the cramped opening. The hole in the cliff had been harder to find than he expected. The directions given to him by two young boys hadn’t been all that clear.

The boys said the opening was straight up from the dam below and a little left of the big oak tree. What they failed to tell him was which big oak tree. The whole hill was littered with oak trees right up to the base of the cliff.

It had taken him the better part of an hour to find the opening. There had been a lot of hillside to search. The boys had told him they left an old t-shirt to mark the opening, but Max hadn’t found the t-shirt. Some small animal or the wind must have carried it away. He hoped he had the right entrance this time.

He’d found a couple of other openings in the rock face that had led him nowhere. This opening appeared to be the one the boys had described. According to the boys, this small cave led to a cavern with the treasure. Max hoped it led somewhere.

His hands and face were scratched up from pushing brambles and brush out of his way. The thought had also occurred to him that the seldom visited, rocky part of the side of a cliff just a little ways north of the town Max was sheriff of, might be just the spot to run into a snoozing wolf or worse yet a rattlesnake. He heard something scramble out of his way a couple of times, but he hadn’t heard the symbolic rattle of the snake so whatever remained hidden from his sight wasn’t a snake. He’d tried to make enough noise to ward off unexpected company and hoped he hadn’t sounded like a complete idiot in the process. If anyone had spotted him, they would have thought he was drunk in the middle of the morning and that would never do for a sheriff.

The flashlight he held in his hand did little to penetrate the utter darkness that surrounded him. The cave walls and floor were slimy with what Max didn’t even want to hazard a guess and it smelled even worse. It smelled like something crawled in this narrow opening and died. The boys who found the cave might think this little venture was "neat", but Max didn’t. He’d lost his sense of adventure for little games like this a long time ago. He couldn’t believe he was here now.

The boys had been in this cave a couple of days before and had found what they thought was an Indian burial place. They had been reluctant at first to tell anyone of their find but eventually told their dads. As a result, Richard Crabtree had brought his son, Timmy, to see him. Max could tell that Timmy hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about his secret place and Max hadn’t been all that interested in the boy’s tale. Most of it was just the imagination of a ten year old. It wasn’t until Timmy mentioned the skeletons that Max became interested.

Max knew enough about the local tribes in Wisconsin to know they didn’t bury their dead above ground in forgotten caves. The boys told him that they hadn’t seen or found any other Indian artifacts and Timmy was positive someone else had robbed the cave of all its treasure. As sheriff, Max felt bound to check out their story. If there were skeletons in there, he had to find out why.

Review

All-in-all, this is an enjoyable mystery that kept my interest from beginning to end.

Laurie
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More

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Featured Title of the Day: Highland Honor by Christine Young

Highland Honor

Christine Young

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 3

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Scotland November 1512:

A heavy frost sat on the frozen earth, and a full moon shone clearly between the heavy clouds dotting the sky. Lady Callie Whitcomb looked over her shoulder as she raced through the deepening gloom toward the lighted tavern ahead. Every shadow, every mournful sigh of the wind sweeping through the trees, every chilling animal sound filled her with terror. Fear for her life drove her to put all thoughts of danger aside. He would follow her, find her, and drag her home.

Home.

"Don't think of that now," she reminded herself fiercely, even while tears stung in the back of her throat and fear made her limbs tremble. "Don't you dare think of home. It no longer exists." Nothing and no one could coax her back or make her believe there was naught but terror in the home where she'd been born.

"I will never marry Lord Huntington. Never!" she whispered fiercely, the chill night air solemnly echoing her words.

Her stepbrother, Archibald Covington III, made sure she could never return.

"There ye be, lass! I've been waiting for you."

The voice rose from nowhere and surprised her. Her heart froze, lurched, then began an erratic beat, while raw nerves snapped, sending a myriad of sensations racing down her spine.

"Archibald--" she whispered, panic sweeping through her. "He's found me." All she could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears.

Before she could reach her destination, before she could find safe refuge from him, his men had found her. No! Not now. Not when she thought she had eluded them all.

A wave of fear sweeping through her reminded her, that if caught, she would be taken back to Archibald and forced to marry Lord Huntington.

"I'll help you down, lass."

"No."

Before she could react and spur her horse forward, callous, rough hands centered on her waist then pulled her from her mount.

"No!" She cried out to no avail. Regaining her wits, she beat fiercely upon the man's broad chest, tearing at his face and his thick beard with her fingers.

"Ach, lass! Hold still! I mean ye no harm. Stop this--" His voice was gruff and impatient.

Fear for her life had spurred her haste. Terror she might see Huntington or Archibald with each turn of the road haunted every hour of her journey. Archibald had retainers everywhere. Messages would have been sent. A highlander could be bought.

"Ruffian! Unhand me! You barbarous Scotsman."

If Archibald had guessed what path she followed...

"Verra well, ne'er let it be said that I dinna do a lass' bidding." Just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, his hold upon her vanished. She stumbled backward.

Instantly, she found herself sitting on the frozen earth. The man towering above her watched her with concerned dark eyes. Despite the scar stretching from forehead to chin, his mouth quirked upward in a humorous slant.

"Ye be a handful, lass."

 Review

Mary of A Romance Review says, "Overall I liked the story and can recommend it as a worthwhile read. The author has a lot of talent and the plot and tension of the story are well handled."

Featured Title of the Day: Healthy Homicide by C.L. Kraemer

Healthy Homicide

C. L. Kraemer

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 1

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Buy at: www.roguephoenixpress.com

As she turned her phone on, it immediately began to ring. Alexa sighed, checked the time-11:30-and answered. Not soon enough her time would be her own.

"Alexa Bond."

"Ms. Bond? Are you still on the property? This is Cyndi Palmer, and I really need to speak with you. Can you spare a moment? I promise it won’t take long."

Something about the note of desperation in Cyndi’s voice touched Alexa.

"Okay, but I’ve got a noon meeting with the mayor pro tem, and I can’t miss it."

She turned and walked back into the spa’s lobby. A piercing scream rent the air. Alexa’s skin prickled in goose bumps. She stepped aside of the uniformed employees running in the direction of the Vitamin Verandah. Spotting Cyndi Palmer, her normally tanned face ashen, Alexa raised an eyebrow. Behind Cyndi was the spa’s assistant manager, Marilyn, who strolled to Alexa’s side.

"I’ll bet it’s just Vonnie Spencer trying to get her session for free. That woman is a menace. She’s badmouthed and scared every employee here except the head masseuse. He’s so stoic even she can’t ruffle his feathers. Why don’t you wait here? I’m sure this will take only a moment." Marilyn winked, her bright, green eyes twinkling as she strolled in the direction of the current crisis.

Alexa watched as Cyndi dashed past Marilyn nearly knocking her over in the process and instructed the receptionist to call 911. She picked the microphone up and flipped the switch.

"Ladies. I’m sorry but we’ve had an emergency arise. I’d like to ask all of you to please dress and come to the lobby. I’ll explain in more detail when everyone is out front. Your appointments today are courtesy of the spa. Thank you." Returning the microphone to the desktop, head in hands, Cyndi faced the wall mural located behind the reception desk of a serene Tahitian beach.

Alexa moved to her side. "Cyndi? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sighing deeply, the tall, elegantly muscled, tanned spa manager offered a lopsided smile.

"No, Ms. Bond. I’m afraid you’re going to miss your meeting. When my appointment secretary went to notify Ms. Spencer it was time for her Swedish sauna, well, she, she found her…dead."

Alexa felt the blood drain from her face. "Dead? Are you sure?" She shook her head. "I’m sorry. That was a stupid question. Why is it necessary for me to stay?"

Cyndi pulled in a deep, centering breath.

"I’m sure the police are going to want to know who was where and what they were doing for the last hour. At least that’s the way they do it on TV. Ms. Spencer had an appointment for Vitamin Invigoration about the time you were set up for your massage.

"I requested you come back because I wanted to ask you about an item that is going to be put before a city council vote, but I think my hands are going to be full for a while.

"I’m so sorry. I think this is the one time I’ll allow everyone to use their cellphones inside. Have a seat. It looks as though it’s going to be a long afternoon."

Featured Title Of The Day: Fisherman's Son by John R. Sikes

Fisherman's Son

John R. Sikes

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Book Heat Level: 1

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Jason had just started dreaming about cruising in his new Mustang car he was going to buy when he was thrown from his bunk and landed hard against the bulkhead. At first he didn’t know what had happened. Billy Bob stumbled out of his room, holding his survival suit and told Jason to get his and come to the wheelhouse.

The ocean was nothing like Jason had ever seen. Waves were hitting the Wave Dancer, sending a groaning shutter from the bow right through to the stern. This worried Jason till Billy Bob and Uncle Buick both agreed as long as you heard and felt it, everything was ok; it was when the boat quit talking to you that you should get worried.

The boat was lifted high by waves, which had grown enormous in the short time Jason had slept. When the boat crested the taller of the waves, Jason had his first glance of the mainland. It looked like the water was boiling closer to shore. Uncle Buck told him this was because the currents next to the shore met ones coming from the open ocean causing the waves to become closer together and much bigger. Jason noticed that all of the sea gulls were flying way higher than usual. There appeared to be thousands of them flying in a circle so high they looked like tiny dots in the sky.

The first wave braking completely over the boat caught him off guard. It sent him bouncing all the way to the other side of the wheelhouse. When he stood up, he noticed some of the smaller fish not tied down had washed over the stern. He started to go try and save the ones still flopping around the deck but was told by his uncle to stay put.

“We can handle losing a few fish but your mom would be awful mad at me if I didn’t have you onboard when we make it back!” exclaimed Uncle Buck. “Just hang on to the boat with one hand and keep you're survival suit in the other. If I give the order to abandon ship and you say, "What?" You will be talking to yourself.”

It eased some of the fear building in Jason when he saw the look on his uncle’s face. To him Uncle Buck looked as calm as if he was taking a walk in the park. Uncle Buck had spent most of his life on the water and seemed right at home even when it was rough. He had even heard his uncle talk about never getting seasick but not feeling so good when he was on land. Even Jason admitted he slept better on the water than he did at home.  

Night was falling as they approached shore. Waves seemed to come from all directions. The Wave Dancer was still cutting through the ones they were hitting head on, but waves smashing in from the sides of the boat were keeping the deck awash with foamy seawater.

The entire crew jumped when the gang way was ripped off the boat's railing. Cables that made up the rail sounded like rifle shots as they snapped from pressure of the water. Pieces of splintered wood still attached to the cable were banging the side of the ship like sticks on a drum. In a matter of minutes windows on the starboard side were shattered and seawater was flooding in. Captain Buck started shouting orders.

“Ivan, check and make sure all bilge pumps are running. Billy Bob and Jason, get to repairing the broken windows. You can use your bunk mattresses and lumber in the emergency locker. Try to stop any water coming onboard through those windows.”

Ivan disappeared down to the engine room and Jason and Billy Bob attacked the flood of water coming in each time the Wave Dancer was broadsided by cresting waves. Luckily the panes of the window were made of safety glass. Jason was thankful that sharp shards of glass weren’t sloshing around in the stream of water flooding in. Water was gushing down through the walkway into the engine room at an alarming rate. Shoving his mattress against the biggest hole took all the effort Jason could muster. Billy Bob slammed a brace against its back and wedged it to the floor.    

“Take a hammer and nail the bottom of the brace to the floor. We will jam one on both ends to hold it in place,” Billy Bob shouted to Jason over the roar of the water.

They repeated this process till all bigger windows were plugged. With the wooden plugs they found in the locker they were able to stop some smaller leaks caused by the whipping pieces of gangway. Thankfully most cables had tangled up with rigging still attached to the ship lessening their destructive force. By the time they had slowed most of the water flooding inside, the feel of the Wave Dancer had changed. She had settled deeper in the water and now blue water was crashing completely over the boat.

Featured Title of the Day: Picture Perfect Legacy by Genene Valleau writing as Genie Gabriel

Please welcome Genene or is it Genie? Picture Perfect Legacy is the first book in a nine book series, one book to be released every two months. If you like romantic suspense, handsome cops, and spunky women, this series is for you. And what is there not to like?

A little about Genie:

For years I've been fascinated by the puzzle of why some people collapse under life's traumas and others emerge triumphantly stronger. These triumphs of the human spirit over the ugliest of adversities are the basis for my stories. I love writing dramatic stories, but they have always contained touches of humor--and sometimes romantic comedies emerge. In all my stories, my passion for writing romance becomes an outlet for the powerful messages that people can overcome great difficulties, and true love can turn life’s heartaches into happily ever after.

read an excerpt

Picture Perfect Legacy

Genie Gabriel

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level:

Buy at: www.roguephoenixpress.com

Don't take my baby. Please don't take my baby. The woman's plea whispered in the steady swish, swish of the wipers. Her image wavered among the falling flakes of snow, horror streaking in anguished tears down her face. 

Marly O'Shea shivered and forced her attention back to the narrow, twisting road grudgingly carved out of the side of the mountain.
The heater of her Jeep Wrangler valiantly battled the fingers of icy air creeping through the gaps in a canvas top that seemed to shrink each summer while it lay bundled in Marly’s garage. She much preferred the heated summer breezes that tangled her over-curly hair in wild abandon to the frigid winds laying icy sheets of moisture in the dips and shadows of the road she now traveled.
A gust of angry wind blasted around a curve, rattling the canvas top of the Jeep. The flurries of snow grew heavier, layering the road in a relentless white. Marly shifted into a lower gear and concentrated on what she could see of the road illuminated by her headlights.
Until she realized the headlights careening through the darkness weren't hers. They bore down on her, like a missile seeking its target.
Adrenaline spurted through Marly’s veins. She leaned on the horn and steered the Jeep as far to the side of the road as possible without sliding off the edge.
Brighter and brighter, the lights obliterated the darkness until Marly thought they would explode. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, the lights jerked away, bouncing down the road behind her and quickly disappearing.
The tires of the Jeep hit gravel, then slushy mud. Frantically down-shifting, Marly eased to a stop and sat frozen. Nothing dared intrude on the deafening silence of the night but the roar of a creek echoing in a canyon far below.
Another brilliant light flashed on, and Marly jerked her arm up to shield her eyes. A sharp rap on her door sent her grabbing for the purse that had slid onto the floor. Reaching inside, her fingers wrapped around the taser her overprotective brothers presented to her as a moving-away-from-home gift.
Cradling the weapon on her lap, Marly turned to confront the man standing beside her Jeep. A halo of light silhouetted the man’s bushy hair and beard, but his features remained obscured in shadows.
“Are you hurt?” His voice flowed like melted honey, its comforting tones at odds with his unkempt appearance.
Slowly, Marly shook her head. "No."
“We need to get you off this curve before another car comes through. I’m going to hook my winch to your vehicle and pull you back onto the road.”
He disappeared into the curtain of light, leaving Marly with only the impression of broad shoulders encased in black leather.
Her heart raced. It was the near accident, she told herself.
Soon, metal clunked against metal as the man hooked a cable to the underside of her vehicle. After a moment’s token resistance, the Jeep moved back onto the solid surface of the road.
A sigh of relief flowed through Marly’s body, brought up short by the sudden reappearance of the man beside her vehicle. Many times her brothers scolded her for being too trusting. Narrow hips and long legs snugly encased in worn blue jeans could belong to a serial killer as easily as a white knight.
“Step out while I check your vehicle for damage.” A jagged scar over the man’s right eyebrow gleamed as he reached for her door handle.
Every murder mystery she read as a teenager gave the bad guy a scar. She wasn’t taking any chances. Adrenaline pumped through Marly’s body once again as she leveled the taser at the man’s chest. “Stop right there.”
Irritation briefly crinkled the man's brow. “The undercarriage of your vehicle might be damaged.”
“Step away from the vehicle.” Marly juggled the taser in one hand while using the other to crank the key in the ignition. The Jeep sputtered to life, rocketing relief through Marly’s veins. The man quick-stepped backward as she shoved the vehicle into gear and stomped on the gas, leaving her mystery rescuer--or would-be attacker--standing with the snow falling on the dark velvet of his tousled hair.

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Featured Title Of The Day: Frozen Death by G.L. Didaleusky

Frozen Death

G. L. Didaleusky

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 1

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At 3:30 A.M., the telephone rang. On the fourth ring, John picked up the receiver, his mind still foggy from sleep. "This better be an emergency."

"Is this…Dr. Randall?"

John realized the caller had a male voice, not the feminine voice of Nurse Simpson. “Yes, I'm Dr. Randall. I'm sorry for being so abrupt when I first answered the phone. I thought it was the infirmary nurse calling again."

"I've answered the phone the same way on several occasions at this time of the morning," said the male caller. "My name is Steve Patterson. I'm the ER physician at Ocala General Hospital."

"Is it about the inmate I sent to you a few hours ago? Was it a drug overdose?"

"No."

"A brain tumor?"

"No. His CT brain scan was normal, along with a normal drug screen," said Patterson. "I'm sorry to tell you but the inmate died."

John nearly dropped the phone. "What did he die from?"

"He froze to death. I've never seen anything like this in my thirty years as an ER doctor. After running all the tests on him, he started to shake. His temperature rapidly dropped followed by cardiac arrest. I tried everything to save his life, but nothing worked."

"I’m sure you did everything you could. Hopefully an autopsy will give us an answer to his death." John decided not to tell him about Inmate Armstrong’s similar death yesterday morning. "Thanks for calling me, Dr. Patterson."    

"I'm just sorry I didn't have good news to tell you." He hung up the phone.

John couldn't go back to sleep. He got up and put on a pot of coffee. After he had showered, shaved, and dressed, he went back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

As he sat at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee, the telephone rang. The ominous ring almost caused him to lose his grip on the coffee cup. He glanced up at the wall clock: 5:15 A.M. John sprang from his chair and rushed toward the ringing phone on the wall.

He picked up the phone. "Dr. Randall."

"It's Nurse Simpson from the infirmary." She took a deep breath. "I have an inmate…"

Review

Stevi B. for Manic Readers says:

"Frozen Death is a very intriguing mystery and it gets even more interesting as the answer appears to be found in Ancient Indian lore. If you love Indian lore, medically impossible puzzles, and mysteries that look impossible, you will like Frozen Death."

Buy at: http://www.roguephoenixpress.com/

Featured Title Of The Day: Forever His by Christine Young

Forever His by Chrsitine Young

Excerpt Heat Level: 3

Book Heat Level: 4

Buy at:  www.roguephoenixpress.com 

This is the 4th book in the Lakota/Pinkerton series

Dakota's Bride, My Angel, The Locket, The Talisman, and Forever His

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August 30, 1895

Near Buffalo Creek,

South Dakota

The sun beat down. Searing heat waves hit the hard packed earth, blistering, charring everything, even the dry prairie grass. Jacob St. John, his arms stretched overhead and bound to a whipping post, no longer counted the lashes tearing into his back, no longer felt the horrific agony.

More than a half-dozen men and one woman were gathered in the sage-patched backyard of the run-down shack. So far not one person made a sound as they watched Chavez wield the whip, stripping the flesh off his back.

If Chavez weren't so angry and seeking revenge of his own, he would probably have just had him shot. Revenge was a powerful motive. Chavez wanted Jacob to suffer, to yell before he died. It seemed Etta Barringer did too. So far Chavez was toying with him, taunting and teasing him, cutting an inch here, ripping an inch there, not doing much damage but making mincemeat out of his back.

Jacob hadn't made a sound yet, not even a sharp, indrawn breath. He wasn't about to even though he knew Chavez would get impatient and start slashing. There was no hurry. Chavez had as long as he wanted. No one save Etta knew where he was, no one would come looking for him, at least not until the sun went down. By then Chavez would be done with him, and he would either be dead or buzzard-bait. For the life of him, he couldn't figure why Etta would hand him over to Chavez. She had always been Pinkerton to the core, yet she had betrayed him once before. If he survived this, he meant to have answers. He'd move heaven and earth to search out the lying Etta Barringer and find out exactly what she had against him.

The pain of betrayal at the forefront of his mind, and vows of revenge against the instigator of this kept him going. He focused on the woman's laughter and the scent of lemons that permeated his soul.

He had been taken by surprise. Still, he didn't go down easily. It took all of Chavez's men to get him bound securely to the post in back of the shack. And of those men, not one came away from the encounter without a scratch. Blood from the multitude of small cuts Chavez had inflicted ran in rivulets from his back, pooling on the parched thirsty ground, soaking into the dirt, staining it.

He stood, his head proudly erect and that seemed to draw anger from Chavez. The grip of his fingers curled around the top of the post, the only sign of Jacob's pain--and fury.

The first real stroke of the whip felt like a red-hot branding iron searing across his back. Jacob didn't flinch, nor would he as long as he could hear her laughter or smell lemons floating languidly on the breeze. He wished he could see her, stare into her beguiling, green eyes until she knew he'd never stop hunting for her. Fury at his own weakness rose, and the anger he felt deep inside simmered, because she'd always attracted him. Ever since she showed up in a small town in Oregon, seduced him then drugged him and left him to sleep off the opium-laced whiskey, she'd fascinated him.

Concentrate on her--on what you're going to do when you find her again . . .

 Review

Christine Young has done it again in this historical romance. The blizzards, betrayal, deceit and a ruthless bandito like Chavez made this a great romance.

Melinda for Night Owl Romance     5 out of 5

Featured Title of the Day: College Leadership Crisis: The Philip Dolly Affair

College Leadership Crisis: The Philip Dolly Affair

By Jann M. Contento and Jeffrey Ross

Biographies

Jann M. Contento has a broad range of experiences in higher education including student affairs administration, athletics, and institutional research. He is currently working in a community college setting and has co-authored several articles on leadership and college culture.

Jeffrey Ross, who resides in Arizona with his wife and son, is a writer, rockabilly musician, and former full-time community college teacher. He has had four "Views" pieces published on InsidehigherEd.com since 2007, has authored and co-authored several op-ed articles on community college identity, purpose, and culture, and has recently had several parody poems published on the Cronk News higher education satire website.

 

How much truth is there in what you portrayed in the book?

We would like to think a great deal of Truth is portrayed in the Philip Dolly Affair — at least representational Truth. Co-author Jann and I were very careful not to simply make up situations.  We made an effort to find at least three instances (the Washington Post method) of any situational issue we portray—such as college president dismissals. [Google was a great help!] Colleges, like every workplace, have employees who are heroes and those who are not so heroic. Our characters are clearly fictive, clearly exaggerated, but they should function as ghosts or whispers of recognition for our readers.

Personal career ambition, unrelenting commoditization and compartmentalization of learning and culture, predictable and obvious staff behaviors (such as daily emails about social gatherings, management advice, fund raising, and fatiguing meetings) and ACRONYMS seem to be part of nearly every work place and educational setting. 

[PS--I actually learned about hummus and quiche at work-related pot lucks— WRPL’s.]

Our characters, we would venture, are almost caricatures of representative staff types. And these types magnify successful and failed employee personalities everywhere.

For all the talk of individualism in our society, conformity seems to be the “best practice.”  Somehow, our society’s decision to “follow the money”— while joked about daily and ridiculed in popular culture — has clearly articulated and defined our emotional, spiritual, and work lives.  For most of us, K-12 and college are things to “get out of the way” so that we can hitch to the career path and . . . . 

Well, what is the final outcome of all this? 

The American public complains about Wall Street, but continues to chase segmented materialistic dreams anyway. Our characters, we think reflect different pathways to such dreams and different dreams and even thwarted dreams. [And we also consider the difficult Truths, the pathways, of a few thwarted romantic relationships!]

Since 2000 or so, many institutions  have worked tirelessly on issues related to organizational management, strategic planning, mission statements, and professional development. I once asked a very personable and bright college administrator— “Why has there been such wholesale adoption of corporate management practices at educational institutions?”  

She told me, clearly, without pause, and to the point-- “Because we have to act like corporations now.”

And I suppose she is right. But what is the rest of the story? What will the final outcome be? Are we headed towards a greater good, towards happier lives, better families, and improved personal-fulfillment?

There are, undoubtedly, many excellent administrators, staff, and faculty members who work at America’s community colleges.  But the Truth we write about in PDA is based on our emerging composite experiences with the culture’s endless discussions about leadership, careers, and professionalism. Getting the good work done of helping students, of improving our communities, we think, can be easily lost in the shuffle.  

We hear about commitment to excellence, leadership training, quality improvement— at the same time, we hear American education is failing. Which represents the Truth?

At some point in time, education institutions determined they should be leaders rather than Stewards of the Public Trust.  Our position in the novel is clear: We should be Stewards first, and lead when called. Teaching and learning should be our first priorities. That is the Truth we hope to convey. Thank you.

Excerpt

College Leadership Crisis: The Philip Dolly Affair

Jann M. Contento and Jeffrey Ross

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level: 1

Buy at: www.roguephoenixpress.com

Call Me Phil

I'm Phil Dolly, EdD, recently resigned, or deposed, community college president.

Yesterday I was the CEO at North East Central Community College here in Folsom County, West Dakota. Today, I'm contemplating my own crisis in leadership. Following a faculty vote of no confidence and caving in to growing board pressure, I packed it in this morning. No one was surprised, really, including me. But more about that later...

This evening I am sitting here at the bar nursing a weak gin and tonic, assessing the landscape of my shattered career. This place is nothing fancy, that's for sure. I don't know when it saw fresh air last. Located in Payson, West Dakota, this bar and grill has been owned by the same guy, I.M. Tyred, for nearly a decade. I'm a little bit out of my element--but I'm comforted by the visual relics of my own blue collar past--seed company calendars, jars of pickled pig's feet, softball trophies, and the effervescent aroma of bacon, beer, and cheese. Many of the locals know me and enjoy seeing me stop in for an occasional drink. I probably get in here once a month. Maybe more.

I'm not sure what happened. Enrollments didn't increase, but they didn't decline much, either. We opened up more centers. I had bandwidth upgraded. I was in Rotary Club. I brought in some of my former graduate school colleagues from University of Toledo at Arlington to help invigorate the executive staff and to help bring this district into the 21st century in terms of management. I wanted diversity on the management team.

Hmm, I made all of the directors deans and all of the deans became associate VPs. Only one of the new VPs had emotional problems, but no damage was done. He checked into rehab. Our quality initiatives must have moved the college forward. We redid offices, put in new floors and windows, and really spruced the place up too. We won several national awards.

I remember there was some grousing when I had the president's salary increased to 475K, but the board agreed we needed to be competitive in future presidential searches.

I guess the future arrived more quickly than I anticipated.

The hazy blue smoke in this bar settles at about stool seat level. I wish I.M. Tyred would do something. Why doesn't he install some fans or air purifiers or something? I should say something before I have another asthma attack. The country music just drones on and on. All those sad songs about lying, drinking, and needing to be somewhere else are driving me crazy. How do these people stand it?

The lights around the mirrors seem so harsh. I barely recognize my own face in the mirror--the burdens of leadership, I guess. All those retreats, keynote speeches, conferences, dinners, trips to Europe--just so much, so much over the years.

The governing board said I spent too much time out of state. They said I belonged to too many national organizations and attended too many conferences. They just don't understand the difficult and complicated nature of being a community college president. Networking means survival and prosperity for the institution and for me. They don't understand the community is much bigger now. We can serve China! GIs! Nebraska! Technology has empowered us to do so much more than teach welding, massage therapy, and fertilizer applications.

We ought to do more than just serve the needs of our county taxpayers! We can have the reputation of being a global higher education leader! Oh, I guess it's no longer we.

Tour Dates:

2/28  http://www.elainepcantrell.blogspot.com/

2/29  http://www.ichbineinteufel.blogspot.com/?zx=7da81b2491fa230a

3/1    http://www.cerebralwriter.com/blog.html

3/2   http://www.meganjohnsinvites.blogspot.com/ 

3/5   http://rasanaatreya.wordpress.com/

3/6   http://melanieatkins.wordpress.com/

3/7   http://bkwalkerbooksetc.blogspot.com/

3/8   http://amycorwin.blogspot.com/

3/9   http://everydayadventure11.blogspot.com/

3/12

3/13

3/14  http://its-raining-books.blogspot.com/

3/15

3/16  http://sarah-janelehoux.blogspot.com/

Featured Title Of The Day: Fire Underneath the Ice by R.S. Natanevin

Fire Underneath the Ice

R. S. Natanevin

Excerpt Heat Level: 1

Book Heat Level:

Read an Excerpt 

Downtown Toronto, September, 2008

Michael paced his large office back and forth. Karyn--classy, beautiful Karyn--would soon be in front of him. Perhaps he would have a chance to touch her. He neared the gilded mirror. The interior decorator had insisted on adding the expensive item to give the space reserved to his customers a friendly, almost intimate atmosphere. Michael stared at his reflection and adjusted the collar of his polo shirt. Tall and skinny, with a mane of unruly red curls, he wasn’t bad looking but not handsome either. His facial features were rather irregular--very pronounced nose and cheekbones and wind-catcher ears. He sighed. His appearance would have to do.

He moved near the marble coffee table and slumped in one of the easy chairs.

At five minutes past five o’clock Michael started to doubt Karyn would ever come. After all, she was the daughter of late millionaire Richard McDonnell and the sole heir of the family fortune. Four years ago, when her brother had died in a tragic accident, the tabloids had filled their pages with mourning Karyn, all dressed in black, tears incessantly raking her face. He remembered well the day of the funeral when he had approached her briefly to offer his condolences. Karyn had been devastated by grief.

Then came the rumor that the man in charge of the McDonnell’s affairs, Jean Berenson, had left for Europe and made investments over there. At Berenson’s death, two years ago, Karyn had taken over the estate, assisted by a corporate lawyer to help her untangle the complex financial situation. While still a very wealthy woman on paper, at present she was without liquid assets and had found it difficult to keep up with her standard of living.

He stopped pacing, walked over to the large window, and watched the traffic down in the street. It was a quarter past five now, and Karyn hadn’t arrived yet. It was foolish to think she would meet with a poor boy. An ex-poor boy, actually. Finally, at five-thirty, footsteps resounded crisply in the hallway. Glancing through the semi-open door he saw Karyn approaching the secretary’s desk.

His heart started to pound. Would he be able to carry out what he decided to do? Or would he give up before he even started?

Review

Rather zippy and unusual descriptions add a clever touch throughout...

Snapdragon for Long and Short Reviews