Timeless
Keepsakes:
A Collection of Christmas Stories
Ruth A. Casie, Lita Harris,
Emma Kaye, Nicole S. Patrick, Julie
Rowe
Genre: Historical, Contemporary, Time
Travel,
Military, Medical Romances
Publisher: Timeless Scribes Publishing
Date of Publication: November 11, 2013
ISBN: 978-0-09910520-0-4
Number of pages: 270
Word Count: 65,000
Cover Artist: Alchemy Book Covers and
Design
Book Description:
The
magic of Christmas is in the memories we hold dear and those
precious treasures that remind us of the past. Join us as our
Timeless Keepsakes take us on five remarkable journeys that heal old
wounds, remind us of days gone by, play matchmaker, sweep us back in
time and prove that love can conquer all.
~~~~~~~
Mistletoe and Magick ~ Ruth A. Casie
She
would give her last breath for him. He would give up everything to
guard her well and love her more.
Christmas Spirits ~ Lita Harris
A
widow's everlasting love is renewed by the memories of the holiday
season.
Granting Her Wish ~ Emma Kaye
She
doesn't belong in his time and he doesn't belong back home. Could
they belong to each other?
Letter from St. Nick ~ Nicole S. Patrick
She’s
trying to save her home and he’s never had one until now. Can an
unexpected gift lead their hearts to the same place?
Secret Santa ~ Julie Rowe
A nurse
grieving the death of her twin brother receives an usual gift at the
staff secret Santa party: the bullet that killed him along with a
message of hope and love.
Mistletoe and Magick
Ruth A. Casie
She would give her last breath
for him. He would give up everything to guard her well and love her
more.
Excerpt Mistletoe and Magic:
Chapter One
Dead. Maximilian glared
at the wilted mistletoe in disbelief. He poked and prodded the plant.
It lay there tired and limp. He had cared for the sacred plant for a
year. The Ancestors had trusted him to follow their orders. Find a
wife—a soul mate. How difficult could it be? All he needed to do
was visit the eligible women and choose one. He slammed his fist onto
the rough oak table and bellowed his anger to the empty room. Dishes
skidded and crashed to the floor. The lifeless shrub didn’t move.
It didn’t change. It sat where he’d put it—robust and
healthy—the night before. Now the crumpled brown leaves and
withered white berries silently screamed his failure.
He
could think of no reason why it hadn’t survived. He kept staring at
the shriveled plant expecting—no, commanding—it to spring to
life. It didn’t. He raked his hand through his hair. Everything
he’d worked and trained for over the years was lost. He closed his
eyes and traveled to that quiet place deep in his mind where he drew
his inner strength. One deep breath, then another. His pounding heart
took on a more natural rhythm. The reality of his situation hung on
his shoulders like an oxen’s yoke.
“What’s
happened? I heard a loud crash.” Doward rushed into the cottage and
scanned the debris on the floor.
Max
didn’t trust his voice. He shot the druid councilman a look and
pointed to the plant on the table. He registered Doward’s
unreadable expression and let out a quiet snort. Perhaps that was
best. He was grateful his mentor didn’t show his disappointment.
Doward, too, had warned him.
“One
year.” Max tipped up his chin and struck a congenial tone. “I’ll
wager no other Grand Master was forced to relinquish his position
after only one year.” He turned away, not wanting to see his close
friend’s disappointment.
“Well,”
said Doward. “There was Elgon in the year sixty.”
Max’s
head popped up. He hadn’t expected Doward to respond. The question
had been rhetorical.
“You
appear to have forgotten your elementary history lessons.” Doward
stood shaking an old, crooked finger at him.
Max’s
mouth opened and closed like a beached fish gasping for air. Only
Doward had the nerve, the audacity, to reprimand him. Doward and the
Ancestors. He couldn’t forget the Ancestors. They had the ultimate
power over him.
“Yes,
but the Roman invaders killed Elgon at Anglesey.” Max’s
distraction was momentary. He leaned on the table and looked Doward
in the eye. “They did not depose him because he couldn’t find his
soul mate and give her the sacred mistletoe before it died.” He
straightened, stepped to the cottage door, and stared out at the day
but didn’t appreciate its sunshine or enjoy the invigorating
coolness of the December morning. He turned to Doward. “It simply
proves the council made the wrong choice.”
“Nonsense.”
Doward picked up the stray crockery from the floor and set it back on
the table. “The council did not make an error. You, my boy,” he
strode over to Max and clapped him soundly on the back, “were by
far the right choice.”
“It
isn’t that I haven’t been searching for the woman.” He saw the
compassion in Doward’s eyes. “Surely the Ancestors know I’ve
done that.” Even he detected the pleading in his voice and groaned
at his weakness.
“Yes,
yes.” Doward waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Every eligible
woman in the village has gone under your scrutiny.”
“Every
eligible woman in the village treated me kindly but none were
interested in getting close.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Even
when speaking simple pleasantries they avoided looking at me and
stepped away.” He tried to conceal his frustration but his throat
tightened and his voice rose the more he spoke of the women’s
reactions.
“Perhaps
you should have cast a wider net.” Doward’s tone had turned
serious.
Max
seethed, having to explain his actions to Doward. “You of all
people should know there were more important things that needed to be
done.”
“But
I don’t think—”
“Yes,
I know,” Max interrupted. “You don’t think the woman is someone
I know or is even amongst the villagers.” He glanced at his teacher
and softened his voice. “What was I to do? Go from village to
village and give every available maiden the mistletoe and see if it
thrived?”
“And
now? What now?” asked Doward in a gentle tone.
Max
turned from the door and sat next to the warm hearth. He rested his
elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands as if he sought to
overcome a night of too much drink. “I don’t know,” he
whispered. He did know that while he found some of the women
beautiful and even enticing, none was his soul mate.
“The
ritual of Alban Arthan is tomorrow. You are the Grand Master.”
Doward stood at Max’s shoulder. “It’s time for you to travel
and meet with the Ancestors in the Otherworld. Only you can carry
back their guidance and inspiration for the coming year. And you will
have to tell them you haven’t found your mate.”
“I’m
aware,” he snapped and regretted his outburst. “Yes,” he
softened his tone. “I know what I must do.” Of course he did.
He’d been responsible for the annual ritual for the past five
years—four years when he was a high druid and this past year as the
Grand Master. Every year was the same. Except last year, they’d
presented him with the sacred mistletoe and charged him with finding
his soul mate.
“I
will go and gather what we need for our journey,” offered Doward.
“We’ve delayed as long as we can. I’ve asked one of the
families who set off yesterday to prepare our campsite. But we must
leave today.”
Max
lifted his head and flashed the man a weak smile. “Aye, you go on.
I have a few more things to gather. I’ll join you shortly.”
Doward
regarded him thoroughly. After a few seconds he squeezed Max’s
shoulder. “We will get through this.” His mentor took his leave.
He
glanced again at the shriveled plant. It had the power to heal
everything but itself, it seemed. Doward was right, of course. He
would get through this. But would he still be the Grand Master, or
reduced to a druid councilman, a priest, or, worse—exiled? He had
delayed in order to search his vast library to prepare himself for
the consequences and realized he would have the distinction of being
the only Grand Master to fail when tasked by the Ancestors. He
shuddered inwardly at the idea of failure. It was something he had no
practice in.
“Well.”
He slapped his hands on his knees and rose. He must see this through.
He doused the fire, grabbed his half-full pack, and filled it with
provisions.
He
picked up his warding stones. Perhaps the Ancestors would allow him
to train his successor. His chest tightened at the thought. He held
the warding stones over the opening of the pouch. But what if the
Ancestors had been wrong? He threw the small bundle into his kit and
stared at the plant. Somewhere deep inside, a different answer sought
light. He turned the problem over in his mind until the solution
finally burst through the haze. He smiled at its simplicity and
truth. He would go to the Otherworld. Give the Ancestors the withered
mistletoe. And tell them he passed their test. There was no soul mate
for him.
About Ruth A. Casie:
Ruth started reading romance books
while traveling the world for business. Traveling alone can be
daunting but she found a book in hand could see her through long
waits at the airport as well as being good company at dinner for one.
For some of her longer treks, she pared down what she packed to make
room for books. Her favorite genres are romance and adventure.
A seasoned professional with more than
twenty-five years of writing experience in communications and
marketing for a large financial institution, she gave way to her
inner muse and began writing a series of historical fantasy romance
novels. Ruth is published by Carina Press and Harlequin Books.
When not writing you can find her home
in Teaneck, New Jersey, reading, cooking, doing Sudoku and counted
cross-stitch. Together with her husband, Paul, they enjoy ballroom
dancing and going to the theater. Ruth and Paul have three grown
children and two grandchildren. They all thrive on spending time
together. It’s certainly a lively dinner table and they wouldn’t
change it for the world.
You can read more about Ruth online at
www.RuthACasie.com , on Twitter at twitter.com/RuthACasie, or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/RuthACasie
Christmas Spirits
Lita Harris
A widow's everlasting love is
renewed by the memories of the holiday season.
Excerpt Christmas Spirits:
Chapter
One
“What’s
this, Grams?”
Emily Chadwick watched Olivia’s tiny feet shuffle across the
kitchen floor as she approached with a small globe nestled in her
hands. She stood back from the stove and brushed a lock of frizzy
bang away from her eyes. The beef stew was nearly ready as meat,
carrots, onions, and potatoes simmered, a perfect winter meal. She
flicked the back of her hand and Olivia stepped away from the stove.
“What do you have there?” She pulled out a hand-carved chair from
the kitchen table—always meaning to replace them with something
lighter and modern—but she couldn’t bring herself to rid the
house of any furniture Michael had made. She stretched out her arm as
her granddaughter placed the piece of glass into her withered hands.
“Huh.” Emily caught her breath. “Where did you find this?”
“In the attic. I was looking for Cleo. She ran up there when I
opened the door to let some cool air into the hallway upstairs.”
The heat was difficult to control in the house, built in 1850, and
the attic door proved more efficient at controlling the heat than a
thermostat.
Emily held the ornament to the light. Snow filled the globe as she
twirled it between her fingers. “Your grandfather made this when we
first met.”
“It’s pretty.” Olivia squinted her eyes. “Is that you and
Grandpa on the lake?”
Emily nodded. “Yes it is. He was a stickler for detail. He didn’t
make much blown glass so this is very special. He focused mainly on
furniture.” She fought back a frown as she glanced at the silent
guitar in the corner next to a chair by the kitchen fireplace.
Olivia stood back, away from the table, and clasped her hands behind
her back. “I’m not touching it ever!”
“You’ll have to at some point because it’ll be yours.” She
laughed.
“Nope, give it to Mom.”
Emily knew her granddaughter couldn’t appreciate the sentimental
value the ornament possessed, but she could tell Olivia knew it would
be a bad thing if the ornament broke.
“You look sad, Grams.”
She walked over to the sink and opened the window. Dust flitted
through the room as the cool outside air merged with the heat from
the kitchen fireplace. It was a constant battle to create a
comfortable temperature in the old house. “Sit down, dear.”
She strolled over to the kitchen table and pushed a plate of fudge
walnut brownies toward her granddaughter. Olivia poured them each a
glass of milk. Emily wrinkled her nose in silent protest but couldn’t
refuse the gesture. It was good for her, no matter how much she hated
the taste and smell of milk.
Emily watched Olivia scoff down a brownie quicker than she could say
the word. She enjoyed the time spent alone with her granddaughter.
Soon, the day would come when Olivia wouldn’t want to spend time at
her grandmother’s house to help bake Christmas cookies. Emily had
seen it happen with her own daughter and she doubted that Olivia
would be any different.
It had been years since she’d made a holiday dinner but every year
she insisted on baking. It helped to keep her mind busy and not miss
Michael so much.
“I wish you could have known your grandfather.” She turned the
ornament to catch the light. Fake snow swirled about the skaters on
the lake.
“Mom talks about Grandpa a lot. I know she misses him.” Olivia
snatched another brownie.
Emily smiled. “I bet she does. All she ever had to do was ask for
something and he jumped to help her.” She picked up a brownie and
nibbled the edge of the crusty confection. “That was his way.
Always eager to help someone.” And that’s how he died. She
closed her eyes and remembered that day.
Michael just had to go out into the blizzard and pull his
buddy out of a ditch. But that’s how he was. No one anticipated the
cable line snapping and knocking him down the hill into a cluster of
trees.
She couldn’t be mad even though she missed him. He was doing what
had made her fall in love with him, being generous, kind, and giving.
She pushed the memory aside and sighed a deep breath of relief.
“I would have liked to meet him.” Olivia took another brownie
from the plate and shoved it into her mouth. “Tell me about him.”
Emily swept her hand through the air, then pointed about the room.
“Your grandfather bought this house for me and restored it himself
right after we got married. He made nearly every piece of wood
furniture that fills the rooms of this old place.”
Emily picked up the ornament and cupped it in her hands. “But it
was what he did before our wedding day that took my breath away and
stole my heart forever.” Tears filled her eyes.
“What was that, Grams?” Olivia knelt on the kitchen chair and her
ten-year-old face glowed with excitement.
“Well, it all started in the late ’60s…”
About
Lita Harris:
Lita
Harris spends her time between New Jersey and the Endless
Mountains region of Pennsylvania, where she writes most of her
books. She also lived in Alaska for a short time
just for fun. An avid crafter, unused supplies clutter
her basement and attempts at making pottery, jewelry, and
stained glass are proudly displayed in her house,
usually behind a picture or holding a door open. She also makes
candles and homemade soap. With enough books to stock a small
library she may need to construct a building to store her
literary obsessions.
Granting Her Wish
Emma Kaye
She doesn't belong
in his time and he doesn't belong back home. Could they belong to
each other?
Excerpt Granting Her Wish:
Danielle
Thiessen smiled like an idiot as she held open the door of the café.
The place had been like a second home to her the past few weeks.
Riding the PATH train back and forth to Manhattan for countless job
interviews during the day while tending bar each night, she’d
needed all the caffeine she could get.
She breathed in the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee and
cinnamon rolls that wafted out the door along with a blast of warm
air. The frigid wind of December in Hoboken made quick work of the
warmth, but the cold couldn’t touch her today.
An elderly man in a fedora and thick, horn-rimmed glasses shuffled
through the open door. He tipped his hat in thanks and her grin
widened. He probably thought she was a lunatic, but she didn’t
care. Nothing could bring her down. She undid the buttons on her
knee-length, cherry-red wool coat. She struggled with the zipper
underneath while she waited in line, only managing to yank it free
when she arrived at the front.
“Merry Christmas, Wendy. Small coffee, please.”
“Merry Christmas! How’s the job search going, sweetie?” Wendy
plucked a festive red-and-green paper cup from the stack and filled
it with the strong Colombian brew she knew Dani preferred.
“Great.” Dani beamed. “I’m just coming back from my final
interview. I got the job! I start right after New Year’s.”
Wendy stretched across the counter to give Dani a quick hug. “That’s
wonderful news.” She pulled back and picked up a plate of sugar
cookies decorated like ornaments. “How about a little treat to
celebrate?”
Dani shook her head. “No, thanks. Coffee’s fine.” Treats would
have to wait until her first paycheck. Her bank account was running
on fumes. She’d have skipped the drink altogether if they would’ve
allowed her to sit there without ordering something. Wendy wouldn’t
mind, but her boss? Uh, no.
She passed her money to Wendy and dropped the change into the tip
jar. It wasn’t much, but Wendy needed the help. Dani wasn’t the
only one with shaky finances. She and Wendy worked nights together at
the bar and often shared tips on how to make their meager incomes
stretch as far as possible. Wendy knew just how much it pained Dani
to be in debt.
Just a few weeks to get through before she could rest easy. She’d
scraped enough together to pay January’s rent since that would be
due before her first paycheck hit her account. Utilities would be
late, but she’d worked out a payment plan with the utility company
and she’d be only a few days behind.
A knot formed in her stomach just thinking about it. What choice did
she have? Thank God those days were almost behind her.
Dani draped her purse over the back of a chair before pulling out her
little notebook to jot down some figures. She stifled a groan as she
sat, her feet aching from her pretty, but not exactly sensible,
boots. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk home.
All she needed was a little break. A few moments to think things
through. She wrote down the salary she’d been promised so she could
figure out what her checks would look like.
The credit cards would take a while. They’d gotten out of hand once
her mom’s medical bills started streaming in. But if she maintained
her current spartan lifestyle a few extra months, she’d get a
handle on it before too long.
She scrutinized her calculations and swore under her breath. She’d
forgotten all about taxes. She reworked her numbers. The new figures
made her stomach plummet.
Her head dropped into her hands. She was so screwed. At this rate,
she wouldn’t be out of debt until her forties. She shivered from
the cold seeping through the glass window at her side.
“Everything okay?”
She swiveled in her chair to locate the source of the voice and found
herself face-to-face with the old man in the fedora. She hadn’t
realized they sat so close.
“Sure, I’m fine,” she lied.
His eyes narrowed and lips pursed in a thoughtful expression. He
wasn’t buying it. “I understand. But, you know, sometimes it’s
easier to tell your problems to a stranger.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She grimaced. “Of course, it’s not like I
have any friends to talk to anyway. I’m new in town.”
“I’ve been married almost fifty years. My wife tells me I’m a
good listener.”
“Fifty years? Wow. The longest relationship I’ve had was a year.”
His lips quivered but he just watched her, a patient expression on
his face, his head tilted slightly to one side.
The urge to spill all her secrets bubbled up. Her eyes burned with
the heat of unshed tears.
She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a crumpled napkin. The rough
paper scratched her upper lip. She’d given her last tissue to a
mother with a crying toddler on the train.
“I was going to have such a great life, you know? Get a great job.
Make lots of money. The works. Completely independent, with no one to
worry about but myself. Exactly what I wanted.” The lights in her
home would go on when she flipped the switch. No worries. Not like
when she was a kid. “So, I packed up my stuff and moved here from
South Jersey. I had it all planned out. New York City was the place
to be. So many opportunities. I made sure I saved enough money to
tide me over while I landed the perfect job.”
“I take it you haven’t had any luck finding that job?”
She threw her crumpled napkin on the table. “Nope. Got it. I start
in a few weeks. Great base pay plus commission when I pass a certain
level of sales.”
The wrinkles in his forehead deepened as he tilted his head to
consider her. “Then why the sad face?”
“It’s not enough. Right after I moved, I found out my mom has
lung cancer.”
He patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He’d rolled up his
sleeves to the elbows despite the chill in the air, revealing the
faded blue tattoo lines of an eagle clutching an American flag on his
forearm.
She tucked her shaking hands under her thighs and hunched forward.
“Thanks.” She shrugged. “She didn’t even call me. I found out
when she ran out of money and couldn’t stand the only places she
could afford. She moved in and now I’m paying for a part-time
caregiver and sleeping on my lumpy sofa. It’s all piling up and in
the end, I’m going to be left with a heap of unresolved mommy
issues, not enough time to come to terms with her, and a whole stack
of bills I won’t be able to climb out from under for the next
twenty years.” She twisted her head until her neck gave a
satisfying crack. It didn’t do much to ease the tension in her
shoulders. “I swore to myself I’d never live like this again, yet
here I am.”
“Sounds like you could use a little luck.”
She snorted. “No kidding. But I don’t believe in luck. At least,
not today.”
He smiled. “Understandable. I was young once. Didn’t believe in
luck much myself, though it has served me well through my many
years.” He winked. “Even let me keep most of my hair, though my
grandpa was balder than a cue ball.” He tossed his hat onto the
table while patting his full head of silver-gray hair.
She laughed. Sweet of him to try to cheer me up.
“I’ve even shared my luck with others upon occasion.” He
settled back in his chair.
Dani stifled a sigh. She sensed a story coming on. Her grandmother
had been full of them and they all started with the settling back in
a chair to get comfy. They usually ended with Dani asleep in her bed.
Well, at least she had an excuse not to return home right away. It
would be rude to cut him off.
“I was a soldier. Though not by choice. Dodging the draft didn’t
seem right, so when my number came up, I reported for duty.”
Judging by his choice of words and a quick calculation in her head,
she guessed, “Vietnam?”
He sighed. “It was a horrible time. I’m an artist. A sensitive
soul, my mother used to say. My father figured the army would toughen
me up. He wasn’t wrong.” He fell silent, his gaze fixed somewhere
beyond the window.
She picked at her cup. Did she want to hear the rest of his story?
He’d drawn her in, despite herself, but…
“My tour was finally over. One last mission. It went wrong, of
course. Last missions always seemed to go wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His eyes glinted with unshed tears. He patted her hand, the feel of
his skin warm and paper-thin against her fingers.
“I was there for a reason and luck saw me through.” He paused.
His eyes glazed over as if he no longer saw the café around him. “We
were passing through a little hamlet when Charlie attacked. The
villagers scattered, but this little girl just froze. Right in the
middle of everything.
“I grabbed her, but we were pinned down. I couldn’t move for fear
she’d get hit. I could feel the thud of the bullets all around us.
See the little puffs of dirt fly up as the bullets struck.
“My luck saw me through. Or hers did. I don’t know. But we didn’t
get a scratch. It ended in short order, though it seemed like forever
before I handed that child back to her family.
“Her grandma was a witch, I suppose. Grabbed my hand and started
mumbling. I couldn’t understand a word. She picked up one of my
bullet casings, a handful of dirt, and shattered glass. She slashed
her hand and squeezed blood onto the whole mess, muttering all the
while and refusing to release me. When she finished, she filled a
little canvas bag and passed it to me. Her daughter told me it was a
bag of luck. That it would one day grant me what I needed most.”
Dani pressed a hand to her chest and leaned forward. “And did it?”
He shrugged. “I met my wife before I had the chance to use it. I
never needed anything else once I had her.” He scanned the room,
stopping at a spot somewhere behind her. A small smile lit his face.
“That’s lovely.” Fifty years and still so deeply in love he
couldn’t talk about his wife without smiling.
He dragged a fabric shopping bag across his table, rooted around, and
pulled out a small, black velvet bag. He held it in the palm of his
hand. “I melted the casing, mixed in the rest and made it into this
ornament. Perhaps it has some magic remaining?” He held it out to
her. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
She waved him off. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” She really couldn’t.
Knowing what was in it turned her stomach. She did not want to touch
that thing.
He slipped the ties open and tilted the bag. The meager sunlight
streaming in through the heavily fogged window seemed to brighten and
splashed off a delicate, heart-shaped ornament.
She gasped in delight. It was stunning. Intricate silver filigree
worked through a beautiful mosaic of red-and-green stained glass. She
extended a tentative finger toward it but pulled back. “It’s
gorgeous.”
He nudged it toward her. “It’s Christmas. Anything is possible at
Christmas. Besides, what could it hurt?”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose a little extra money could come in
handy.” She reached out, at the same time noticing the inscription.
Always. Wouldn’t that be nice.
Her fingers traced the delicate lines of the ornament. Her heart sped
up with longing. Moisture flooded her mouth and she swallowed. Her
vision blurred. She blinked. Red and gold blended and swirled before
her eyes until the swaying colors filled her sight.
“Are you okay, little lady?”
She stumbled to her feet, the old man’s voice an echo in her ears.
“Um, yeah. I just…need a little air.” She staggered to the
door, fingers pressed to her pounding temples. She fell out onto the
frozen asphalt.
About Emma Kaye:
Emma Kaye is married to her high school
sweetheart and has two beautiful kids that she spends an insane
amount of time driving around central New Jersey. Before ballet
classes and tennis entered her life, she decided to try writing one
of those romances she loved to read and discovered a new passion. She
has been writing ever since. Add in a playful puppy and an extremely
patient cat and she’s living her own happily ever after while
making her characters work hard to reach theirs.
Letter from St. Nick
Nicole S. Patrick
Excerpt:
Chapter One
“Last call for flight
one eighty-nine, nonstop service to Jacksonville, Florida. All seats
boarding.”
Thad
Sinclair groaned at the stiffness in his kneecap, the result of
sitting too long. Twenty-four hours ago he’d left Afghanistan,
flown to Istanbul, and was at the tail end of a six-hour layover in
New York City. God, he was beat. Plus, he was a grubby, ripe mess in
his cammies and combat boots. He grabbed his rucksack, following the
other stragglers in line to the Jetway for the last leg of his
journey home.
Wherever
that was.
The
gate agent smiled, thanking him for his service when she took his
boarding pass. Many people had stopped him to say “Thank you” or
“Welcome home” since he’d arrived at LaGuardia Airport. It was
good to be back on US soil and see friendly faces instead of watching
his back and fighting insurgents at every turn.
He
stowed his bag in the overhead compartment, settled in his seat then
took a creased and worn sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket.
Not
two weeks ago, Lieutenant Grant had kidded, “Sinclair, here’s a
bunch of mail for you. What’d you hit the jackpot, my man?”
He
sighed and shook his head.
Thad
unfolded the letter and a sharp sting hit the back of his throat. Aw,
hell. He blew out an unsteady breath as wetness seeped behind his
eyes. His gut clenched just thinking about the man who had been more
“Dad” than his own ever was.
Thad, my laddie, if you are reading this letter it means that I’m
gone. And it also means there are some things you need to be apprised
of. My good friend and attorney Rupert Green has all the information
for you about my estate.
It’s time, Thad. Stop the globe-trotting and fighting the bad
guys, and come back. Plant some roots, son. I’m just sorry I won’t
be here to greet you.
You are the son I never had. I’ve always been very proud of the
path you took. To this day I think your father was a jackass for all
the pain he caused you, rest his soul. I hate writing this
sentimental drivel, but I figured your aunt Maeve would’ve wanted
me to.
Not many people knew I was sick so don’t go beating yourself up
or getting upset over things. There was nothing you could’ve done.
No use in fighting the inevitable. I’m going to join my Maeve now,
and I’m okay and ready for it.
Semper Fidelis,
Uncle Nick.
Thad
slid up the window cover to gaze at the planes parked side by side in
the terminal.
It’d
been more than three years since he’d last seen his uncle. Yes,
three years ago at Dad’s debauchery of a funeral right here in New
York. His parents’ decision to leave what remained of their fortune
to charity had turned ugly at the reading of their will. The
Sinclairs were not a forgiving bunch. That was a fact. No, the
stuffy, upper-crust, uptown cousins he couldn’t stand looked down
their noses at the soldier in the family. He’d given up years ago
making the correction that he was, in fact, a Marine.
None
in the Sinclair branch of the family tree had ever pardoned him for
being the “disappointment” to his father, even after the old man
passed away.
Uncle
Nick and Aunt Maeve were the only family who’d accepted him despite
all of his faults, shortcomings, and “unrealistic”—according to
dear old Dad—aspirations. Thad never understood how unrealistic it
was to want to serve and protect the country which helped shape the
Sinclairs into their successes. Ironically, Nick had been a black
sheep in the Sinclair clan too. Maybe that was why they’d become
close before he’d shipped out to begin his stint in the Corps.
Thad
racked his brain to recall any telltale signs in Uncle Nick’s
appearance the last time they’d met. But the strapping giant had
embraced him with the same spine-cracking hug, kidding him about
making nice with the rest of the family.
Had
Uncle Nick been sick back then? Understandably, he’d been
sadder since losing Aunt Maeve, and not nearly as animated as he
normally was during the Sinclair family get-togethers. More like
battles. But nothing else had seemed different.
He
sniffed and swiped his eyes, sinking against the cool leather of his
upgraded first-class seat. Damn! Why hadn’t he reached out sooner?
Why had he chosen to be gone for so long? Perhaps the day-to-day
shit storm of war was what had held him back from at least sending
e-mail? What a lame excuse. He could’ve found the time. The
motives for staying away may have been valid at the time, but for
some reason he couldn’t recall any of them.
Now
he’d never get to say goodbye. Talk about feeling lower than a
junkyard dog. He’d wasted so much time not keeping in touch
with the family who actually cared about him. His parents, for
certain, hadn’t given a flying… Stop it, Sinclair. No use
thinking about them now.
He
clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. Anger waned into the familiar
ache of loneliness, as it always did when he thought of his parents.
He tamped down the vise of pain surrounding his insides, just as he’d
done eons ago when he was a young Marine.
He
scrubbed a hand down his face and placed Uncle Nick’s letter on the
vacant seat beside him. He closed his eyes as a headache crept up the
base of his skull.
The
thought of going back to active duty after this leave was over made
him twitchy. He had to admit, the bum knee was shot, and someday he
feared it just might get in the way of his survival. Maybe it was
time to let the younger, gung-ho guys take over. Was he actually
considering throwing in the towel?
Focus
on the now, Sinclair. Once he arrived in Florida, it would be a
quick trip to Jacksonville to get his truck from his buddy’s garage
and retrieve what remained of his scant personal belongings from the
storage unit.
“We’ll
be taking off momentarily, folks.” The pilot’s voice cut through
the speakers. The announcement, coupled with the engines firing up,
jolted Thad out of his musings.
Two
weeks ago he wondered about his next destination. Now he knew—Amelia
Island, Florida.
About
Nicole S. Patrick:
Nicole S. Patrick has always loved to
read, and in her teenage years, she “borrowed” her mom’s books
to sneak away and become lost in the world of romance. After more
than ten years in the corporate world of tech recruiting and HR
management, she decided to stay home and raise children. But with so
many romantic stories and characters floating around in her head,
when the kids napped, she was compelled to put those words on a page
and pursue this crazy dream of becoming published. Nicole writes
romantic suspense and her heroes are those alpha males in uniform.
She lives in New Jersey with her real-life hero, her husband, and her
two sons.
Secret Santa
Julie Rowe
Excerpt Secret Santa:
Chapter
One
“I hate Secret Santa,”
Kenzie Bowman muttered to herself. She crossed her arms over her
chest and leaned against the wall, as far away from the crowded
hospital’s emergency department lunch room table as possible. The
table was covered in wrapped boxes and gift bags. A bevy of nurses
rummaged through them looking for their name on a tag, squeals of
glee and laughter filling the remaining space in the room.
Anyone
walking by would think it was Black Friday. They’d be lucky if they
didn’t end up treating one of their own for a bloody nose.
She
used to love Christmas. The decorations, buying just the right gift
for a friend, singing carols, and spending time with the people she
loved.
Until
last year.
Until
her twin brother, Kennon, was killed on Christmas Day.
Now,
she just wanted the entire event to be over. She never wanted to see
another Christmas tree, hear another Christmas song, or taste eggnog
ever again.
Her
friend Amy surfaced from the circling sharks with a gift in each
hand. “I found yours, Kenzie,” she said with Christmas cheer that
darn near dripped sugar.
Oh
joy.
Amy
bounced up to Kenzie and thrust the gift into her hands, then
proceeded to rip the paper off her own.
“Ohh,”
she squealed, segueing into a victory dance as she hoisted her booty
into the air. “A bottle of Baileys! Santa loves me, yes he does.”
Amy paused mid-dance to lever her laser-sharp gaze at Kenzie. “Your
turn, Ebenezer. Open it.”
“What’s
the point? I don’t wear perfume, I don’t like scented candles,
and I don’t drink alcohol. We know the likelihood of one of those
three items being in this box is eighty-six-point-three percent.”
“You
sound like a computer when you talk that way,” Amy said,
enunciating each word individually.
“Better
than having your eardrums blown out by indiscriminate screaming.”
Amy’s
eyes narrowed to two slits. “Open the box.”
“Have
I mentioned how much I hate Secret Santa?”
“The
box, Kenzie. Now.”
“Fine.”
Kenzie rolled her eyes and picked at the festive paper. “But if
this gift sucks it’s going home with you.”
Amy’s
fierce expression slowly turned into a frown. “You don’t just
hate Secret Santa, you hate Christmas, don’t you?”
“Do
you blame me?” Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy and love,
spent with friends and family. All that was impossible for her now.
She and Kennon had been all each other had for eight years now. A
heart attack had taken Dad from them. Mom followed him to the grave
four months later.
Amy
glanced away at the crowd of nurses and doctors for a second, then
met Kenzie’s gaze. “I suppose not. But it’s not healthy for you
to brood.” She watched Kenzie’s fingers as they slowly peeled the
tape from the paper. “Come to my place Christmas Day,” Amy said,
the words rushing out of her mouth like a five-year-old who’d had
too much candy. “Don’t stay home alone. Please.”
“I
won’t be good company.”
“That’s
why you should come.”
The
last of the tape came off the paper and Kenzie carefully folded it
and threw it into the garbage can. The box in her hand was too small
for a bottle of Baileys, so it was down to perfume or candles. She
opened the top, pushed aside the tissue paper, and pulled out a glass
ball about the size of her fist.
The
glass was plain, no decoration or sparkles. Something hung inside it,
tied up in some string. She turned the ball to see if she could get a
better look—
A
bullet.
A
smashed, wrecked bullet.
Pain
seized her diaphragm and brought her breathing to a screeching halt.
The agony ricocheted through her body until even the tips of her hair
hurt.
“What’s
that?” Amy asked, staring at the ball, confusion furrowing her
forehead. “It’s not very festive looking.”
It
could only be one thing.
“The
reason why I hate Christmas.” Her voice sounded strangely calm.
“Huh?”
“This
isn’t from staff, it’s from my brother’s best military buddy.”
Why?
Why would he do this? Give her the one thing guaranteed to rip her
heart out while it was only barely still beating.
“It’s
the bullet that killed my brother.” The words came from far, far
away. Almost an echo.
Amy’s
gaze jerked up to meet her own. “Your brother? But I thought he…
Shit,” she breathed out as a whisper. “How do you know it’s
that bullet?”
“Because
he tried to give it to me before.”
“He
what?”
But
Kenzie wasn’t listening anymore. She was drowning in sorrow. It
clouded her mind, sight, and hearing, pulling her under into a dark
and silent world. Somehow she walked from the lunch room to the
waiting room, but she had no memory of doing it. This must be what
teleportation was like. Going from location to location without the
inconvenience of conventional travel.
People
turned as she entered the waiting area, most of them likely hoping
she’d call their name.
Except
for one.
One
man stood slowly, staring at her face, his gaze apologetic. He was
tall and fit, with a squared face that was strong rather than
handsome. Every woman in the room turned to stare at him, but he
didn’t seem to notice. His whole focus was on her.
She
angled her head back sharply then turned and walked a little ways
until she got to a large wheelchair-accessible washroom. She went
inside. He followed her in and she shut and locked the door.
Kenzie
glared at the man who had been trying to give her a damaged bullet
for the past three months. A man she’d refused to see again after
their first disastrous conversation. A man she’d told to go to
hell.
A man
she’d once thought she loved.
Gage
Remington.
She
held out the box to him. “I don’t want this. I never wanted to
see it and to find it in a glass ball pretending to be a Christmas
ornament—” For a moment she ran completely out of breath. “Take
it.”
He
made no effort to accept the box. “Damn it, Kenzie, he wanted you
to have it.”
“My
brother wanted me to have the bullet that killed him?”
“No.
He wanted you to have a reminder of what you have to live for. ‘We’re
all just a bullet or a breath away from oblivion; don’t waste
yours’—wasn’t that the phrase you used to say goodbye with?”
He took a step toward her. “He made me swear. It was the last thing
he said to me before—”
She
thrust a warning finger an inch from his nose. “Don’t say it.”
She paced a step or two away, then back. “I never knew how stupid
and childish it was to say the rhyme our grandfather taught us until
the damn bullet showed up.” She shoved the box at him and spun,
grabbing for the door handle, but he got there before she could get
the door open.
He
took her shoulders into his hands and turned her.
She
didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want
to face the reality of her life with her brother—her best friend—no
longer in it.
She
pounded on Gage’s chest and fought to get herself free.
He
simply gathered her up and pulled her into his intractable embrace.
Someone was crying deep, shuddering sobs that sounded like they were
coming out of the throat of a tortured person.
That’s
when she realized—she was the person crying.
About Julie Rowe:
Julie Rowe’s first career as a
medical lab technologist in Canada took her to the Northwest
Territories and northern Alberta, where she still resides. She loves
to include medical details in her romance novels, but admits she’ll
never be able to write about all her medical experiences because, “No
one would believe them!” In addition to writing contemporary and
historical medical romance, and fun romantic suspense for Entangled
Publishing and Carina Press, Julie has a short story in The Mammoth
Book of ER Romance (September 2013). Her book Saving the Rifleman
(book one of the War Girls series) won the novella category of the
2013 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. Her writing has also appeared
in several magazines such as Today’s Parent, Reader’s Digest
(Canada), Canadian Living, and Romantic Times Magazine.
Timeless
Keepsakes:
A Collection of Christmas Stories
Ruth A. Casie, Lita Harris,
Emma Kaye, Nicole S. Patrick, Julie
Rowe
Genre: Historical, Contemporary, Time
Travel,
Military, Medical Romances
Publisher: Timeless Scribes Publishing
Date of Publication: November 11, 2013
ISBN: 978-0-09910520-0-4
Number of pages: 270
Word Count: 65,000
Cover Artist: Alchemy Book Covers and
Design
Book Description:
The
magic of Christmas is in the memories we hold dear and those
precious treasures that remind us of the past. Join us as our
Timeless Keepsakes take us on five remarkable journeys that heal old
wounds, remind us of days gone by, play matchmaker, sweep us back in
time and prove that love can conquer all.
~~~~~~~
Mistletoe and Magick ~ Ruth A. Casie
She
would give her last breath for him. He would give up everything to
guard her well and love her more.
Christmas Spirits ~ Lita Harris
A
widow's everlasting love is renewed by the memories of the holiday
season.
Granting Her Wish ~ Emma Kaye
She
doesn't belong in his time and he doesn't belong back home. Could
they belong to each other?
Letter from St. Nick ~ Nicole S. Patrick
She’s
trying to save her home and he’s never had one until now. Can an
unexpected gift lead their hearts to the same place?
Secret Santa ~ Julie Rowe
A nurse
grieving the death of her twin brother receives an usual gift at the
staff secret Santa party: the bullet that killed him along with a
message of hope and love.
Mistletoe and Magick
Ruth A. Casie
She would give her last breath
for him. He would give up everything to guard her well and love her
more.
Excerpt Mistletoe and Magic:
Chapter One
Dead. Maximilian glared
at the wilted mistletoe in disbelief. He poked and prodded the plant.
It lay there tired and limp. He had cared for the sacred plant for a
year. The Ancestors had trusted him to follow their orders. Find a
wife—a soul mate. How difficult could it be? All he needed to do
was visit the eligible women and choose one. He slammed his fist onto
the rough oak table and bellowed his anger to the empty room. Dishes
skidded and crashed to the floor. The lifeless shrub didn’t move.
It didn’t change. It sat where he’d put it—robust and
healthy—the night before. Now the crumpled brown leaves and
withered white berries silently screamed his failure.
He
could think of no reason why it hadn’t survived. He kept staring at
the shriveled plant expecting—no, commanding—it to spring to
life. It didn’t. He raked his hand through his hair. Everything
he’d worked and trained for over the years was lost. He closed his
eyes and traveled to that quiet place deep in his mind where he drew
his inner strength. One deep breath, then another. His pounding heart
took on a more natural rhythm. The reality of his situation hung on
his shoulders like an oxen’s yoke.
“What’s
happened? I heard a loud crash.” Doward rushed into the cottage and
scanned the debris on the floor.
Max
didn’t trust his voice. He shot the druid councilman a look and
pointed to the plant on the table. He registered Doward’s
unreadable expression and let out a quiet snort. Perhaps that was
best. He was grateful his mentor didn’t show his disappointment.
Doward, too, had warned him.
“One
year.” Max tipped up his chin and struck a congenial tone. “I’ll
wager no other Grand Master was forced to relinquish his position
after only one year.” He turned away, not wanting to see his close
friend’s disappointment.
“Well,”
said Doward. “There was Elgon in the year sixty.”
Max’s
head popped up. He hadn’t expected Doward to respond. The question
had been rhetorical.
“You
appear to have forgotten your elementary history lessons.” Doward
stood shaking an old, crooked finger at him.
Max’s
mouth opened and closed like a beached fish gasping for air. Only
Doward had the nerve, the audacity, to reprimand him. Doward and the
Ancestors. He couldn’t forget the Ancestors. They had the ultimate
power over him.
“Yes,
but the Roman invaders killed Elgon at Anglesey.” Max’s
distraction was momentary. He leaned on the table and looked Doward
in the eye. “They did not depose him because he couldn’t find his
soul mate and give her the sacred mistletoe before it died.” He
straightened, stepped to the cottage door, and stared out at the day
but didn’t appreciate its sunshine or enjoy the invigorating
coolness of the December morning. He turned to Doward. “It simply
proves the council made the wrong choice.”
“Nonsense.”
Doward picked up the stray crockery from the floor and set it back on
the table. “The council did not make an error. You, my boy,” he
strode over to Max and clapped him soundly on the back, “were by
far the right choice.”
“It
isn’t that I haven’t been searching for the woman.” He saw the
compassion in Doward’s eyes. “Surely the Ancestors know I’ve
done that.” Even he detected the pleading in his voice and groaned
at his weakness.
“Yes,
yes.” Doward waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Every eligible
woman in the village has gone under your scrutiny.”
“Every
eligible woman in the village treated me kindly but none were
interested in getting close.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Even
when speaking simple pleasantries they avoided looking at me and
stepped away.” He tried to conceal his frustration but his throat
tightened and his voice rose the more he spoke of the women’s
reactions.
“Perhaps
you should have cast a wider net.” Doward’s tone had turned
serious.
Max
seethed, having to explain his actions to Doward. “You of all
people should know there were more important things that needed to be
done.”
“But
I don’t think—”
“Yes,
I know,” Max interrupted. “You don’t think the woman is someone
I know or is even amongst the villagers.” He glanced at his teacher
and softened his voice. “What was I to do? Go from village to
village and give every available maiden the mistletoe and see if it
thrived?”
“And
now? What now?” asked Doward in a gentle tone.
Max
turned from the door and sat next to the warm hearth. He rested his
elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands as if he sought to
overcome a night of too much drink. “I don’t know,” he
whispered. He did know that while he found some of the women
beautiful and even enticing, none was his soul mate.
“The
ritual of Alban Arthan is tomorrow. You are the Grand Master.”
Doward stood at Max’s shoulder. “It’s time for you to travel
and meet with the Ancestors in the Otherworld. Only you can carry
back their guidance and inspiration for the coming year. And you will
have to tell them you haven’t found your mate.”
“I’m
aware,” he snapped and regretted his outburst. “Yes,” he
softened his tone. “I know what I must do.” Of course he did.
He’d been responsible for the annual ritual for the past five
years—four years when he was a high druid and this past year as the
Grand Master. Every year was the same. Except last year, they’d
presented him with the sacred mistletoe and charged him with finding
his soul mate.
“I
will go and gather what we need for our journey,” offered Doward.
“We’ve delayed as long as we can. I’ve asked one of the
families who set off yesterday to prepare our campsite. But we must
leave today.”
Max
lifted his head and flashed the man a weak smile. “Aye, you go on.
I have a few more things to gather. I’ll join you shortly.”
Doward
regarded him thoroughly. After a few seconds he squeezed Max’s
shoulder. “We will get through this.” His mentor took his leave.
He
glanced again at the shriveled plant. It had the power to heal
everything but itself, it seemed. Doward was right, of course. He
would get through this. But would he still be the Grand Master, or
reduced to a druid councilman, a priest, or, worse—exiled? He had
delayed in order to search his vast library to prepare himself for
the consequences and realized he would have the distinction of being
the only Grand Master to fail when tasked by the Ancestors. He
shuddered inwardly at the idea of failure. It was something he had no
practice in.
“Well.”
He slapped his hands on his knees and rose. He must see this through.
He doused the fire, grabbed his half-full pack, and filled it with
provisions.
He
picked up his warding stones. Perhaps the Ancestors would allow him
to train his successor. His chest tightened at the thought. He held
the warding stones over the opening of the pouch. But what if the
Ancestors had been wrong? He threw the small bundle into his kit and
stared at the plant. Somewhere deep inside, a different answer sought
light. He turned the problem over in his mind until the solution
finally burst through the haze. He smiled at its simplicity and
truth. He would go to the Otherworld. Give the Ancestors the withered
mistletoe. And tell them he passed their test. There was no soul mate
for him.
About Ruth A. Casie:
Ruth started reading romance books
while traveling the world for business. Traveling alone can be
daunting but she found a book in hand could see her through long
waits at the airport as well as being good company at dinner for one.
For some of her longer treks, she pared down what she packed to make
room for books. Her favorite genres are romance and adventure.
A seasoned professional with more than
twenty-five years of writing experience in communications and
marketing for a large financial institution, she gave way to her
inner muse and began writing a series of historical fantasy romance
novels. Ruth is published by Carina Press and Harlequin Books.
When not writing you can find her home
in Teaneck, New Jersey, reading, cooking, doing Sudoku and counted
cross-stitch. Together with her husband, Paul, they enjoy ballroom
dancing and going to the theater. Ruth and Paul have three grown
children and two grandchildren. They all thrive on spending time
together. It’s certainly a lively dinner table and they wouldn’t
change it for the world.
You can read more about Ruth online at
www.RuthACasie.com , on Twitter at twitter.com/RuthACasie, or on
Facebook at
www.facebook.com/RuthACasie
Christmas Spirits
Lita Harris
A widow's everlasting love is
renewed by the memories of the holiday season.
Excerpt Christmas Spirits:
Chapter
One
“What’s
this, Grams?”
Emily Chadwick watched Olivia’s tiny feet shuffle across the
kitchen floor as she approached with a small globe nestled in her
hands. She stood back from the stove and brushed a lock of frizzy
bang away from her eyes. The beef stew was nearly ready as meat,
carrots, onions, and potatoes simmered, a perfect winter meal. She
flicked the back of her hand and Olivia stepped away from the stove.
“What do you have there?” She pulled out a hand-carved chair from
the kitchen table—always meaning to replace them with something
lighter and modern—but she couldn’t bring herself to rid the
house of any furniture Michael had made. She stretched out her arm as
her granddaughter placed the piece of glass into her withered hands.
“Huh.” Emily caught her breath. “Where did you find this?”
“In the attic. I was looking for Cleo. She ran up there when I
opened the door to let some cool air into the hallway upstairs.”
The heat was difficult to control in the house, built in 1850, and
the attic door proved more efficient at controlling the heat than a
thermostat.
Emily held the ornament to the light. Snow filled the globe as she
twirled it between her fingers. “Your grandfather made this when we
first met.”
“It’s pretty.” Olivia squinted her eyes. “Is that you and
Grandpa on the lake?”
Emily nodded. “Yes it is. He was a stickler for detail. He didn’t
make much blown glass so this is very special. He focused mainly on
furniture.” She fought back a frown as she glanced at the silent
guitar in the corner next to a chair by the kitchen fireplace.
Olivia stood back, away from the table, and clasped her hands behind
her back. “I’m not touching it ever!”
“You’ll have to at some point because it’ll be yours.” She
laughed.
“Nope, give it to Mom.”
Emily knew her granddaughter couldn’t appreciate the sentimental
value the ornament possessed, but she could tell Olivia knew it would
be a bad thing if the ornament broke.
“You look sad, Grams.”
She walked over to the sink and opened the window. Dust flitted
through the room as the cool outside air merged with the heat from
the kitchen fireplace. It was a constant battle to create a
comfortable temperature in the old house. “Sit down, dear.”
She strolled over to the kitchen table and pushed a plate of fudge
walnut brownies toward her granddaughter. Olivia poured them each a
glass of milk. Emily wrinkled her nose in silent protest but couldn’t
refuse the gesture. It was good for her, no matter how much she hated
the taste and smell of milk.
Emily watched Olivia scoff down a brownie quicker than she could say
the word. She enjoyed the time spent alone with her granddaughter.
Soon, the day would come when Olivia wouldn’t want to spend time at
her grandmother’s house to help bake Christmas cookies. Emily had
seen it happen with her own daughter and she doubted that Olivia
would be any different.
It had been years since she’d made a holiday dinner but every year
she insisted on baking. It helped to keep her mind busy and not miss
Michael so much.
“I wish you could have known your grandfather.” She turned the
ornament to catch the light. Fake snow swirled about the skaters on
the lake.
“Mom talks about Grandpa a lot. I know she misses him.” Olivia
snatched another brownie.
Emily smiled. “I bet she does. All she ever had to do was ask for
something and he jumped to help her.” She picked up a brownie and
nibbled the edge of the crusty confection. “That was his way.
Always eager to help someone.” And that’s how he died. She
closed her eyes and remembered that day.
Michael just had to go out into the blizzard and pull his
buddy out of a ditch. But that’s how he was. No one anticipated the
cable line snapping and knocking him down the hill into a cluster of
trees.
She couldn’t be mad even though she missed him. He was doing what
had made her fall in love with him, being generous, kind, and giving.
She pushed the memory aside and sighed a deep breath of relief.
“I would have liked to meet him.” Olivia took another brownie
from the plate and shoved it into her mouth. “Tell me about him.”
Emily swept her hand through the air, then pointed about the room.
“Your grandfather bought this house for me and restored it himself
right after we got married. He made nearly every piece of wood
furniture that fills the rooms of this old place.”
Emily picked up the ornament and cupped it in her hands. “But it
was what he did before our wedding day that took my breath away and
stole my heart forever.” Tears filled her eyes.
“What was that, Grams?” Olivia knelt on the kitchen chair and her
ten-year-old face glowed with excitement.
“Well, it all started in the late ’60s…”
About
Lita Harris:
Lita
Harris spends her time between New Jersey and the Endless
Mountains region of Pennsylvania, where she writes most of her
books. She also lived in Alaska for a short time
just for fun. An avid crafter, unused supplies clutter
her basement and attempts at making pottery, jewelry, and
stained glass are proudly displayed in her house,
usually behind a picture or holding a door open. She also makes
candles and homemade soap. With enough books to stock a small
library she may need to construct a building to store her
literary obsessions.
Granting Her Wish
Emma Kaye
She doesn't belong
in his time and he doesn't belong back home. Could they belong to
each other?
Excerpt Granting Her Wish:
Danielle
Thiessen smiled like an idiot as she held open the door of the café.
The place had been like a second home to her the past few weeks.
Riding the PATH train back and forth to Manhattan for countless job
interviews during the day while tending bar each night, she’d
needed all the caffeine she could get.
She breathed in the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee and
cinnamon rolls that wafted out the door along with a blast of warm
air. The frigid wind of December in Hoboken made quick work of the
warmth, but the cold couldn’t touch her today.
An elderly man in a fedora and thick, horn-rimmed glasses shuffled
through the open door. He tipped his hat in thanks and her grin
widened. He probably thought she was a lunatic, but she didn’t
care. Nothing could bring her down. She undid the buttons on her
knee-length, cherry-red wool coat. She struggled with the zipper
underneath while she waited in line, only managing to yank it free
when she arrived at the front.
“Merry Christmas, Wendy. Small coffee, please.”
“Merry Christmas! How’s the job search going, sweetie?” Wendy
plucked a festive red-and-green paper cup from the stack and filled
it with the strong Colombian brew she knew Dani preferred.
“Great.” Dani beamed. “I’m just coming back from my final
interview. I got the job! I start right after New Year’s.”
Wendy stretched across the counter to give Dani a quick hug. “That’s
wonderful news.” She pulled back and picked up a plate of sugar
cookies decorated like ornaments. “How about a little treat to
celebrate?”
Dani shook her head. “No, thanks. Coffee’s fine.” Treats would
have to wait until her first paycheck. Her bank account was running
on fumes. She’d have skipped the drink altogether if they would’ve
allowed her to sit there without ordering something. Wendy wouldn’t
mind, but her boss? Uh, no.
She passed her money to Wendy and dropped the change into the tip
jar. It wasn’t much, but Wendy needed the help. Dani wasn’t the
only one with shaky finances. She and Wendy worked nights together at
the bar and often shared tips on how to make their meager incomes
stretch as far as possible. Wendy knew just how much it pained Dani
to be in debt.
Just a few weeks to get through before she could rest easy. She’d
scraped enough together to pay January’s rent since that would be
due before her first paycheck hit her account. Utilities would be
late, but she’d worked out a payment plan with the utility company
and she’d be only a few days behind.
A knot formed in her stomach just thinking about it. What choice did
she have? Thank God those days were almost behind her.
Dani draped her purse over the back of a chair before pulling out her
little notebook to jot down some figures. She stifled a groan as she
sat, her feet aching from her pretty, but not exactly sensible,
boots. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk home.
All she needed was a little break. A few moments to think things
through. She wrote down the salary she’d been promised so she could
figure out what her checks would look like.
The credit cards would take a while. They’d gotten out of hand once
her mom’s medical bills started streaming in. But if she maintained
her current spartan lifestyle a few extra months, she’d get a
handle on it before too long.
She scrutinized her calculations and swore under her breath. She’d
forgotten all about taxes. She reworked her numbers. The new figures
made her stomach plummet.
Her head dropped into her hands. She was so screwed. At this rate,
she wouldn’t be out of debt until her forties. She shivered from
the cold seeping through the glass window at her side.
“Everything okay?”
She swiveled in her chair to locate the source of the voice and found
herself face-to-face with the old man in the fedora. She hadn’t
realized they sat so close.
“Sure, I’m fine,” she lied.
His eyes narrowed and lips pursed in a thoughtful expression. He
wasn’t buying it. “I understand. But, you know, sometimes it’s
easier to tell your problems to a stranger.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She grimaced. “Of course, it’s not like I
have any friends to talk to anyway. I’m new in town.”
“I’ve been married almost fifty years. My wife tells me I’m a
good listener.”
“Fifty years? Wow. The longest relationship I’ve had was a year.”
His lips quivered but he just watched her, a patient expression on
his face, his head tilted slightly to one side.
The urge to spill all her secrets bubbled up. Her eyes burned with
the heat of unshed tears.
She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a crumpled napkin. The rough
paper scratched her upper lip. She’d given her last tissue to a
mother with a crying toddler on the train.
“I was going to have such a great life, you know? Get a great job.
Make lots of money. The works. Completely independent, with no one to
worry about but myself. Exactly what I wanted.” The lights in her
home would go on when she flipped the switch. No worries. Not like
when she was a kid. “So, I packed up my stuff and moved here from
South Jersey. I had it all planned out. New York City was the place
to be. So many opportunities. I made sure I saved enough money to
tide me over while I landed the perfect job.”
“I take it you haven’t had any luck finding that job?”
She threw her crumpled napkin on the table. “Nope. Got it. I start
in a few weeks. Great base pay plus commission when I pass a certain
level of sales.”
The wrinkles in his forehead deepened as he tilted his head to
consider her. “Then why the sad face?”
“It’s not enough. Right after I moved, I found out my mom has
lung cancer.”
He patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He’d rolled up his
sleeves to the elbows despite the chill in the air, revealing the
faded blue tattoo lines of an eagle clutching an American flag on his
forearm.
She tucked her shaking hands under her thighs and hunched forward.
“Thanks.” She shrugged. “She didn’t even call me. I found out
when she ran out of money and couldn’t stand the only places she
could afford. She moved in and now I’m paying for a part-time
caregiver and sleeping on my lumpy sofa. It’s all piling up and in
the end, I’m going to be left with a heap of unresolved mommy
issues, not enough time to come to terms with her, and a whole stack
of bills I won’t be able to climb out from under for the next
twenty years.” She twisted her head until her neck gave a
satisfying crack. It didn’t do much to ease the tension in her
shoulders. “I swore to myself I’d never live like this again, yet
here I am.”
“Sounds like you could use a little luck.”
She snorted. “No kidding. But I don’t believe in luck. At least,
not today.”
He smiled. “Understandable. I was young once. Didn’t believe in
luck much myself, though it has served me well through my many
years.” He winked. “Even let me keep most of my hair, though my
grandpa was balder than a cue ball.” He tossed his hat onto the
table while patting his full head of silver-gray hair.
She laughed. Sweet of him to try to cheer me up.
“I’ve even shared my luck with others upon occasion.” He
settled back in his chair.
Dani stifled a sigh. She sensed a story coming on. Her grandmother
had been full of them and they all started with the settling back in
a chair to get comfy. They usually ended with Dani asleep in her bed.
Well, at least she had an excuse not to return home right away. It
would be rude to cut him off.
“I was a soldier. Though not by choice. Dodging the draft didn’t
seem right, so when my number came up, I reported for duty.”
Judging by his choice of words and a quick calculation in her head,
she guessed, “Vietnam?”
He sighed. “It was a horrible time. I’m an artist. A sensitive
soul, my mother used to say. My father figured the army would toughen
me up. He wasn’t wrong.” He fell silent, his gaze fixed somewhere
beyond the window.
She picked at her cup. Did she want to hear the rest of his story?
He’d drawn her in, despite herself, but…
“My tour was finally over. One last mission. It went wrong, of
course. Last missions always seemed to go wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His eyes glinted with unshed tears. He patted her hand, the feel of
his skin warm and paper-thin against her fingers.
“I was there for a reason and luck saw me through.” He paused.
His eyes glazed over as if he no longer saw the café around him. “We
were passing through a little hamlet when Charlie attacked. The
villagers scattered, but this little girl just froze. Right in the
middle of everything.
“I grabbed her, but we were pinned down. I couldn’t move for fear
she’d get hit. I could feel the thud of the bullets all around us.
See the little puffs of dirt fly up as the bullets struck.
“My luck saw me through. Or hers did. I don’t know. But we didn’t
get a scratch. It ended in short order, though it seemed like forever
before I handed that child back to her family.
“Her grandma was a witch, I suppose. Grabbed my hand and started
mumbling. I couldn’t understand a word. She picked up one of my
bullet casings, a handful of dirt, and shattered glass. She slashed
her hand and squeezed blood onto the whole mess, muttering all the
while and refusing to release me. When she finished, she filled a
little canvas bag and passed it to me. Her daughter told me it was a
bag of luck. That it would one day grant me what I needed most.”
Dani pressed a hand to her chest and leaned forward. “And did it?”
He shrugged. “I met my wife before I had the chance to use it. I
never needed anything else once I had her.” He scanned the room,
stopping at a spot somewhere behind her. A small smile lit his face.
“That’s lovely.” Fifty years and still so deeply in love he
couldn’t talk about his wife without smiling.
He dragged a fabric shopping bag across his table, rooted around, and
pulled out a small, black velvet bag. He held it in the palm of his
hand. “I melted the casing, mixed in the rest and made it into this
ornament. Perhaps it has some magic remaining?” He held it out to
her. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
She waved him off. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” She really couldn’t.
Knowing what was in it turned her stomach. She did not want to touch
that thing.
He slipped the ties open and tilted the bag. The meager sunlight
streaming in through the heavily fogged window seemed to brighten and
splashed off a delicate, heart-shaped ornament.
She gasped in delight. It was stunning. Intricate silver filigree
worked through a beautiful mosaic of red-and-green stained glass. She
extended a tentative finger toward it but pulled back. “It’s
gorgeous.”
He nudged it toward her. “It’s Christmas. Anything is possible at
Christmas. Besides, what could it hurt?”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose a little extra money could come in
handy.” She reached out, at the same time noticing the inscription.
Always. Wouldn’t that be nice.
Her fingers traced the delicate lines of the ornament. Her heart sped
up with longing. Moisture flooded her mouth and she swallowed. Her
vision blurred. She blinked. Red and gold blended and swirled before
her eyes until the swaying colors filled her sight.
“Are you okay, little lady?”
She stumbled to her feet, the old man’s voice an echo in her ears.
“Um, yeah. I just…need a little air.” She staggered to the
door, fingers pressed to her pounding temples. She fell out onto the
frozen asphalt.
About Emma Kaye:
Emma Kaye is married to her high school
sweetheart and has two beautiful kids that she spends an insane
amount of time driving around central New Jersey. Before ballet
classes and tennis entered her life, she decided to try writing one
of those romances she loved to read and discovered a new passion. She
has been writing ever since. Add in a playful puppy and an extremely
patient cat and she’s living her own happily ever after while
making her characters work hard to reach theirs.
Letter from St. Nick
Nicole S. Patrick
Excerpt:
Chapter One
“Last call for flight
one eighty-nine, nonstop service to Jacksonville, Florida. All seats
boarding.”
Thad
Sinclair groaned at the stiffness in his kneecap, the result of
sitting too long. Twenty-four hours ago he’d left Afghanistan,
flown to Istanbul, and was at the tail end of a six-hour layover in
New York City. God, he was beat. Plus, he was a grubby, ripe mess in
his cammies and combat boots. He grabbed his rucksack, following the
other stragglers in line to the Jetway for the last leg of his
journey home.
Wherever
that was.
The
gate agent smiled, thanking him for his service when she took his
boarding pass. Many people had stopped him to say “Thank you” or
“Welcome home” since he’d arrived at LaGuardia Airport. It was
good to be back on US soil and see friendly faces instead of watching
his back and fighting insurgents at every turn.
He
stowed his bag in the overhead compartment, settled in his seat then
took a creased and worn sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket.
Not
two weeks ago, Lieutenant Grant had kidded, “Sinclair, here’s a
bunch of mail for you. What’d you hit the jackpot, my man?”
He
sighed and shook his head.
Thad
unfolded the letter and a sharp sting hit the back of his throat. Aw,
hell. He blew out an unsteady breath as wetness seeped behind his
eyes. His gut clenched just thinking about the man who had been more
“Dad” than his own ever was.
Thad, my laddie, if you are reading this letter it means that I’m
gone. And it also means there are some things you need to be apprised
of. My good friend and attorney Rupert Green has all the information
for you about my estate.
It’s time, Thad. Stop the globe-trotting and fighting the bad
guys, and come back. Plant some roots, son. I’m just sorry I won’t
be here to greet you.
You are the son I never had. I’ve always been very proud of the
path you took. To this day I think your father was a jackass for all
the pain he caused you, rest his soul. I hate writing this
sentimental drivel, but I figured your aunt Maeve would’ve wanted
me to.
Not many people knew I was sick so don’t go beating yourself up
or getting upset over things. There was nothing you could’ve done.
No use in fighting the inevitable. I’m going to join my Maeve now,
and I’m okay and ready for it.
Semper Fidelis,
Uncle Nick.
Thad
slid up the window cover to gaze at the planes parked side by side in
the terminal.
It’d
been more than three years since he’d last seen his uncle. Yes,
three years ago at Dad’s debauchery of a funeral right here in New
York. His parents’ decision to leave what remained of their fortune
to charity had turned ugly at the reading of their will. The
Sinclairs were not a forgiving bunch. That was a fact. No, the
stuffy, upper-crust, uptown cousins he couldn’t stand looked down
their noses at the soldier in the family. He’d given up years ago
making the correction that he was, in fact, a Marine.
None
in the Sinclair branch of the family tree had ever pardoned him for
being the “disappointment” to his father, even after the old man
passed away.
Uncle
Nick and Aunt Maeve were the only family who’d accepted him despite
all of his faults, shortcomings, and “unrealistic”—according to
dear old Dad—aspirations. Thad never understood how unrealistic it
was to want to serve and protect the country which helped shape the
Sinclairs into their successes. Ironically, Nick had been a black
sheep in the Sinclair clan too. Maybe that was why they’d become
close before he’d shipped out to begin his stint in the Corps.
Thad
racked his brain to recall any telltale signs in Uncle Nick’s
appearance the last time they’d met. But the strapping giant had
embraced him with the same spine-cracking hug, kidding him about
making nice with the rest of the family.
Had
Uncle Nick been sick back then? Understandably, he’d been
sadder since losing Aunt Maeve, and not nearly as animated as he
normally was during the Sinclair family get-togethers. More like
battles. But nothing else had seemed different.
He
sniffed and swiped his eyes, sinking against the cool leather of his
upgraded first-class seat. Damn! Why hadn’t he reached out sooner?
Why had he chosen to be gone for so long? Perhaps the day-to-day
shit storm of war was what had held him back from at least sending
e-mail? What a lame excuse. He could’ve found the time. The
motives for staying away may have been valid at the time, but for
some reason he couldn’t recall any of them.
Now
he’d never get to say goodbye. Talk about feeling lower than a
junkyard dog. He’d wasted so much time not keeping in touch
with the family who actually cared about him. His parents, for
certain, hadn’t given a flying… Stop it, Sinclair. No use
thinking about them now.
He
clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. Anger waned into the familiar
ache of loneliness, as it always did when he thought of his parents.
He tamped down the vise of pain surrounding his insides, just as he’d
done eons ago when he was a young Marine.
He
scrubbed a hand down his face and placed Uncle Nick’s letter on the
vacant seat beside him. He closed his eyes as a headache crept up the
base of his skull.
The
thought of going back to active duty after this leave was over made
him twitchy. He had to admit, the bum knee was shot, and someday he
feared it just might get in the way of his survival. Maybe it was
time to let the younger, gung-ho guys take over. Was he actually
considering throwing in the towel?
Focus
on the now, Sinclair. Once he arrived in Florida, it would be a
quick trip to Jacksonville to get his truck from his buddy’s garage
and retrieve what remained of his scant personal belongings from the
storage unit.
“We’ll
be taking off momentarily, folks.” The pilot’s voice cut through
the speakers. The announcement, coupled with the engines firing up,
jolted Thad out of his musings.
Two
weeks ago he wondered about his next destination. Now he knew—Amelia
Island, Florida.
About
Nicole S. Patrick:
Nicole S. Patrick has always loved to
read, and in her teenage years, she “borrowed” her mom’s books
to sneak away and become lost in the world of romance. After more
than ten years in the corporate world of tech recruiting and HR
management, she decided to stay home and raise children. But with so
many romantic stories and characters floating around in her head,
when the kids napped, she was compelled to put those words on a page
and pursue this crazy dream of becoming published. Nicole writes
romantic suspense and her heroes are those alpha males in uniform.
She lives in New Jersey with her real-life hero, her husband, and her
two sons.
Secret Santa
Julie Rowe
Excerpt Secret Santa:
Chapter
One
“I hate Secret Santa,”
Kenzie Bowman muttered to herself. She crossed her arms over her
chest and leaned against the wall, as far away from the crowded
hospital’s emergency department lunch room table as possible. The
table was covered in wrapped boxes and gift bags. A bevy of nurses
rummaged through them looking for their name on a tag, squeals of
glee and laughter filling the remaining space in the room.
Anyone
walking by would think it was Black Friday. They’d be lucky if they
didn’t end up treating one of their own for a bloody nose.
She
used to love Christmas. The decorations, buying just the right gift
for a friend, singing carols, and spending time with the people she
loved.
Until
last year.
Until
her twin brother, Kennon, was killed on Christmas Day.
Now,
she just wanted the entire event to be over. She never wanted to see
another Christmas tree, hear another Christmas song, or taste eggnog
ever again.
Her
friend Amy surfaced from the circling sharks with a gift in each
hand. “I found yours, Kenzie,” she said with Christmas cheer that
darn near dripped sugar.
Oh
joy.
Amy
bounced up to Kenzie and thrust the gift into her hands, then
proceeded to rip the paper off her own.
“Ohh,”
she squealed, segueing into a victory dance as she hoisted her booty
into the air. “A bottle of Baileys! Santa loves me, yes he does.”
Amy paused mid-dance to lever her laser-sharp gaze at Kenzie. “Your
turn, Ebenezer. Open it.”
“What’s
the point? I don’t wear perfume, I don’t like scented candles,
and I don’t drink alcohol. We know the likelihood of one of those
three items being in this box is eighty-six-point-three percent.”
“You
sound like a computer when you talk that way,” Amy said,
enunciating each word individually.
“Better
than having your eardrums blown out by indiscriminate screaming.”
Amy’s
eyes narrowed to two slits. “Open the box.”
“Have
I mentioned how much I hate Secret Santa?”
“The
box, Kenzie. Now.”
“Fine.”
Kenzie rolled her eyes and picked at the festive paper. “But if
this gift sucks it’s going home with you.”
Amy’s
fierce expression slowly turned into a frown. “You don’t just
hate Secret Santa, you hate Christmas, don’t you?”
“Do
you blame me?” Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy and love,
spent with friends and family. All that was impossible for her now.
She and Kennon had been all each other had for eight years now. A
heart attack had taken Dad from them. Mom followed him to the grave
four months later.
Amy
glanced away at the crowd of nurses and doctors for a second, then
met Kenzie’s gaze. “I suppose not. But it’s not healthy for you
to brood.” She watched Kenzie’s fingers as they slowly peeled the
tape from the paper. “Come to my place Christmas Day,” Amy said,
the words rushing out of her mouth like a five-year-old who’d had
too much candy. “Don’t stay home alone. Please.”
“I
won’t be good company.”
“That’s
why you should come.”
The
last of the tape came off the paper and Kenzie carefully folded it
and threw it into the garbage can. The box in her hand was too small
for a bottle of Baileys, so it was down to perfume or candles. She
opened the top, pushed aside the tissue paper, and pulled out a glass
ball about the size of her fist.
The
glass was plain, no decoration or sparkles. Something hung inside it,
tied up in some string. She turned the ball to see if she could get a
better look—
A
bullet.
A
smashed, wrecked bullet.
Pain
seized her diaphragm and brought her breathing to a screeching halt.
The agony ricocheted through her body until even the tips of her hair
hurt.
“What’s
that?” Amy asked, staring at the ball, confusion furrowing her
forehead. “It’s not very festive looking.”
It
could only be one thing.
“The
reason why I hate Christmas.” Her voice sounded strangely calm.
“Huh?”
“This
isn’t from staff, it’s from my brother’s best military buddy.”
Why?
Why would he do this? Give her the one thing guaranteed to rip her
heart out while it was only barely still beating.
“It’s
the bullet that killed my brother.” The words came from far, far
away. Almost an echo.
Amy’s
gaze jerked up to meet her own. “Your brother? But I thought he…
Shit,” she breathed out as a whisper. “How do you know it’s
that bullet?”
“Because
he tried to give it to me before.”
“He
what?”
But
Kenzie wasn’t listening anymore. She was drowning in sorrow. It
clouded her mind, sight, and hearing, pulling her under into a dark
and silent world. Somehow she walked from the lunch room to the
waiting room, but she had no memory of doing it. This must be what
teleportation was like. Going from location to location without the
inconvenience of conventional travel.
People
turned as she entered the waiting area, most of them likely hoping
she’d call their name.
Except
for one.
One
man stood slowly, staring at her face, his gaze apologetic. He was
tall and fit, with a squared face that was strong rather than
handsome. Every woman in the room turned to stare at him, but he
didn’t seem to notice. His whole focus was on her.
She
angled her head back sharply then turned and walked a little ways
until she got to a large wheelchair-accessible washroom. She went
inside. He followed her in and she shut and locked the door.
Kenzie
glared at the man who had been trying to give her a damaged bullet
for the past three months. A man she’d refused to see again after
their first disastrous conversation. A man she’d told to go to
hell.
A man
she’d once thought she loved.
Gage
Remington.
She
held out the box to him. “I don’t want this. I never wanted to
see it and to find it in a glass ball pretending to be a Christmas
ornament—” For a moment she ran completely out of breath. “Take
it.”
He
made no effort to accept the box. “Damn it, Kenzie, he wanted you
to have it.”
“My
brother wanted me to have the bullet that killed him?”
“No.
He wanted you to have a reminder of what you have to live for. ‘We’re
all just a bullet or a breath away from oblivion; don’t waste
yours’—wasn’t that the phrase you used to say goodbye with?”
He took a step toward her. “He made me swear. It was the last thing
he said to me before—”
She
thrust a warning finger an inch from his nose. “Don’t say it.”
She paced a step or two away, then back. “I never knew how stupid
and childish it was to say the rhyme our grandfather taught us until
the damn bullet showed up.” She shoved the box at him and spun,
grabbing for the door handle, but he got there before she could get
the door open.
He
took her shoulders into his hands and turned her.
She
didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want
to face the reality of her life with her brother—her best friend—no
longer in it.
She
pounded on Gage’s chest and fought to get herself free.
He
simply gathered her up and pulled her into his intractable embrace.
Someone was crying deep, shuddering sobs that sounded like they were
coming out of the throat of a tortured person.
That’s
when she realized—she was the person crying.
About Julie Rowe:
Julie Rowe’s first career as a
medical lab technologist in Canada took her to the Northwest
Territories and northern Alberta, where she still resides. She loves
to include medical details in her romance novels, but admits she’ll
never be able to write about all her medical experiences because, “No
one would believe them!” In addition to writing contemporary and
historical medical romance, and fun romantic suspense for Entangled
Publishing and Carina Press, Julie has a short story in The Mammoth
Book of ER Romance (September 2013). Her book Saving the Rifleman
(book one of the War Girls series) won the novella category of the
2013 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. Her writing has also appeared
in several magazines such as Today’s Parent, Reader’s Digest
(Canada), Canadian Living, and Romantic Times Magazine.
Tour wide giveaway
First Prize: $50 gift card (choice Amazon or Barnes & Noble)
Second Prize: eBooks – Knight of Runes by Ruth A. Casie and Ice Bound by Julie Rowe
Third Prize: eBooks – The Guardian’s Witch by Ruth A. Casie and North of Heartbreak by Julie Rowe
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