Title: Straight to Heaven
Author: Christine Young
ISBN: 978-1-62420-278-0
Email: achristay@aol.com
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
TAGLINE
Running from demons,
Alexandra McMurdie stumbles into Forbidden Ground and is transported from the
twenty-first century to life in the 1800s, a life she is unprepared for.
BLURB
Running from demons,
Alexandra McMurdie stumbles into Forbidden Ground where up is down and elements
of nature are contested. Though a strong independent woman in the twenty-first
century' she is unprepared for life in the 1800s. Her first sight of the
formidable James Lawrence makes her heart skip a beat, giving her cause to
reconsider her desperate need to find a way home.
Born with a silver spoon,
James’ life was torn apart during the War Between the States. Moving west he
vows to put the life he once knew in the past. When he discovers a half-frozen
woman near Gold Hill, his heart begins to thaw. His love for Alexandra and his
need to keep her from a man who has pursued her through time might cost him his
life as well as hers.
EXCERPT
Jacksonville,
Oregon 1868
Midnight...the witching hour, a time to
ease one's conscience and look to the next world for answers. Wild tales of a
vortex told by the Native Americans where up was down and large was small,
intrigued the valley settlers. One had only to expect the unexpected and it
would occur. A ball could roll up hill but not down. No one ventured through
the vortex unchanged, simply because the site defied the human mind. Here there
were no limits set and no boundaries defined.
Mysterious tales ran rampant among the
Native Americans. Fantastical stories portrayed visitors from other ages, other
worlds, and even other dimensions passing through time and stopping here for a
moment of rest before continuing their journey. Difficult to comprehend,
impossible to believe unless one met his fate head on at the appropriate hour.
Midnight. When spirits roamed the earth, anything could occur and anyone could vanish.
Midnight...an hour to be wary of, to
remain at home and hope it passed by without
illusions floating on the stairway, of distinctive flickering in the
candlelight, or a hesitant knock on the door from some invisible apparition. No
one would wander out at this hour or challenge another, unless faced with no
other choice.
Captain James Lawrence had sworn to uphold
the law. Tonight, he might have to venture into the unknown; meet any
challenge. He might stumble upon an innocent unsuspecting traveler, perhaps
encounter a miracle and find a path straight to heaven.
The deserted countryside lay as a freshly
painted picture bathed in the moonlight, and the crystal ice that coated the
laurel trees shimmered, sending prisms of light toward the heavens. Even February's
freezing rains paused as if paying homage to the hour.
Midnight.
James watched the moisture hover in a
mindless drizzle of mist; low lying clouds floated and swirled in gossamer
veils near the earth, entwining themselves in the manzanita and laurel, around
the blackberry bushes, and the fields of grasses and weeds that dotted the
hillside.
"Not tonight. Not again..." He
pounded his fist against the railing, hoping he heard wrong.
From the west, James Lawrence could hear
the low baying of hounds and the steady beat of horses as he stood on the porch
of his home surveying his land. Charles Majors would bring his hounds, six of
them, merciless in their intent, and trained to hunt man. They did not give up
and he'd never known them to fail.
"Son of a bitch!" he said
fiercely, "not tonight!" His fist landed squarely on the wooden beam
holding up the roof. He stared into the night, cursing the situation. Duty and
honor in the forefront of his mind, he knew he would join the posse.
Soon the men would stand at his porch
expecting him to mount and ride with them. They were law-abiding men from town.
A couple of them owned stores, some panned for gold. One was the saloon owner
and another owned the town newspaper. He owed the community, knew he couldn't
avoid this responsibility. If they would only come without the dogs, the
nightmares might stop.
He rubbed his temples and wished the
hammering within would vanish, but the pounding hooves grew louder, the
hammering worse. His muscles flexed and as a brittle tension radiated through
him, he held his breath, purposely waiting.
Staring into the cold night, he reflected
on another time. A time during the war when the dogs had hunted him and they
had come so perilously close to his heels. Now, on this moonlit night, even his
home offered him no protection, no safe retreat. They came to him for his
help—for his expertise. James shivered, yet the sensation wasn't caused by the
cold.
He had hoped they wouldn't call on him
again, but now it seemed as if the trail lay fresh and in his direction. He
hated the look in a man's eye when cornered with nowhere to go; loathed the
utter despair that accompanied it.
And the fear.
"Poor wretched soul," he said.
"He'll know what hell feels like before the morning sun rises."
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