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EXCERPTS:
Dakota's Bride
Moonless and frigid, the December night sent chills down Emma's spine.
Yet she didn't stop at the lighted inn nearby, nor did she break stride when
she stumbled over a rut in the muddy road. Instead, she pulled her skirts
higher. A carriage raced by, hell-bent in the same direction, spitting mud as
it flew past
A frantic look over her shoulder did nothing to relieve the fear. He was
closing on her, forcing her from her hiding place. She stopped for a moment
while she quickly shook the mud off her cape, then she turned to the little
girl.
"You all right, Clare?" Emma asked.
The little girl nodded but didn't say anything, her face screwed tight
with concentration, her breaths ragged and hard.
The big Mississippi paddle wheeler, due to leave in ten minutes, let out
two loud, booming whistles. To Emma's frayed nerves, the sound was
heart-stopping.
The wind from the docks smelled of fish and tar. When it shifted, she
could make out the aroma of fresh baked scones coming from the inn. Emma
gripped the tiny hand she held in her own a little tighter, and prayed that
Clare could keep up the pace.
"It's only a wee bit farther. We can make it," Emma told the
little girl, her sister. Half sister, she reminded herself.
Clare's father was not her own. His demonically handsome face leering
at her while he calmly explained what he meant for Emma to do in the bordello
was something she'd never forget.
Clare was a tiny and very fragile seven-year old. She had loving green
eyes and a long, slender nose coupled with delicate cheekbones. Emma knew that
someday Clare would grow into a classic beauty.
One long blond lock of hair slipped loose from Clare's cap. The little
girl pushed it away with her free hand, wrinkling her nose disgustedly.
Frost coated the road, and each hurried step caused the almost frozen
mud to crunch beneath their feet. A horse and rider passed them, the man
tipping his hat as he and his mount thundered by. Church bells rang out, the
sound hollow and thin. It was almost six o'clock. She had five minutes to reach
the boat.
A gust of wind caught her broadside and whisked the hood of her cape off
the top of her head. She grabbed the soft fur and pulled the fabric back where
it belonged. Distracted by the wind and her haste to reach the boat, Emma
caught the toe of her shoe on a rock and balanced precariously for an instant.
She swore softly under her breath.
Had only one month passed?
No, three weeks ago her mother had died and two weeks ago she had
learned the awful truth. Lawrence Stevens had slowly poisoned her mother. He had given
her a small dose of arsenic each day until finally her mother took to her bed.
Several days later Emma had held her mother's hand while she breathed her last.
Emma would never have known about the murder if she hadn't overheard
Stevens speaking in harsh whispers with a friend of his. There were other
things said and promised, things Emma had not wanted to acknowledge.
Disbelief and denial had caused her to waste precious time. Seven days
had come and gone since she'd had her last horrible encounter with her
stepfather. It was an encounter that had left her with no doubts that
everything she'd heard was the god-awful truth. Stevens had meant to sell her
to a whorehouse. Still, she'd had a difficult time believing the extent of
Lawrence Stevens's depravity. But when he'd installed her in Madame leBon's
bordello, she realized too late that her life was in grave jeopardy.
And Clare, sweet, sweet Clare, had understood all she'd told her and
perhaps more. With the eyes of a child, Clare had somehow sensed the evil that
surrounded her father long before anyone else did.
Five long days and nights they'd spent on the run. Clare had not
complained. No matter how exhausted or hungry she was, the little girl had
pressed on, understanding the imminent danger that faced Emma. Clare had
somehow known that Emma had to get as far away from Lawrence as possible.
This incredible romance is one I positively fell in love with and
is good enough to read again and again.
Cherokee
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
I can’t remember the last time I was so engrossed in a
book: Dakota’s
Bride took over my weekend, and even now, am wishing to go peruse it
one more time…
Rating: 4.5 Books
Reviewed by Snapdragon Long and Short Reviews
Reviewed by Snapdragon Long and Short Reviews
My Angel
Denver,
1893
A polished azure sky looked down on a day that vacillated
between winter and spring--a day unable to make up its mind. Cool breezes
lifted Angela Chamberlain's brand-new canary yellow skirt off the
moisture-laden sidewalk. A blazing hot sun dried the puddles in the street left
over from last night's deluge.
Unlike the day, Angela had no trouble making up her
mind. Angela knew what she wanted out of life. She touched one finger to the
sapphire earrings adorning her newly pierced ears.
She wanted adventure.
She had a terrible craving to see the world--to
climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, to walk the Great Wall of China. She
yearned to fly in a hot-air balloon high above the earth, or ride in a gondola
in Venice. She wanted to fall in love with a man who was as brave and smart as
her father and as dangerous as Devil Blackmoor.
Angela's wish list had no end.
Instead of adventure and romance, in three short
weeks she'd be enrolled in Miss Somebody's finishing school for young ladies,
where knowing which fork to use was more important than riding with the wind on
her favorite horse, Kangee. A place where changing one's clothes three times or
more each day was common practice.
Two days ago she'd told her father she didn't want
to go.
And two days ago her father had told her she would
learn to appreciate the schooling and that she was a very lucky young woman.
He'd also promised her a trip to the continent for a graduation present.
A
graduation present! She wanted to yell
at him, but wisely kept her mouth shut. She wanted to travel now. Today. But
more than anything, she didn't want to be confined to the stuffy drawing rooms
in the East. Just like her father, she needed freedom. But her father meant to
take the choice from her.
To gossip and chatter with rich society women was
not her destiny. To know which wine was served with fish would not make her
happy. This was his dream for her. Sam Chamberlain needed to look to his own
heart and remember the choices he had made twenty-five years ago.
Her destiny was out there somewhere, waiting for
her to snap it up and hold the moment close to her heart. She knew what she
wanted, and to prove her point, she'd bought a camera and had the machine sent
over to the hotel. She meant to photograph all her adventures, every nook and
cranny, every monument, every intriguing person.
Across the street and down two blocks, Devil
Blackmoor had just taken the saddle off his horse. He brushed the stallion's
back, all the while petting the animal's sleek coat and crooning into the
horse's ear. Mesmerized, she watched his hands and the gentle way he stroked
the horse.
She wished she had her camera.
Devil Blackmoor commanded her attention. He
symbolized everything a father cautioned his daughter to be wary of. Despite
the warning, Devil's strong jaw, his powerful shoulders and the confident way
he held himself beckoned to every feminine nerve in Angela's body.
Angela clutched her hands to her chest, willing her
gaze to shift to something or someone who wouldn't shatter her senses and set
her blood boiling. Helpless to control her wayward heart, she kept looking back
at Devil. She noticed everything about him, the way he moved, the way his denim
jeans clung to his legs and the way they molded to his backside. Devil laughed
at something the bouncer from the saloon said, and when he
smiled, one edge of his mouth tilted crookedly. Angela's heart swooned and
fluttered, and she thought she might never breathe again.
The Locket
Oregon Coast,1894
Bone-weary from a hard day
at sea, Misha trudged up the long mud-rutted road to the boarding house that
sat on top a hill less than a mile outside Mist Harbor, Oregon. A thick, cold
mist hovered close to the ground wetting everything: the rhododendrons that
grew wild, the azaleas that lined the cement walkway to the front porch, and
the saw grass that grew easily in the sandy soil. Misha paused a moment to push
back a lock of hair that repeatedly fell across his brow and into his eyes.
The land was windswept and
salt battered, yet he enjoyed the salt-taste of the air and the swooping sea
birds as well as the playful sea animals. He loved the way the trees bent to
the power of the wind and found a way to survive despite the brutality of the
elements.
His purpose here was short
lived, he reminded himself. He didn’t intend to find himself attached to these parts
in any way.
He smelled of a hard days
work. The lingering aroma of sweat and Chinook salmon filled his nostrils. It
was not a scent he had any use for, but for the time being the job on the
fishing boat gave him a reason for staying in the small coastal town. Right now
he couldn’t wait to submerse himself in a hot bath, wash the stench from his
body, and ease his stiff, strained muscles.
The sea had always been one
of his favorite places. But fishing?
By God no, he’d just as soon
relax and watch the sails billow on a clipper as the majestic ship rounded the
horn or stand at the tiller with the wind whistling around him. He’d even
rather battle a hurricane off the Bermudas.
Blending in with the people
who lived in this small coastal village had been imperative.
The quest he’d undertaken
had led him straight to Miss Ariel Cameron’s boarding house in Mist Harbor, and
there the trail stopped. Thinking about Ariel set his nerves on edge.
Ariel was willow thin,
femininely delicate, and hardly capable of the atrocities he’d set out to
avenge less than a year ago. Yet the evidence he’d uncovered had sent him here,
to her home. The name he’d followed had been her name. The men he’d followed had
landed in Mist Harbor more than once, her father one of them.
He walked up the
immaculately kept steps to the house and opened the door to the screened in
porch.
"Misha," the
captain boomed out a welcome. "Fine weather we’re havin’ now. Just right
for the salmon runs."
The rocker squeaked as the
captain moved back and forth in the wicker chair.
"Just right,"
Misha acknowledged and stepped through the next door to the parlor. A blast of
heat met him as he nodded his head in polite recognition to the other borders.
In a pale blue day dress, Ariel moved with a slight limp through the hallway
and disappeared into one of the first floor rooms. Even though she seemed to
favor one leg, the sway of her hips enticed all of Misha's senses.
He didn’t understand the
feeling but in a way no other woman had touched him, she beckoned to him. Her
amber colored eyes were wide and when she smiled, they glistened and shimmered,
reminding him of the bronze mosques in Constantinople when the sun beat upon
them. Miss Ariel Cameron was unique--unconventional--and
she fascinated him. She was the key to his revenge as well as his salvation.
The Locket is a very
exciting tale with a dramatic setting. Overall, this is a very entertaining
story.
Maura
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance
The Talisman
Buffalo Creek,
South Dakota
1895
Hot, dry air scorched the
prairie grass. Sweat slid along his spine. Danger clung to every whisper;
seemed to swirl and grow with each passing second. Ivan Civanovich watched the
woman below. With deadly purpose, he studied the lady who had hired him--the
woman who had bought his gun and perhaps death.
"Reckless
courage," Ivan mused.
"Si Senor, she does
have what you call a great courage, but I don’t know about the reckless part.
She is always so very careful," Pedro said.
"I’m a dangerous man,
Pedro."
"This is why she
hired you."
"The lady has no
business hiring men like me. She’s a woman. She is supposed to nurture
lives."
"She needs you to
keep the bad men from taking the land away--our home," Pedro said.
Ivan pushed the tip of his
hat back from his brows. From his vantage point, he considered the woman while
she hung the freshly laundered white sheets on the line. A strange shudder
swept through him, his muscles tensing with the sudden feeling he knew this
woman, had known her forever. The sensations were too strong, the feelings too
acute, and it troubled him because knowing her was impossible.
Her hair, a wild mop of
red curls, battled with the stiff, hot wind rising off the prairie. The breeze
and her hair flowed in undulating currents between the lines, threatening to
tangle themselves in the wire. She bent over at the waist, giving him a perfect
view of her backside while she toyed with something on the ground. Seconds
later she picked up the object of her curiosity, turned it over in her hands
then tossed it aside.
He didn’t like to think
about what could happen to her in the next few weeks. She’d advertised for a
gun for a hire. She didn’t know what she bargained for, and he’d bet his
inheritance she didn’t have any idea what kind of trouble she’d purchased.
When she looked up the
hill, his grin widened. She couldn’t see him, but her shoulders tensed and she
sucked air. Her hand touched her forehead, shielding her eyes from the blinding
sunlight. She scanned the horizon, turning a complete circle before she
stopped.
"Good," he said,
"she is cautious."
"She knows someone is
up here," Pedro announced.
"She’s got more
starch in her drawers and the stiffest backbone of any woman I’ve ever
seen." Ivan whistled through his teeth, his eyes intent and focused upon
the woman.
"Si." Pedro
agreed. "She sure enough does but her heart is made of spun gold."
Ivan wiped the back of his
hand across his forehead. Beads of sweat dripped down his back. His gaze swept
across the barren landscape then followed the line of trees that bordered the
creek. He lifted the glasses to his eyes and turned his attention to a spot
about a mile north of her ranch. The railroad wanted easement rights. So why
wouldn’t she sell to them. "Spun gold, huh." He dropped the
binoculars, letting them dangle from their strap around his neck.
"Si, boss."
"I see." Ivan
leaned forward, resting his forearm on the saddle horn.
Ivan wasn’t sure he
understood. Women had a lot of fine qualities, many of which he didn’t want to
live without but a soft, feminine heart shouldn’t be deciding life and death
matters.
Spun gold.
No, he’d never met a female with a heart of gold, spun or otherwise. He’d never
known a woman who wouldn’t betray a man for a piece of gold. Save one, he
amended, and his best friend had married her. Alexi Popov had his trials too.
He had kidnapped Angela and spirited her away to his home in the Crimea. In the
end though, he gave up his title, his land, and most of his wealth for Angela.
He followed her back to America and married her.
This is a wonderful tale,
full of action, emotion and a bit mystical at times. Enjoy this one.
Maura
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
Forever His
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 . . .
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
