Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for FAMOUS IN A SMALLTOWN by Viola Shipman on this HTP Books Summer 2023 Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Fried Green Tomatoes meets Midnight at the Blackbird Café in USA Today bestselling author Viola Shipman’s FAMOUS IN A SMALL TOWN, a heartwarming story about intergenerational friendship and self-discovery, set in beautiful Northern Michigan.
In 1958, 15-year-old Mary Jackson became the first woman ever crowned The Cherry Pit Spittin’ Champion of Good Hart, Michigan, landing her in the Guinness Book of World Records, and earning her the nickname Cherry Mary. Nearly 80 years old at the story’s start, Mary runs The Very Cherry General Store, a business that has been passed through three generations of women in the family. While there is no female next of kin, Mary believes the fourth is fated to arrive, as predicted by “Fata Morgana,” a Lake Michigan mirage of four women walking side by side.
Becky Thatcher (yes, like the Mark Twain character), an Assistant Principal from St. Louis, has just broken up with her long-term boyfriend and heads to Good Hart for a healing girl’s trip with her best friend. When Becky drunkenly spits a cherry pit an impressive distance, Mary urges her to enter the upcoming contest, and wonders if Becky could be the woman she’s been waiting for.
Bursting with memorable characters and small-town lore, FAMOUS IN A SMALL TOWN is a magical story about the family you’re born with, and the one you choose.
FAMOUS IN A SMALL TOWN by Viola Shipman is a wonderful women’s fiction story with romantic elements that is full of Michigan summertime vacation nostalgia, generational family drama, the bonds of friendship, and the discovery and belief in the power of women all delivered with a cherry on top. This is the perfect summertime read, especially if you are a fan of all things tart cherry.
Mary Jackson became “Cherry Mary” as a girl of fifteen when she won the cherry pit spitting distance contest in her small hometown of Good Hart, not only beating all the men, but also obtaining the Guinness World Record. Sixty-five years later, she is now eighty years old, still undefeated and runs her family’s Very Cherry General Store and waits for the girl she was told in her visions would come to carry on.
Becky Thatcher has turned forty and feels stuck in a monotonous life, with nothing to show for it. She and her best friend, “Q” take off for a vacation in Good Hart to relive the fun childhood holidays she remembers with her grandparents. When Becky spits a cherry pit, Mary witnesses the record breaker and believes Becky is the girl she has been waiting for. While not the vacation she was expecting, Becky works under Mary’s wing and soon discovers peace and beauty in the small town and the belief that Mary may be right, and this is where she is meant to be.
Enchanting, emotional, and memorable characters and landscapes are all present in this story. It is summertime memories, trips with grandparents, small town nostalgia all intertwined with everything tart cherry. The strength and power of women is a recurring theme throughout. The sweet romance is a relatively small subplot in this story, but it is relevant to both main characters. I feel this is the perfect summertime read and I loved it.
I highly recommend this very cherry women’s fiction!
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Excerpt
THE LAKE EFFECT EXPRESS
August 1958
“Good News from Good Hart!”
by Shirley Ann Potter
It was the spit heard ’round the world!
Our town is still atwitter over the news that the daughter of Mr. Peter Jackson was crowned the 35th Annual Cherry Pit Spittin’ Champion of Leelanau and Emmet County last Saturday. Fifteen-year-old Mary Jackson, an Emmet County high-school sophomore, was not only the first woman—uh, girl—to win the contest, but her stone flew a Guinness Book of World Records–breaking distance of ninety-three feet six-and-a-half inches, shattering the previous record set by “Too Tall” Fred Jones in 1898 at the state’s very first Cherry Championship right here in Good Hart.
News of her accomplishment has flown farther than her cherry pit, with reporters from as far away as New York and London anointing our town sprite with the moniker “Cherry Mary.”
I caught up with Mary at the Very Cherry General Store—our beloved post office/grocery store/sandwich-
and-soda-shop run by Mary’s mother and grandmother—to see how she managed such a Herculean feat.
“My mom taught me to whistle when I was a kid (“A kid!” Don’t you just love that, readers?), and I had to be loud enough for her to hear me when she was down at the lake. I think that made my lips strong,” Mary says. “And I started eating sunflower seeds when I was fishing on the boat with my grandma. She taught me how to spit them without having the wind blow them back in the boat.”
Mary says she practiced for the contest by standing in the middle of M-119—the road that houses our beautiful Tunnel of Trees—and spitting stones into the wind when a storm was brewing on Lake Michigan.
“I knew if I could make it a far piece into the wind, I could do it when it was still.”
While her grandmother was “over the moon” for Mary’s feat, saying, “It’s about time,” Mr. Jackson says of his daughter’s accomplishment, “It’s certainly unusual for a girl, but Mary isn’t your average girl. Maybe all this got it out of her system, so to speak. I hope so for her sake.”
The plucky teenager seems nonplussed by the attention, despite seeing her face all over northern Michigan in the papers and the T-shirts featuring her face—cheeks puffed, stone leaving her mouth—and the words Cherry Mary in bright red over the image.
“A girl can do anything a man can,” Mary says in between retrieving mail, spreading mayonnaise on a tomato sandwich and twirling a cherry around in her mouth, before perfectly depositing the stone in a trash can across the room. “You just gotta believe you can. That’s the hard part. Harder than spitting any old pit.”
Mary seems ready to conquer the world, readers. Cheers, Cherry Mary! Our hometown heroine!
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BECKY
June 2023
“Okay, Benjie, would you like it if Ashley did this to you?”
He scrunches up his face to stave off tears and shakes his head. “No.”
“Well, it’s not a nice thing to do.”
I study Ashley’s hair, then take her face in my hands. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me?”
The little girl nods her head. I give her a hug.
I walk over to my desk and open the bottom drawer . There is a large jar of creamy peanut butter sitting next to a bag of mini Snickers. The peanut butter is for emergencies like this: removing gum from a little girls’ hair. The Snickers are for me after I’m finished with this life lesson.
“Well, I’m just glad neither of you are allergic to peanuts,” I say. “Allows me to do this.”
I cover the gum stuck in the back of Ashley’s pretty, long, blond hair and then look at her.
“I promise this works,” I say. “I’ve performed a lot of gum surgery.”
She nods. Her eyes are red from crying, her cheeks blotchy.
“Why did you do this, Benjie?” I ask the little boy seated in the chair before my desk.
He ducks his head sheepishly, his brown bangs falling into his eyes, and murmurs something into his chest.
“I didn’t catch that,” I say. “What did you say? Remember it’s okay to express your emotions.”
He looks at me, freckles twitching on his cheeks. “I can’t say,” he whispers.
“Yes, you can,” I say. “Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”
Benjie glances toward the door to ensure that it is closed. “Tyler Evans told me to do it or he’d punch me on the way home.”
Being a grade-school administrator is akin to being a detective: you have to work the perp to get the truth. Eventually—no matter the age—they break, especially when a verdict on punishment is waiting in the balance.
It’s the last day of school. Benjie does not want his summer to be ruined.
I lean down and slide the gum out of Ashley’s hair. I go to my sink, dampen a cloth and put some dish soap on it, return and clean the rest of the peanut butter off her locks. I move to a tall filing cabinet and retrieve a clean brush. The filing cabinet is filled with bags of sealed brushes and combs, toothbrushes and EpiPens, certificates and old laptops. I run the brush through her hair. I hold up a mirror for her to see the back of her head.
“See, good as new.”
“What do you say to Ashley, Benjie?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you accept his apology?”
Ashley shakes her head no. “You ruined the last day of school. You’re a big ol’ meanie.”
“Ashley,” I say, my tone sweet but authoritarian.
“I accept your apology,” she says.
“You’re free to go,” I say to her.
“But you’re still a big ol’ poop head,” she says, racing out of my office, bubblegum-free hair bouncing.
I actually have to clench my hands very hard to stifle a laugh.
Big ol’ poop head.
How many times a day would I—would any adult—like to scream that at someone?
“Are you telling my parents?” Benjie asks.
“I have to,” I say, “but I’ll tell them why you did it, and then I’ll have a talk with Tyler.”
“No!”
“I have to do that, too,” I explain. “And I’ll talk to his parents as well.”
He looks at me, his chin quivering.
“We have a zero-tolerance policy here for bullying,” I say. “Trust me, Tyler won’t do it again. You have to stand up to bullies. You have to show them the right way to do things. Otherwise, they never change.”
In addition to being a detective, an assistant principal is also akin to being the vice-president of the United States. Everyone knows your name, everyone knows you’ve achieved some level of status, but nobody really understands what the hell you do all day.
“I promise it will be okay,” I say. “Just promise me you won’t do it again. You’re a nice boy, Benjie. That’s a wonderful thing. Always remember that.”
“I promise.” He looks at me. “Can I go now?”
“One more thing. You know you aren’t supposed to bring gum to school.”
“I know. But one of the moms was handing it out before school.”
Mrs. Yates, I instantly know. She wants to be the cool mom. She’s Room Mom for 2A, and, Mrs. Trimbley, the Room Mom for 2B, told me that competing with her this year was like being a contestant in Squid Game.
Benjie continues. “It’s Bubble Yum. My favorite. My mom won’t let me have it because it’s bad for my teeth.”
Benjie opens his mouth and smiles. He resembles a jack-o’-lantern. He’s missing teeth here and there, willy-nilly, black holes where baby teeth once lived and adult teeth will soon reside.
Too late, I want to say to Benjie, but he won’t get my humor. Only my best friend, Q, understands it, and my grandparents who made me this way.
I think of how much I loved chewing gum as a kid.
“Do you have any more?”
“Am I going to get in trouble again?”
“No,” I say with a laugh.
He reaches into the pocket of his little jeans and hands me a piece of grape Bubble Yum.
My favorite.
“Do you know what my teacher used to say when I’d sneak gum into class?”
“You snuck gum into class?”
He stares at me with more admiration than if Albert Pujols from the St. Louis Cardinals suddenly appeared with an autographed baseball.
“I did,” I say. “It was about the only bad thing I ever did. My teacher used to hold out her hand in front of my desk and ask, ‘Did you bring enough gum to share with the whole class?’”
“Did you?” Benjie asks, wild-eyed.
“No,” I say. “That was the whole point. She wanted to embarrass me. And it always worked. Teachers just liked to say that.”
I take the gum from Benjie. “This is just between us, okay?”
He giggles and nods.
I pop the gum into my mouth. It’s even more insanely sweet and sugary and tastes even better than I remember. My taste buds explode. I chew, Benjie watching me with grand amusement, and then—looking out my window to make sure the coast is clear—blow a big bubble. A massive bubble, in fact. It expands until it’s the size of a small balloon. Benjie continues to watch me in silence as a child today might do today trying to figure out how to use a rotary phone. After a few moments, the flavor subsides.
“Want to learn a trick?” I ask.
“Yeah!”
“If you ever get caught chewing gum, don’t stick it in a nice girl’s hair or swallow it. Learn to do this.” I narrow my lips as if I’m going to whistle, puff my cheeks and spit my gum into the air as if Michael Jordan were draining a game-winning three-pointer as time expired. The purple gum arcs into the air and deposits directly into a trash can next to a low-slung sofa ten feet across my office.
Benjie pumps his fist and lifts his hand to high-five me.
VIOLA SHIPMAN is the pen name for internationally bestselling LGBTQIA author Wade Rouse. Wade is the author of fifteen books, which have been translated into 21 languages and sold over a million copies around the world. Wade chose his grandmother’s name, Viola Shipman, as a pen name to honor the working poor Ozarks seamstress whose sacrifices changed his family’s life and whose memory inspires his fiction. Wade’s books have been selected multiple times as Must-Reads by NBC’s Today Show, Michigan Notable Books of the Year and Indie Next Picks. He lives in Michigan and California, and hosts Wine & Words with Wade, A Literary Happy Hour, every Thursday.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE LONER by Diana Palmer on this Spring 2023 HTP Books Romance Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Tanner Everett spends most of his time jet-setting around the world. But that hasn’t stopped innocent Stasie Bolton, the daughter of a neighboring rancher, from falling head-over-heels for the jet-setting playboy. So Stasie is secretly thrilled when both her father proposes linking the properties in matrimony…which means Tanner will be hers, for good.
Despite his globetrotting ways, Tanner can’t help but be enthralled by the quiet girl next door. But as the embers between the two are fanned into flames, Tanner wonders if he’s found forever in the last place he ever expected.
Anastasia Bolton, nicknamed Stasia, was nineteen today. She looked at herself critically in her bedroom mirror, making a face at her lack of beauty. She had a pretty mouth and big, soft brown eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her ears small. She was only medium height, but her figure was perfect. She had elegant long legs, just right for riding horses, which she did, a lot. She’d done barrel racing when she was younger, but art had taken over her leisure hours. She painted beautifully.
She was named after a semi-fictional character in a movie her romantic late mother had loved, Anastasia, which starred Yul Brynner and Ingrid Bergman. Her mother had loved the movie and named her only child after the unforgettable heroine. Stasia lived with her father, Glenn Bolton, on a huge beef ranch in Branntville, Texas. Her last living grandparents, her dad’s parents, had died of a deadly virus the summer before her graduation from high school. Her mother had died tragically when Stasia was only thirteen. There was no other family left, just Stasia and Dad. They were close.
Glenn Bolton was only fifty years old, but he had a very bad heart and he was in the final stages of heart failure. It was treatable, but he hadn’t shared that knowledge with Stasia. He was terrified of the open-heart surgery treatment would require. He and the doctor had spoken privately the week before, and afterward, Glenn had been quieter than usual and he’d contacted his attorney. That had been a private conversation as well. Stasia worried about what was being discussed. She didn’t want to think about what her life would be like without him. She had no family except him.
Well, there were the Everetts, who lived next door to her father’s ranch on their own enormous ranch, the Big Spur. They were sort of like family, after all, since Stasia had known them all her life. Cole Everett and his youngest son, John, were frequent visitors. Glenn had the only groundwater suitable for ranching in the small community of Branntville, Texas. A river ran like a silver ribbon through his entire property, so he wasn’t dependent on wells for watering his cattle, as other ranchers were. He approved of Cole and John. He wanted more than anything to see his daughter settled with one of the Everett sons, but she was only in love with one of them—with Tanner, the eldest, who was the cookie-cutter design of the spoiled rich kid. Cole hadn’t spoiled Tanner. That had been his wife, Heather, a former singing star and current songwriter. Their firstborn had been the light of her life. He was twenty-five now, a strong, incredibly handsome young man with dark hair and pale blue eyes, almost silver like his father’s, and a Hollywood sort of physique. He liked variety in his women, but for the past year he’d had a girlfriend who enjoyed the jet-setting lifestyle that he favored.
Cole had given Tanner a Santa Gertrudis stud ranch that he’d bought when the owner went into a nursing home, hoping to settle down his wild son. It was a good property, adjoining his and the Bolton properties, but the water situation there was dire. There had been drought in the past year, and they’d had to drill wells to get enough water just to keep the livestock watered. The Bolton place had a river running through it, and many small streams that ran over into the Everetts’ holdings. However, that water didn’t belong to them so they were unable to divert it for any agricultural purposes.
For a long time, Cole had toyed with the idea of a merger with Glenn Bolton, but Glenn wouldn’t hear of it. He found all sorts of reasons for his stubborn attitude. Cole saw right through him. Stasia was still living at home, and she was in love with Tanner. The fly in the ointment was that Tanner didn’t like Stasia. He liked experienced, sophisticated women like Julienne Harper, his girlfriend. Tanner could have made an empire out of the ranch Cole had given him, but he wasn’t home enough. He and Julienne were always on the go somewhere. Skiing in Colorado, parties on somebody’s yacht off Monaco, summers in Nice. And so it went.
Stasia knew about Julienne. Everybody in Branntville did. It was a small community where gossip flourished. It was mostly kind gossip, because the people who lived there had known each other’s families for generations. Tanner was one of them. But Julienne, who was sarcastic and condescending, was an outsider, a city woman who’d alienated just about everyone she came into contact with.
Tanner had a couple, Juan and Minnie Martinez, who ran the house and managed the ranch for him while he played around the world. They’d just threatened to quit because of Julienne’s last visit to Tanner’s ranch. Cole had played peacemaker. The Martinezes were good at ranch management, and somebody had to keep the place going. Cole despaired of Tanner ever settling down to real work. He’d always had everything he wanted. Cole, who adored his wife of twenty-five years, hadn’t had the heart to make her stop coddling Tanner, while there had still been time to knock some of the selfishness and snobby attitude out of him. Now, it was too late.
Stasia came into the living room where the men were talking with a tray of coffee and sliced pound cake. All three men stood up, an ancient custom in rural areas that still had the power to make her feel important. Her generation cared less about such things, as a rule, but Stasia was a throwback. Glenn had raised her the way his parents had raised him. She’d absorbed those conservative attitudes on the way of the modern world. She hated it. She hated it most because Tanner liked women who belonged to that sophisticated crowd.
John Everett looked like his mother, Heather, in coloring, at least. He was big and blond and drop-dead handsome, with his father’s silver eyes. His young sister, Odalie, also looked like Heather, with pale blue eyes and blond hair. Tanner was the one who most resembled Cole, who was tall and still handsome. Tanner had the same thick, dark hair but with pale blue eyes that just missed being the silver of his father’s.
John went forward and took the heavy tray from her. He grinned. “I love cake.”
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “I know.”
She smiled at him with warm affection. He was like a cuddly big brother to her. He knew that and hid his disappointment. “How’s the art going?” Cole asked with a smile.
“I sold a painting!” she exclaimed happily. “There was a man passing through, from someplace back East, and he saw the landscape I painted in the local art shop. He said it was far too cheap for something that lovely, so he gave Mr. Dill, the owner, three times my asking price. I was just astonished.”
“You paint beautifully,” John said, his eyes brimming with love that she tried not to see. He indicated the landscapes on the walls of the Bolton home; one with running horses in a thunderstorm was entrancing.
“Thanks,” she said, flushing a little. “Mr. Dill said the man looked Italian. He was big and muscular and he had these two other big guys with him. He was passing through on the way to San Antonio on business.”
“Sounds ominous,” John teased.
She laughed as she poured coffee all around and offered cake on saucers with sparkling clean forks. “He told Mr. Dill I should be selling those paintings up in New Jersey, where he was from, or even New York City, where he owned an art gallery and museum. He said he was going to talk to some people about me! He even took down Mr. Dill’s number so he could get in touch.” She sighed. “It was probably just one of those offhand remarks people make and then forget, but it was nice of him to say so.”
“You really do have the talent, Stasia,” Cole told her. “It would be nice if he could put you in touch with some people in the art world back East. If that’s what you want to do with your life,” he added gently.
She smiled at him. “I like to paint.” She grimaced. “I’d like to marry and have a family, though.”
“No reason you couldn’t do both,” John said. “And if you had to fly back East to talk to people, well, we have a share in a corporate jet, you know. You could let us know when you had business there and I could go with you.”
She smiled sedately. “Thanks, John, but it’s early days yet.”
“How’s Tanner?” Glenn asked.
Cole’s light eyes grew glittery. “Off on another trip. To Italy, this time. My daughter’s studying opera in Rome. He thought he’d stop by and see her on the way to Greece.”
“Odalie has a beautiful voice,” Stasia replied, hiding disappointment. She’d hoped Tanner might show up with his brother and father. “Does she want to sing at the Met eventually?”
“She does,” Cole replied. He drew in a long breath and sipped coffee. “I’ll hate having her so far from home. But you have to let kids grow up.” He glanced at John with affection. “At least this one doesn’t have itchy feet yet!”
“I’m a homebody,” John said easily. “I love cattle. I love ranching. I don’t want to leave home,” he added, with a covert glance at Stasia.
“Good thing,” Cole chuckled. “I have to leave the ranch to somebody when I’m gone.”
“You’re not going anywhere for years,” Glenn chided. “The Everetts are a long-lived bunch. Your grandfather lived to be ninety.”
“Yes, but my father died before he was sixty, and my mother died before I married Heather,” Cole replied. His face tautened as he relived those days, when a lie split him apart from Heather, whom he’d loved with all his heart. It had been a torment, those months apart before he discovered that a jealous rival had told him lies about Heather’s parentage and made it sound as if he and Heather were actually related. They weren’t, but it was heartbreaking just to think it. Heather had been singing in nightclubs in those days. Cole had been cruel to her because her feelings for him were all too visible and he thought nothing could ever be allowed to happen between them. When he found out the truth, Heather had already backed out of his life. It had taken a long time to win her back.
He glanced at Stasia. She reminded him of Heather in her youth. She wasn’t as beautiful as his wife, but she was sweet and gentle and she’d make someone a good wife and mother. He knew that it wasn’t going to be Tanner. The boy had mentioned weeks ago that he hated having to talk to her father at all because Stasia would sit and stare at him as if he were a tub of kittens needing a home. He found her juvenile and dull. John, on the other hand, adored her. Cole grimaced as he processed the thought, because Stasia so obviously thought of John as the brotherly type.
“Now, about what I mentioned on the phone,” Cole began as he finished his coffee and put it and the cup and saucer back on the tray.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Glenn broke in, with a smile. “But I’ll never give you permission to dam the streams.” Cole sighed. “Only one stream, the one nearest my south pasture. The cattle are going to suffer for that decision,” he told the older man. “We’ve drilled every well we can.” “I know that,” Glenn told him. “I’ve got things in motion that will solve your problem. Don’t bother asking; won’t tell,” he chuckled. “But you’re worrying over something that’s already fixed. Just a matter of time. Short time, at that,” he added with a faraway look in his eyes. Cole started to argue, realized it would do no good and just shrugged good-naturedly. “Okay. I’ll rely on your conscience.” “Good place to put trust, since I do have one,” Glenn replied.
He scowled. “That boy of yours got himself into hot water in France, they say. It was on the front page of the tabloid those Lombard people back East publish.” “It wasn’t Tanner who started the trouble,” Cole replied curtly. “It was his…companion, Julienne Harper. She started a row in a high-ticket French restaurant with another woman, and her companion started cursing and threw a punch at Tanner when he intervened. Tanner had some explaining to do.” He glanced at Glenn. “This time, I didn’t interfere, and I wouldn’t let Heather do it, either. The boy’s got to grow up and take responsibility for his own actions.”
“According to the tabloid, he made restitution for the victim’s dress and paid the dentist to replace one of her date’s front teeth.” Glenn shook his head. “Reminds me of you, when you were that age,” he added with twinkling eyes. “Got arrested for a bar brawl when you got home from the service, I believe…?” Cole glared at him. “Some yahoo made a nasty joke about what soldiers did overseas. I took exception. The guy wasn’t ever even in a good fight, what would he know about being a soldier?” “Well, your dad kept him from suing, at least,” Glenn said, and chuckled. “Most people around here were scared of your father anyway. He was a real hell-raiser.” Cole smiled sadly. “He was, and he died far too young.” Glenn knew some stories about Cole’s father that he wasn’t about to share. Some secrets, he reasoned, should be kept.
“Your son was in black ops when he went in the military, wasn’t he?” he asked suddenly. Cole looked thunderous. “Yes, he was. I didn’t find out until he was back home.” He sighed. “I told him he had to get an education, so he joined the Army and got it that way. At least he finally decided that risking his life daily wasn’t conducive to running a ranch. It’s one reason I bought the old Banks property for him, to draw him back home.” He leaned forward. “I thought if his income depended on ranching, he’d make better life decisions. At least he did get a degree in business, even if it was between assignments.” He laughed shortly. “And then he met her.” He shook his head.
Everybody knew what that meant. “Her.” Julienne Harper. The fly in the ointment. She’d lured Tanner back into the jet-set lifestyle the military had purged him of, and now he was even less responsible than he’d been before. “A bad woman can make a fool of a good man. And sometimes, the reverse,” Glenn added. He didn’t mention his late wife, but they all knew the tragic story. His wife had been suddenly and hopelessly attracted to a man straight out of prison who’d worked on the ranch. The tragic consequences were still being lived down, by Glenn and his daughter. “She was a good woman,” Glenn said stubbornly. “She was just impulsive and easily led.” “Which is how many good people end up in prison,” John said sadly. “I’m hopeful that we can keep my big brother out of it.” Cole stood up with his son and clapped him on the back. “Something I’ll never have to worry about with you,” he said with obvious affection.
“At least one of my kids turned out right.” He was referring to Odalie, who’d had a brush with the law in her teens, just as Tanner had—when going into the military was the only thing that saved him from serving time. Tanner had fallen in with a few ex-cons and gotten drunk with them. He passed out in the back seat just before they robbed a convenience store, but Cole had to get attorneys and pull a lot of strings to keep his son out of jail. “Most kids turn out right eventually, even those who have a rough start,” Glenn said with a smile. “Yours turned out very well,” Cole said, smiling gently at Stasia. “She reminds me of Heather at her age.” “And that’s a compliment indeed,” Glenn said, watching his daughter flush shyly. “Well, we’d better get back home,” Cole said. “We’re getting ready for roundup. If you need any help over here, when you start, you know we’ll do anything you need us for.” Glenn smiled and shook hands with both men. “Yes, I do know. I’ll send my hands over if you need extras. We’re waiting a week to start.” “We’d be grateful. No matter how many hands you have, a few more are always welcome.” “Done. Just say the word.”
“I don’t guess you’d like to take in a movie this weekend?” John asked Stasia on the way out the door. She hesitated. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She smiled gently. “I would, but I’m working on a landscape and I have a real incentive to finish it quickly now, just in case that nice man does give my name to somebody back East,” she added with just the right touch of regret. She liked John, but she didn’t want to encourage him. Nobody could replace Tanner in her heart. “Okay,” John said easily, hiding his disappointment. “Rain check?” “Sure,” she lied. He grinned and they all went out onto the long, wide front porch to see the Everetts off.
Cole stared into the distance. “Good weather, for early spring,” he said, admiring the grass that was just getting nice and green in the pastures beyond. “I hope it holds.” “So do I,” Glenn replied. “See you.” Glenn threw up a hand. Stasia waved. The Everetts got into one of their top-of-the-line black ranch trucks and drove away.
“John’s sweet on you,” Glenn mentioned over supper that night. “I know,” she groaned. “I like him so much. He’s like the brother I never had. But he wants more than I can give him, Dad. It wouldn’t be right to encourage him.” Glenn nodded. “I agree.” He cocked his head at her. “It’s still Tanner, isn’t it?” She grimaced and nodded. “I can’t help it. I’ve been crazy about him since I was fifteen, and he can’t see me for dust. It’s such a shame that I’m not beautiful and rich and sophisticated,” she added heavily. “A man who loves you won’t care what you are or what you’ve got,” he said gently. “I guess not.” She poked at her salad with a fork. “Julienne’s really beautiful. Of course, she doesn’t talk to the peasants. I saw them together in Branntville just before they left for overseas. She looked me up and down and just laughed.” Her face burned at the memory. “So did he, in fact. He thinks I’m a kid.”
Glenn had a faraway look in his eyes. “That could change,” he said, almost to himself. He turned his green eyes toward her, the same green eyes that he’d hoped she might inherit. But her brown ones were like his late wife’s, he reflected, big and brown and beautiful. “You’ll inherit this ranch,” he added. “I hope you’ll have the good sense to find a manager if you don’t want the responsibility of running it yourself. And I hope you won’t be taken in by any slick-talking young man who sees you as a meal ticket,” he added worriedly, because she wasn’t street-smart. “This property has been in our family for a hundred years. I’d hate to see it go to an amusement park for tourists.” She frowned. “Why would it go to someone like that?” “Oh, this guy offered me a lot of money for the property just the other day, when I was at the bank renewing a couple of CDs. The bank president introduced us.” “You told him no, of course, right, Dad?” she asked.
He pursed his lips. He drew in a breath. “I told him I’d think about it.” He didn’t tell her that the ranch was mortgaged right up to the eaves of the house. His bad business decisions had led the place to ruin, something Cole Everett knew. It was why Cole was trying to get the ranch. But then, he’d have it soon, Glenn thought sadly. He couldn’t let Stasia become a charity case, and the sale of the ranch wouldn’t even cover the debts, as things stood. “But it’s right next door to the Everetts’ new ranch, the one Tanner owns,” she said worriedly. “Can you imagine how nervous purebred cattle would react to an amusement park next door?” “I can,” he said. “Tanner could lose everything,” she said. “His livelihood depends on the new ranch, especially since his dad has already split the inheritance at Big Spur between John and Odalie. He figured Tanner would have enough of a fortune with the Rocking C.” The Rocking C was the name of Tanner’s ranch. The previous owner, an elderly Easterner, had called it his rocking chair spread. Hence the name.
“Well, Tanner might have to make a hard decision one day, when I’m gone,” Glenn said, and smiled to himself. “Are you plotting something, Dad?” she asked, worried. “Me?” He contrived to look innocent. “Now what would I have to be plotting about?” He chuckled. “How about some of that apple pie you made? This new heart medicine my doctor put me on makes me hungrier, for some reason.”
“You never did tell me what he said when you went to him last week,” she mentioned. “Same old same old. Take it easy, take my meds, don’t do any heavy lifting,” he answered, lying through his teeth. He was due to speak to a cardiologist soon, who would decide if the open-heart surgery Glenn was frightened of was required to keep him alive. A quadruple bypass, the doctor had recommended, and soon. Too many fats, too much cholesterol— despite Stasia’s efforts to make him eat healthy food—a history of heart problems and not recognizing his limitations had placed Glenn in a bind. Glenn hadn’t shared that information with his daughter. No need to worry her. Besides, he felt fine.
A few days later, just after his cardiologist’s office had phoned with an early appointment to see the intervention cardiologist, he started up the steps into the house and fell down dead.
Tanner Everett was cursing at the top of his lungs, so loudly that Cole had to call him down before Heather heard her son. “Go ahead. Rage,” Cole snapped. “But the will can’t be broken. Nobody in Branntville will agree that Glenn Bolton wasn’t in his right mind when he made it.”
“An amusement park! Next to my purebred herd!” Tanner whirled on his heel and glared at his parent. “And if I don’t marry damned Stasia, that’s my future.” Cole felt the resentment in the younger man. In his place, he’d have felt it as well. “It was a rotten thing to do,” Cole agreed. “But we have to deal with what we’ve got, not what we wish we had.”
“I’m twenty-five years old,” Tanner raged. “I’m not ready to get married! Not for years yet!” He stared at his father. “You were older than me when you married Mother.” “Yes, I was. I played the field for years.” He looked down at his boots. “I loved your mother. For a long time. But she had a rival who lied and said Heather and I were related by blood. She took years away from us.” Tanner knew the story. All the Everett kids did. It would have been a tragedy if Cole hadn’t found out the truth in time.
“Heather was just about Stasia’s age when I fell in love with her. She sang like a nightingale, just like Odalie does now. She was beautiful. She still is,” he added softly. Tanner, who’d never felt love for a woman, just stared at him without comprehension.
“There must be some way to dispute the will,” Tanner said doggedly. “Go ahead and look for one. But I’ll tell you what our attorney told me: no way in hell. You marry Stasia or the property goes to the Blue Sky Management Properties. Stasia will get nothing.”
“Bull! The ranch is worth millions,” Tanner shot back. “It was. Glenn was no rancher, even if his father was,” Cole replied curtly. “The place is mortgaged to the hilt, and you can’t tell Stasia that. She’s got enough misery right now coping with her dad’s death.” He grimaced. Even he was sorry for Stasia’s situation. She couldn’t help what she felt for him, he supposed. But he was never going to return it. She had to know that.
“Which leads to my suggestion. I’m giving you the Rocking Chair ranch, and merging Stasia’s with Big Spur. We can pay off the debt by disposing of most of Glenn’s beef cattle and replacing it with our purebred Santa Gerts. In other words,” Cole added quietly, “either you make a go of your new ranch or you’ll be out in the cold. I’m not changing my will, Tanner,” he added firmly. “I’m sorry. But you could do worse. And it’s about time you stayed home and managed your own damned ranch and stopped acting like some Eastern playboy.”
“I hate dust and cattle,” Tanner muttered. “You should have given this ranch to John. Then he could have married Stasia.” “She wouldn’t have him,” Cole said simply. “She doesn’t love him.” He jammed his hands into his slacks pockets. “She doesn’t love me, or she wouldn’t have encouraged her father to do this to me!”
“I don’t think she had anything to do with it. Glenn had a bad heart and she had no other family.” “You could have adopted her,” Tanner said with a sarcastic bite in his voice. Cole’s silver eyes narrowed and started to glitter. Tanner cut his losses. “All right, damn it!” he muttered. “I’ll do what I have to. But I’m not settling down to aprons and babies and white picket fences! Not for any woman!” “Nobody’s asking you to.” Cole felt sorry for Stasia. She loved Tanner. Maybe, maybe love on one side would be enough. But he was worried. Tanner was like a stallion with a new rope around his neck. This wasn’t going to end well.
Stasia was in shock. She sat at the kitchen table and made the funeral arrangements, relying on the funeral home and her father’s attorney for clarity. She was penniless. Worse, her father had forced his attorney to put a clause in the will. Tanner married Stasia, or her father’s property went to the amusement park man, who would turn it into a loud, cluttered nightmare for Cole’s horses and cattle. She’d heard the terms of her father’s will from their attorney, Mr. Bellamy. She was shocked and miserable, especially when she recalled what her father had told her only days before, about the offer from the amusement park man. She’d thought she’d get at least enough to live on from the deal, but it wasn’t like that at all. Her father had kept so much from her. The ranch was worthless, mortgaged and debt-ridden. There was no way she could run it for a profit, or even hire someone to run it. And if the amusement park man got it, it would destroy Cole’s ranch as well as Tanner’s. Neither of them could afford to tear down existing stables and barns and rebuild them in a safer location. In fact, there would be no safer location, with that overlit nightmare of noise and light nearby.
Not for one minute did she think Tanner would give in to her father’s subdued blackmail and marry her. She was ashamed that he’d even put that clause into his will. Tanner would probably think it was her idea. When she finished the preliminaries, she went to her father’s closet to look for his one good suit and his best pair of wing-tip shoes. The sight of the suit set her off. She dropped down onto the spotless paisley duvet on her father’s bed and bawled until her eyes were red and her throat hurt. That was probably why she didn’t hear the knock at the front screen door, which wasn’t locked. It was also probably why she wasn’t aware that Tanner had come into the room and was standing in the doorway, just watching her.
He knew she loved her father. He was the only family she had left. It hurt him to watch her cry. He’d had no real feelings for her, except irritation that she was infatuated with him and let it show too much. But she was really hurting. He’d never lost anyone in his family. Both sets of his grandparents had been dead when he was born. He didn’t know death except as an observer.
“Stasia?” he called quietly. She jumped, startled, and lifted a wet face with red-lined eyes to his. She swallowed down the pincushion that seemed stuck there and swiped at her eyes with the tail of the bright yellow T-shirt she was wearing. “It wasn’t my idea, what he put in the will,” she said, as if he’d already accused her of engineering it. Angry brown eyes warred with his pale blue ones.
The prolific author of more than one hundred books, Diana Palmer got her start as a newspaper reporter. A New York Times bestselling author and voted one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE COMEBACKCOWBOY on this Spring 2023 HTP Books Romance Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author bios, and the author social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
THE COMEBACK COWBOY is a Western-themed anthology featuring four stories from bestselling authors Maisey Yates, Nicole Helm, Jackie Ashenden and Caitlin Crews!
They may not have been friends when they were younger but now, they’ll work together to save the camp that saved them and, maybe, even find love in the process…
The alumni of Camp Phoenix, a summer program for at-risk youth, may have grown apart but, when they learn the camp has fallen into disrepair, they answer the call for help. Now successful adults, the four women pledge to restore the grounds to their former glory, if long-standing rivalries and old flames don’t get in the way first….
Attorney Ashlynn Cook owes her life to Camp Phoenix and is determined to save the camp…but who’s going to save her from the temptation of long-time crush US Marshal Oakley Traeger? The daughter of the camp’s founder, Cassidy McClain has always wanted to follow in her law-abiding father’s footsteps, but fellow alum Duke Cody might have her breaking all the rules. Bree White fought hard to break away from her criminal family and all of the reminders of her past until Officer Flint Decker brings all those feelings back and more. And Kinley Parker never left Camp Phoenix, dedicating her life to it, and has no time for pushy cowboys like Jackson Hart until butting heads leads to sparks.
THE COMEBACK COWBOY (Jasper Creek Anthology Book #4) by Maisey Yates, Caitlin Crew, Nicole Helm and Jackie Ashenden is the fourth fun and entertaining Jasper Creek anthology with four couples finding love in novellas tied together by a recurring theme. This book stands on its own and you do not need to read the previous books for content or context.
The prologue explains how fifteen years ago Sheriff Bill McClain started Camp Phoenix in the Oregon wilderness for at-risk children. Four of the camp counselors had gone through the program and were like sons to Sheriff McClain and they eventually all went into law enforcement in honor of the man who saved them.
Now they are back, bought the rundown camp and are rehabbing it to reopen with the help of four previous campers who have turned their lives around, also.
The first story is “The One with the Hat” by Jackie Ashenden featuring Bree White and Flint Decker. The second story is “The One with the Locket” by Caitlin Crews featuring Violet Cook and Lincoln Traeger. The third story is “The One with the Bullhorn” featuring Kinley Parker and Jackson Hart. The fourth story is “The One with the Trophy” by Maisey Yates featuring Clementine McClain and Duke Cody.
All the stories have the women forging friendships among themselves that they did not have while they were campers, and they were funny and heartwarming. Each romance has a different twist, but all the men and women had their own insecurities that being back at the camp seemed to exacerbate and they had to overcome for their HEAs. The characters are well developed for an anthology and the sexy heat is there.
Overall, while I had my favorites, the four novellas flow well together and the book is a delightful read.
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Excerpt
The One with the Hat by Jackie Ashenden
CHAPTER ONE
Bree White walked quickly over the gravel of the parking area and she didn’t look back. Time was of the essence.
She’d arrived at Camp Phoenix, the summer camp for juvenile delinquents that had changed her life back when she’d been fourteen, a full thirty minutes before she was supposed to, mainly so she could claim the best cabin before everyone else arrived—and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
It was a little surprising that Jackson Hart, the former DEA agent who’d bought the run-down camp and sent out the call for volunteers to help get it ready for a new season of campers, wasn’t here to greet her. He was apparently living in the shabby house near the camp entrance, but she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.
Then again, she was early. And she didn’t mind not seeing Jackson. He’d been his usual drill-sergeant self, harassing her relentlessly to volunteer to help, and while she was all about helping, she wasn’t a fan of being told what to do. Never had been.
Even ten years ago, when she’d been sent to Camp Phoenix by Sheriff Bill McClain, the man who’d started the camp, she’d hated all the rules and regulations, and had chafed against them. Yet those same rules and regulations had given her a structure and routine that her chaotic childhood never had. They’d changed her life.
Camp Phoenix had basically been the best thing to ever happen to her. That’s why she was here. And it wasn’t anything to do with Jackson Hart, so much as it was her, wanting to give back. Perhaps help change a few lives the way hers had been changed, and for the better. She was looking forward to it.
Bree paused in front of the small cluster of buildings surrounded by a green lawn and bordered by tall pines. Everything looked…smaller than she remembered, not to mention a lot more neglected. There were a few dilapidated cabins that were the bunk rooms, and the big dining hall where Mrs. Zee, the cook, used to reign supreme. The showers and bathrooms were in their own building, and then there was the administration cabin. And over there by the dining hall, the art hall that was once run by Gale Lawson.
And…ugh. There was Hollyhock Hill, which all the campers had to climb at 6:00 a.m. every morning to raise the flag, and where the day’s chores were handed out.
She’d never been much of a morning person, but that, in particular, had felt like torture. Well, they were all adults now, and presumably, there would be no 6:00 a.m. wake-up calls this time around.
The camp looked deserted, which was good, so Bree headed over to the least-run-down-looking of the cabins, where the counselors used to sleep. Jackson had said at least one of the cabins was better than the others, so she was assuming it was this one, and that she could claim it for herself.
She assumed no one would be sharing like they once had, when it was ten to a room. At least, she wouldn’t be sharing; not these days. She’d come a long way from her past and her family of low-level criminals who expected her to follow the same path they had. Now she had her own place in Jasper Creek and a great job as a real estate agent. She didn’t have to steal for a living like her folks had.
And all thanks to Camp Phoenix. Nothing at all to do with Flint Decker. Bree scowled as she headed toward the old counselors cabin, trying to shove off the irritating reminder that Flint Decker had been her arresting officer back when she’d been fourteen. He’d caught her shoplifting from the local 7-Eleven, which was something she did not like to remember, if she could help it.
A bit difficult not to be reminded, though, when Jasper Creek had been virtually wallpapered with his handsome, arrogant face thanks to the sheriff’s elections a couple of months back. She hadn’t been able to get away from it. Even more annoying that he’d won the election. By a depressing margin.
She had nothing to do with him these days, determinedly ignoring him whenever they passed each other on the street. And she definitely didn’t look behind her as he went by, noting the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow hips, long, powerful legs, and—
Bree nearly tripped over a piece of wood that seemed to be lying randomly in the grass, and only just stopped herself from an ignominious face-plant.
Damn new sneakers. Nothing to do with thinking about stupid Flint. She’d bought them especially for tramping about the camp and they were already giving her blisters.
She took a quick look around to see if anyone else had turned up to witness her embarrassing stumble, but the place was still deserted.
Just as well.
Bree examined her brand-new, spotless blue jeans for any suspicion of dirt, but they seemed to have escaped. She brushed them off just in case, since she wasn’t a fan of dirt. She wasn’t a fan of jeans either, but the little business skirts she usually wore weren’t very practical, so she’d gone on a bit of a shopping spree.
She wasn’t that sullen, angry teen who had turned up at camp with nothing, not even a sleeping bag. She’d come prepared this time. She approached the cabin and cautiously pushed open the door.
It was one room with a wooden floor and three sturdy wooden bunk beds pushed up against the unlined walls. The floor looked clean, at least, but one of the bunk beds had no mattresses, which left four beds to choose from. It smelled a bit musty but nothing an open window wouldn’t fix. Bree gave herself a moment to frown at the spiderwebs in the ceiling between the rafters, then directed her attention to which bunk to choose. One of the top bunks, of course, since those had always been the most prized. Back in the day, there used to be battles. There was one girl, Violet Cook, who Bree had taken an instant dislike to, and one day, she’d hung Violet’s sleeping bag from a tree before stealing her bunk. That had earned her toilet cleaning for a week, but it had been worth it.
Of course, she’d never do anything like that now. Now she loved her life and was no longer angry at the entire world.
Moving over to the bunk beside the window, she carefully examined the mattress on the top bed, since that seemed to be the least lumpy, and decided it would do.
She didn’t like being uncomfortable, but camp—as Sheriff McClain had always said—wasn’t about being comfortable, so she’d resigned herself to a bit of discomfort. Not that she had a choice, since her house was having its plumbing upgraded and she couldn’t be there anyway. Really, coming to camp was excellent timing in many ways.
Bree put her little suitcase onto the bottom bunk in preparation for unpacking.
Other people would be arriving, she assumed. Given Jackson’s insistence on the importance of getting the camp up and running before the end of June, and given how he was a bossy asshole, he’d probably called every single person who’d ever stayed here and guilt-tripped them into helping.
She hoped they would be nice people, not—
“Please don’t tell me we have to share. Goddamn Jackson.”
Bree froze. She recognized that voice. No. Did it have to be? Not Violet Cook, whose sleeping bag she’d stolen. Not Violet Cook, who’d treated every day at camp like she was auditioning for Survivor and had basically lorded it over everyone, trying to prove she was the baddest.
Surely, she wasn’t here. Surely not.
Yet the door was already opening and in came a small, stunningly pretty woman with long, wavy black hair, black eyes, and wearing the most ridiculously feminine and flouncy maxidress Bree had ever seen. She tottered in on sky-high wedges, towing behind her a huge bright pink suitcase, and the moment she spotted Bree, she stopped dead.
The world’s most awkward silence fell as ten years vanished in the blink of an eye.
“Great,” Violet said, scowling. “Bree White. What the hell are you doing here?”
Bree had an urge to scowl back, but she forced it aside. She wasn’t fourteen and feral anymore. She was twenty-four and a professional, with a reputation for being the nicest Realtor at her agency. Violet might not have changed, but Bree certainly had.
“Hi, Violet,” she said, smiling determinedly. “Nice to see you. We should definitely catch up later, after you’ve found your own cabin. I think the one next door is still free—” “Unfortunately, we’re sharing,” Violet interrupted, obviously unimpressed. “None of the other cabins are habitable.”
Bree blinked. That was not what Jackson had said. “Sharing? What? But I thought…” She trailed off as Violet, ignoring her, eyed the bunk bed Bree was standing next to before moving over to the bunk pushed up against the opposite wall.
Bree opened her mouth to try to make the silence more pleasant, when the cabin door opened again, and two more women came in.
This time she barely stifled a groan. Kinley Parker and Clementine McClain? Seriously? She hadn’t known Kinley that well. She’d been so shy and quiet she’d virtually blended into the wallpaper, but apparently lived in Jasper Creek, not that Bree had ever seen her around. Clementine, on the other hand, was Sheriff McClain’s daughter, and Bree remembered her as being the biggest tattletale ever at camp, treating every rule like it was handed down by God himself. No wonder she’d ended up as the sheriff’s deputy, or so Bree had heard.
Anyway, this was great. Just great. So, what? She had to share her cabin with all three of them? Unacceptable. She was going to need a word with Jackson.
Keeping her smile pasted on, Bree directed it to Kinley and Clementine. “Oh, wow, you guys are here as well? How great is this?”
Kinley clearly did not think this was great. Her brown eyes were woeful behind her large glasses as she looked at the bunk situation, and Bree found herself putting a possessive hand on the top bed of the bunk she’d chosen. “Sorry, this one’s mine.”
“And don’t even think about the top bunk here,” Violet said without turning around. “It’ll have my pillow on it in approximately two seconds.” She’d opened her giant pink suitcase on the bottom bunk, and had pulled out a softlooking pillow in a pillowcase embroidered all over with wildflowers, and… Were those fairy lights? Kinley sighed, glanced at the third mattress-less bunk and sighed again. “I guess I’m here, then,” she said and shuffled over to the bunk where Bree stood. “Do you mind if I take the bottom?” Bree gave her the biggest smile she could manage. “No, not at all.”
“Uh, hi.” Clementine gave a nervous-looking wave, an equally nervous-looking smile on her face. Her hair was still as red as Bree remembered, and she still had as many freckles. She glanced with some trepidation at Violet’s bunk and the only other habitable bed. “Um, well, I suppose I’ll take this one.”
Violet had now put her pillow on the top bunk and was in the process of hauling out what appeared to be bed linens, along with what were definitely fairy lights.
“I don’t think we’re allowed those in here,” Clementine said as she stared at the bed currently taken up by Violet’s giant case. “The fairy lights, I mean. At least, I don’t think you can?”
“Too bad,” Violet said. “I’m not doing lights-out at nine. Especially not when I want to read. Plus—” she sent a challenging look to the room in general “—they’re pretty.” Her gaze settled on Bree. “This bed stays mine, okay?” Bree’s smile became fixed. Dammit. It appeared Violet hadn’t forgotten the whole sleeping bag/bunk stealing incident. “No problem,” she said brightly.
Kinley, meanwhile, had sat down on the bunk underneath Bree’s, squeezing herself awkwardly between Bree’s case and the end of the bed.
And suddenly, it was too much. The room felt tiny and there were too many people in it, people she didn’t like and didn’t know, and none of this was anything like what she’d expected.
There had to be somewhere else she could stay. In fact, she’d take it up with Jackson right now. Her smile felt fake and forced, but if she didn’t smile, she was going to end up growling, and she didn’t want to growl. She wasn’t a feral beast.
“I’m just going to…um…” She went over to the door and paused. “No one touch my stuff.”
It wasn’t until she’d gone through it that she realized what she’d said. As if she were fourteen again, hating the camp, and Sheriff McClain, and basically everyone who’d forced her here.
Ugh. She had to make sure she didn’t fall back into old patterns. That meant no growling or getting angry, or being generally unpleasant. She was Bree White, the friendliest, most professional, most successful Realtor in her agency, and sharing a cabin with three of her enemies from a particularly dark time in her life wasn’t that bad.
Still. It was worth checking other options, just to be sure. Bree stopped outside the cabin, looking around at the rest of the camp. Where the hell could Jackson be? Then, from around the corner of the dining hall, came a man wearing a very familiar hat. A battered black cowboy hat. And her heart sank all the way into her brand-new sneakers.
So. Not only was she bunking with her three sworn enemies, but he was here too? Please not him. Anyone but him.
But the man striding over the grass toward her didn’t miraculously turn into someone else. He was tall, but then, he always had been. Even at twenty, his shoulders had been broad and his chest wide. The black cotton of the T-shirt he wore was stretched lovingly over a chest and shoulders that seemed even wider and more muscular ten years later. On the T-shirt there was a picture of a cabin in gold with a phoenix above it, wings outswept, and the words Camp Phoenix above, while underneath the cabin was the camp motto. Rise Up. Her brain had barely registered the T-shirt before it got distracted by the way the worn denim of his jeans clung to his narrow hips and powerful thighs. Not that she was noticing his thighs. Not when eyes greener than the grass beneath her feet were focused on hers with magnetic intensity.
Flint Decker. Sheriff Flint Decker and his stupid hat. Okay, if Jackson wasn’t around, then she’d have a few words about sleeping arrangements with the sheriff himself. Bree lifted her chin and prepared to do battle.
Maisey Yates is a New York Times bestselling author of over one hundred romance novels. Whether she’s writing strong, hard working cowboys, dissolute princes or multigenerational family stories, she loves getting lost in fictional worlds. An avid knitter with a dangerous yarn addiction and an aversion to housework, Maisey lives with her husband and three kids in rural Oregon. Check out her website, maiseyyates.com or find her on Facebook.
USA Today bestselling, RITA-nominated, and critically-acclaimed author Caitlin Crews has written more than 100 books and counting. She has a Masters and Ph.D. in English Literature, thinks everyone should read more category romance, and is always available to discuss her beloved alpha heroes. Just ask. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her comic book artist husband, is always planning her next trip, and will never, ever, read all the books in her to-be-read pile. Thank goodness.
Nicole Helm writes down-to-earth contemporary romance and fast-paced romantic suspense. She lives with her husband and two sons in Missouri. Visit her website: www.nicolehelm.com
Jackie Ashenden writes dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just got the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband the inimitable Dr Jax and two kids. When she’s not torturing alpha males, she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media, or forced to mountain biking with her husband.
Today is my turn to share my Feature Post and Book Review for A NOBLE CUNNING: The Countess and the Tower by Patricia Bernstein on this Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. This is an exciting debut historical fiction novel based on a true story. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
A thrilling tale, based on a true story, of one woman’s tremendous courage and incomparable wit in trying to rescue her husband from the Tower of London the night before he is to be executed.
The heroine of A Noble Cunning, Bethan Glentaggart, Countess of Clarencefield, a persecuted Catholic noblewoman, is determined to try every possible means of saving her husband’s life, with the help of a group of devoted women friends.
Amid the turbulence of the 1715 Rebellion against England’s first German king George I, Bethan faces down a mob attack on her home, travels alone from the Scottish Lowlands to London through one of the worst snowstorms in many years, and confronts a cruel king before his court to plead for mercy for her husband Gavin. As a last resort, Bethan and her friends must devise and put in motion a devilishly complex scheme featuring multiple disguises and even the judicious use of poison to try to free Gavin.
Though rich with historical gossip and pageantry, Bethan’s story also demonstrates the damage that politics and religious fanaticism can inflict on the lives of individuals.
A NOBLE CUNNING: The Countess and the Tower by Patricia Bernstein is an engaging debut historical fiction novel based on a true story featuring a fictional noble Scottish Catholic couple at the time of the Jacobite Uprising and the rise of the Protestant House of Hanover. This is a debut standalone historical fiction novel that is immersive, easy to read and difficult to put down.
Bethan Glentaggert, Countess of Clarencefield lives with her husband and children in the Scottish Lowlands. While prospering, they must always be vigilant as they are Catholics in a land that has made practicing their faith illegal. When Queen Anne dies and the throne is now by law only to be given to a Protestant, the next in line is the German born George of Hanover. This sparks the Jacobite Uprising and the march of Catholics and those who do not recognize the German as king against the throne including Bethan’s husband, Gavin.
Bethan’s husband ends up in the Tower of London waiting execution for treason. Bethan does everything she can to have him pardoned, but her pleas fall on deaf ears. She refuses to give up and she comes up with a cunning plan to save her husband from the executioner’s ax.
I loved Bethan, her strength, intelligence, and cunning plan. That she is based on a real historical character that I previously knew nothing about makes her story that much more enjoyable because I like finding new stories in history when they involve strong female characters. The plan to save her husband was ingenious for the period and gives the story plot the tension of a suspense novel. This story is written with historical detail, both descriptive and in dialogue, to the religious conflict present in England for many decades and I feel the author remains neutral in the telling of the story. I was pleased the author wrote the story in a linear timeline and used quotes and books from authors of the time to give a sense of time and place. This is a well-researched historical fiction novel with a strong female protagonist that I thoroughly enjoyed reading.
I highly recommend this debut historical fiction novel.
***
Excerpt
Chapter One
No Safe Place
Heath Hall, Scottish Lowlands, 1710
“…we shall do our utmost endeavor to have the land purged of Popish idolatry … particularly the abomination of the mass We shall never, consent, for any reason whatsoever, that the Penal Statutes, made against Papists should be annulled; but shall, when opportunity offers, be ready to concur in putting them to a due and vigorous execution.” – The Auchensaugh Renovation of the National Covenant.
Reformed Presbytery, July 24, 1712.
I had gone to bed early and slept soundly until I was awakened by a wild noise of cries and shouts almost under my windows. I rose and peered out. As if one of my most troubled dreams had come to life, at least one hundred men were gathered below, waving smoky torches and brandishing pikes and hammers and other tools they had probably seized from our smithy.
One night in London many years earlier, when I was a child of nine, I had witnessed a raucous anti-Catholic parade made up of London rowdies disguised as grotesque parodies of priests and bishops and the pope. Ever since then, I have feared mobs at night, faces distorted by flickering torchlight.
I looked down from my window upon this motley crowd of bedraggled sowers and reapers, my senses assaulted by the sting of smoke and the writhing fingers of flame. For a moment I swayed and felt that I might fall. Gavin, my husband, was many leagues away politicking in the back-street coffeehouses of Edinburgh. How could I face this crowd without him?
But I could not fall. I am Bethan Carlisle Glentaggart, Countess of Clarencefield, a Catholic amid the heathen Protestants, I thought, and must show neither fear nor weakness. Unruly crowds of this kind feed on the terror they engender in their betters. I repressed an involuntary shiver and vowed to demonstrate that they were dealing with a woman of spirit, in full command of her household, not a mere drawing-room ornament. They would not smell my fear. My heart banged violently in my chest, but I would smooth my features as I had seen my mother do when our family was threatened.
The boldest of the leaders–a ragged bunch with tousled hair, mismatched garments and broken-down shoes–hallooed up at me.
“Mistress, you are hiding a Romanish priest, a servant of Satan, and we will have him! Bring him out or we will come in, as is our right by law!”
Oh yes, of course, I thought but did not say, your “legal rights” are meant to be exercised in the dark of night with a mob at your back, against unprotected women and children.
My brain, still a little sodden with sleep, churned and brought forth no response for a moment, but then clarity broke through.
“Hold there, sirrah. I will come down to you,” I cried.
I tossed an unlaced gown over my shift and wrapped a cloak over the whole. Leaving my hair loose, I ran down the stairs, as the storm of bangings and knockings on the front door grew louder and more insistent. Despite the noise, I paused for an instant at the foot of the stairs to run my hands over my face, trying to forcibly soften lines of worry and subdue the pinch of anxiety around my eyes and mouth.
My companion Lucy had also risen. Shocked and pale-faced, she came running to me barefooted. For once, she, also abruptly jerked from sleep, had no advice to give. But I was beginning to feel more confident that I could maintain at least the outward appearance of a woman who was unruffled by scares in the night, even though my legs were trembling.
“I have read this chapter before,” I told Lucy. “When I was only seven, soldiers came to our home in Wales for this self-same purpose, hunting an illegal priest. I believe I can manage these vermin as my mother once did. None of these men are fit to kiss the hem of Father Jerome’s shabbiest robe.”
Then Lucy and I looked at each other. She gasped. The fact was we had been hosting Father Jerome, a secret missionary priest from France, traveling disguised as an itinerant shepherd and sleeping in the shielings or shepherd’s huts used during summer grazing.
Somehow the priests who came to Scotland knew where the Catholics were and who would welcome them. Father Jerome, diminutive and elderly–but sinewy and strong enough to climb goat paths from glen to glen–once acknowledged to me that he knew his ultimate fate would be exile, prison or perhaps death at the hands of a mob.
“We all believe that at some point we will be caught, my lady, and we are resigned,” he had said with his gentle smile. “When that time comes, I will be grateful for my years spent comforting a scattered and persecuted flock.” I had knelt and asked for his blessing. The itinerant priests were the holiest men I ever knew.
Father Jerome was supposed to have left us at dusk, but neither Lucy nor I had actually seen him go. He had a way of slipping away into the dark without making a sound. But what if he had not yet left and was still somewhere in the house? I had to hope he would take heed of the commotion and make himself scarce.
I could hear the leader of the mob yelling, “We will not give you time to hide him. Open this door or we will break it to…” I managed to raise the iron latch and pulled open the heavy oak door, just in time for him to screech the end of his sentence in my face, “…splinters.”
The night was cold. It was close to Christmastide and, though there was no snow, the wind was sharp. I gathered my cloak more closely around me.
This spokesman was of medium height and spindly, his coat torn and half off his shoulder. His long, greasy, gray-brown hair crept back from his forehead as if it were running away from his face, embarrassed by his actions. His linen was soiled, and his jacket sleeves were too short for his knobby-boned wrists. Ah, but he carried a Bible and proceeded to wave it in my face.
“And you are…,” I asked quietly.
He hesitated, thinking perhaps to hide his identity, which was absurd. A shorter, even grimier man standing next to him–this one wearing a shapeless hat jammed almost down to his eyebrows–punched the leader’s arm.
“Minister Adam Goodnow,” the leader declared, and immediately tried to seize the offensive again by brandishing the Bible in my direction. “Bring us the priest and we will trouble you no further tonight: ‘For your priests have violated My law and have profaned My holy things; they have put no difference between the unclean and the clean and I am profaned among them.’”
“Ezekiel 22:26,” he concluded with an air of satisfaction.
“There is no priest here,” I said, forcing a calm tone into my voice that I did not feel. “We would bring no man into danger.”
“Your souls are in danger,” he spit at me, “if you follow the Whore of Babylon and pursue the Antichrist into darkness…”
I pushed my palm out towards him, intent on holding it steady. I had to find a way to keep a horde of wild men from rampaging through my home. I remembered that, when the soldiers came to Castle Banwy in Wales, when I was seven, my mother took control by telling them they could search for a priest if they left their muddy boots outside. Something about the foolishness of marching upstairs and down in their dirty stockings full of holes took the edge off their eagerness to find the priest. Perhaps I could keep most of these men outside if I gave way just a little.
“It is late,” I said. “My babies are asleep. I desire you not to wake them. Three of you–no more than three–may come in and search the house…if you do it quietly and do not wake the children.”
***
About the Author
Patricia Bernstein was born in El Paso and grew up in Dallas. She earned a Degree of Distinction in American Studies from Smith College and taught English at Smith for four years before returning to Texas. In Houston she founded a public relations agency and published dozens of articles in media venues as varied as Texas Monthly, Cosmopolitan and The Smithsonian.
Her first book was Having a Baby: Mothers Tell Their Stories, a collection of first-person childbirth accounts from the 1890s to the 1990s. The second was The First Waco Horror: The Lynching of Jesse Washington and the Rise of the NAACP about a horrifying “spectacle lynching” which took place in Waco in 1916, and the young women’s suffrage activist hired by the fledgling NAACP to investigate the lynching. The third was Ten Dollars to Hate: The Texas Man Who Fought the Klan about the millions-strong 1920s Ku Klux Klan in Texas and across the US. The book was a finalist for the Ramirez Family Award from the Texas Institute of Letters and was named one of the 53 best books ever written about Texas by the Austin American Statesman.
Patricia lives in Houston with her husband Alan Bernstein where she sings with Opera in the Heights and other organizations, and admires the achievements of her three wonderful and very different daughters. A Noble Cunning is her debut novel, inspired by a story she heard during a visit to Scotland in 2014.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post for END OF STORY (End of Story Book #1) by Kylie Scott on this HTP Books Winter 2023 Rom-Com Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
***
Book Summary
Fans of bestsellers like In Five Years will fall for this unexpected love story about a woman and her contractor who discover a divorce decree with their names on it … dated ten years in the future.
When Susie inherits a charming fixer-upper from her aunt, she’s excited to start living her best HGTV-life. But when she opens the door to find that her contractor is none other than her ex’s (very good looking) best friend Lars—the same man who witnessed their humiliating public break-up 6 months ago—she isn’t exactly eager to have him around. But, beggars can’t be choosers and the sooner the repairs are done, the sooner she can get back to grudgingly accepting the single life.
Things go from awkward to unbelievable when Lars knocks down a bedroom wall and finds a divorce certificate dated ten years from now…with both their names on it. It couldn’t possibly be real…could it? As Susie and Lars try to unravel the document’s origins, the impossibility of a spark between them suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. But is any kind of relationship between them doomed before it’s ever begun?
END OF STORY
Author: Kylie Scott
ISBN: 9781525804793
Publication Date: February 14, 2023
Publisher: Graydon House
***
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“This is awkward.”
The big blond man standing on my doorstep blinked.
“How are you, Lars?” I gave him my very best fake smile. “Nice to see you.”
“Susie. It’s been what…five, six months?” Setting down his toolbox, he gave me an uneasy smile. It was more of a wince, really. Because the last time we saw each other was not a good night. Not for me, at least.
“Something like that,” I said.
“This your new place?” He nodded at the battered arts and crafts cottage. “The office said you had some water damage you wanted to start with?”
“Yeah, about that. I was told Mateo would be doing the work.”
“Family emergency.”
“Oh.”
He gazed down at me with dismay. The man was your basic urban Viking marauder, as his name suggested. Longish blonde hair, white skin, blue eyes, short beard, tall and built. I was average height and he managed to loom over me just fine. In his mid-thirties and more than a little rough around the edges. Nothing like his sleek and slick bestie. An asshole whose continued existence I’d prefer to be reminded of never. But we don’t always get what we want.
I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll show you…”
“Okay.”
“Don’t worry about taking your boots off. The shag carpet isn’t staying.”
Heavy footsteps followed me through the living room and into the dining room where we turned left to enter the small hallway. From this point we had two options, the bathroom or the back bedroom. We headed for the latter.
“The water was getting in through a crack in the window for who knows how long,” I explained. “I only inherited the place recently. There were all these boxes piled up in here. No one could even see it was an issue.”
He grunted.
“I spent the first month just sorting through things and clearing the place out.”
Beneath the window frame, a large stain spread across the golden-flecked wallpaper. As if it weren’t ugly enough to begin with. That was the thing about my aunt Susan; she wasn’t a big fan of change. The two-bedroom cottage had belonged to her parents and everything had pretty much been left untouched after they passed. Apart from the addition of Susan’s junk. Which meant that while the wallpaper and carpet were from the 1970’s, the bathroom was from the 1940’s, and the kitchen cabinets from the 1930’s. At least, that’s what I’d been told. The place was like an ode to 20th century interior design. The good, and the bad.
He got down on one knee, inspecting the damage. “The bottom of this window frame is warped and needs replacing.”
“Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I need to have a look behind here. You attached to the wallpaper?”
“Heck no.”
He almost smiled.
“The sooner I can repaint and get new flooring down, the better.”
Nothing from him. A knife appeared from the tool box, sharp-pointed with jagged teeth. He punched the blade through the drywall with ease and started cutting into the wall.
“How is he?” I asked the dreaded question. Curiosity was the worst. “Enjoying London?”
“Yeah,” was all he said.
“And how’s Jane?”
“We’re not together anymore.”
Not a surprise. Lars went through various girlfriends during the year I’d been with what’s-his-face. Neither he nor his friend were down with commitment. Which was fine if you just wanted to have fun. But Jane was a keeper, smart with a wicked sense of humor. Lars definitely had a type. All of his girlfriends were petite, perfect dolls who behaved in a ladylike manner. The opposite of buxom, loudmouthed me.
He pried a square of drywall loose. “You thinking of living here permanently or flipping and selling the place, or what?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“Great location. A bit of work and it’d probably be worth a lot of money,” he said, keeping the conversation on the business at hand. As was good and right.
Using the flashlight on his phone, he inspected the cavity. The man was all handyman chic. Big ass boots, jeans, and a faded black tee. All of it well-worn. And the way his blue jeans conformed to his thick thighs and the curves of his ass was something. Something I hadn’t meant to notice, but oh well, these things happened. Maybe it was the way his tool belt framed that particular part of his anatomy. For a moment, I couldn’t look away. I was butt struck. Which was both wrong and bad. It would not be smart for me to notice this man in the sexual sense. Though it was nice to know my thirst meter wasn’t broken.
I don’t know if Lars and I were ever really friends. We had, however, been friendly. Though that was romantic relationships for you. One moment you had all of these awesome extra people in your life and the next moment they’re gone.
I tugged on the end of my dark ponytail. An old nervous habit.
“At this stage, it looks like the damage is only superficial,” Lars said. “These two sections of drywall have to go. Once I’ve done that, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“Okay.”
“But it wouldn’t surprise me if some or all of that one needs replacing too.” He pointed to the wall the bedroom shared with the bathroom. “See how there’s bubbling along the joins of the wallpaper there?”
“Right.”
“Do I have your approval to get started?”
I nodded.
None of this was exactly unexpected. Old buildings might have soul, but they could also have heavy upkeep. Renovations cost big bucks. While my savings were meagre, lucky for this hundred year old house, my aunt left me some money. Which was a point of contention for a few of my family members. Like any of them had time for Aunt Susan when she was alive. Besides being my namesake, she was also the black sheep of the family. A little too weird for some, I guess. But weird has always been a trait that I admired.
“I’m going to make myself coffee,” I said. “Would you like some?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“How do you take it?”
“White. No sugar.”
“You’re sweet enough, huh?” And the moment those words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Talk about awkward.
He snorted, then said, “Something like that.”
*
Lars didn’t mess around. By the time I returned, he’d removed the first two panels of drywall. Hands on hips, he stood staring at the interior of the wall with the problematic window. Mostly it looked like a lot of dust and a couple of cobwebs. But then, I’m not a builder. When I handed over his mug, he gave me a brief smile before taking a sip.
“How is it looking?” I asked.
“Your house has good bones.”
“Great.”
“As long as the damage on that wall is due to the moisture spreading from the window and not a leaky bathroom pipe, this should be pretty straightforward,” he said.
I’d taken over the main bedroom, but this room still held a lot of sentimental value for me. Whenever Mom and Dad were busy or needed a break from us kids, my brother would stay at a friend’s house and I’d be packed off to Aunt Susan’s—to this bedroom in particular. Which was fine with me. Andrew was an outgoing jock while I’d been kind of awkward. In this house, I was accepted for who I was. A nice change. With my parents divorced, growing up between three households and living mostly out of a school bag sucked. But Aunt Susan gave me the security that was lacking elsewhere.
“Is the floor okay?”
“Let’s pull up some carpet and see.” He set his coffee on the windowsill. Then, knife back in hand, he got busy with the shag. It was impressive how the tool became a part of him. An extension of his body. “You’ve got good solid hardwood under here.”
“Ooh, let me see.”
He tugged the tattered underlay back further. “Oak, by the look of it.”
“Wow. Imagine covering that beauty up with butt ugly brown carpet.”
“No sign of water damage. You were lucky.”
I smiled. “That is excellent news.”
“Now let’s see what’s behind this.”
I took a step back so he could start removing the next section of drywall. He had such big capable hands. Watching him work was pure competence porn. . As a mature and well-adjusted thirty year old woman, I definitely knew better than to have sexy times thoughts again. The best friend of my ex is not my friend. Confucius probably said that.
“Looks like there’s something back here,” he said, setting a panel of drywall aside.
“Something good or something bad?” I winced as a big hairy spider scurried out of the cavity. “Ew.”
“It’s just a wolf spider. Nothing dangerous.”
“But there might be more.”
Without further comment, he reached down and picked up a piece of paper. It looked old. Which made sense. Lord only knew how long it had been in the wall. It was kind of like opening a time capsule.
“What is it?” I asked, more than a little curious.
His gaze narrowed as he read, his forehead furrowing. Next his brows rose and his lips thinned. His expression quickly changed from disbelief to fury as he shoved the piece of paper at me. The open hostility in his eyes was a lot coming from a man of his size. “Susie, what the fuck?”
“Huh?”
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No. I…” The paper was soft with age and the writing was faded but legible. Mostly. Superior Court of Washington, County of King was written at the top. There was also a date stamp. This was followed by a bunch of numbers and the words Final Divorce Order. “Wait. Is this a divorce certificate?”
“Yeah,” he said. “For you and me. Dated a decade from now.”
I scrunched up my nose and ever so slightly shrieked, “What? Hold on. You think I put this in there?”
“No,” he said, getting all up in my face. “I know you put it in there, Susie.”
“Take a step back, please,” I said, pushing a hand against his hard chest.
He did as I asked, some of the anger leaching from his face. Then he grumbled, “Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Why would you do that? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Find someone else for the job,” he said, gathering up his tools. “I’m out of here.”
“Can you just wait a second?”
Apparently the answer was no. Because the man started moving even faster. “I don’t know what game you’re playing. But I’m not interested in finding out.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I did not put this in the wall, Lars. Think about it. You’re a builder. Had any of the wallpaper or drywall been disturbed in the last forty or fifty years?”
“You could have accessed it from the other side. I don’t know.”
“I didn’t even know you were coming here today.”
He grunted. “Only got your word for that.”
“And I’ve only got your word that you didn’t put this in in the wall for some stupid reason,” I said, thinking it over. How did that not occur to me? “Of course you put it there. I wasn’t the first one to have access to that space. You were. A quick sleight of hand is all it would have taken. This is so unprofessional.”
“Very nice. I’m sure you prepared that speech at the same time you planted it, knowing I’d inevitably be the one who first touched it.”
“And I’m sure you prepared that speech at the same time you planted it, knowing I’d suspect you.”
He glared at me. “Why the hell would I, Susie?”
“Why the hell would I, Lars?” I bellowed. “This is ridiculous. I just want my house fixed. That’s all. And I specifically asked who would be doing the job because I didn’t feel the need to see you again.”
With his back to me, he paused.
“No offense. But I knew it would be wildly uncomfortable.”
“Why’d you use the company I work for then?”
“Because I know they’re reputable and do good work. You yourself said that’s one of the main reasons why you’ve stuck with them. Because they don’t encourage you to cut corners or use shoddy materials and they treat their staff well. Also, they pretty much do everything. These things matter.” I raised a finger. (No. Not that one.) “Take car repairs for instance. Because I know little to nothing about cars, I get ripped off by repair shops—I’m sure of it. I didn’t want that to happen here.”
Another grunt. What an animal.
“I wish neither to marry nor divorce you, Lars. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. So this piece of paper I’m holding in no way benefits me. Look at me. Am I laughing? No, I’m not. Nor am I enjoying all this drama. Confrontation stresses me the fuck out,” I said, my shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what else to say. This is ridiculous.”
“You already said that.”
“It’s worth repeating.”
He gave me a look over his shoulder. “If you’re messing with me…”
“I’m not. Are you messing with me?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell is going on?” I asked the universe.
Without another word, he got to his feet and strode out of the room, heading straight into the bathroom next door. There he made quick work of checking everything. The tiling and paintwork, around the white pedestal basin, inside the mirrored cabinet set into the wall, and the end of the claw foot bath tub. Then he turned around, face set to cranky. “Access point for the attic?”
“Hallway.”
In no time flat, he had the ceiling hatch open and the ladder down. Then up into the darkness he went. His cell phone doubled as a flash light again.
“Lot of stuff up here,” he commented.
“That does not surprise me. My aunt was kind of a hoarder. Not as bad as the people on those TV shows, but…yeah.”
He sneezed. “A lot of dust, too.”
“Bless you. I haven’t even been up there yet,” I said. “Cleaning and clearing space out down here has taken all of my time.”
His big boots disappeared up the last rungs of the ladder while I waited below. After all, I’d only be in the way. It had absolutely nothing to do with my fear of creepy crawlies. Someone had to wait below with the weird ass document. The sounds of him stomping about and things being shifted came next. Something heavy was pushed aside. Something else fell and glass broke.
“Sorry,” Lars called.
“I’m sure it was nothing valuable. Hopefully.”
Then his face appeared in the dark hole overhead. “Looks like they built the attic to use as another bedroom or office at some stage. The floorboards and everything are tight. No real access into the walls below.”
“Mm.”
“Plus there’s about an inch of dust on the ground and no sign of any footprints other than mine.”
“Good work, Nancy Drew,” I said. “Is the basement next?”
He gave me a flat, unfriendly look. “Yes.”
Maybe I’d be better off finding another builder. In fact, I knew I would be. Though it would only be trading one peace of mind for another. While Lars would no longer be in my face, I wouldn’t be able to trust the new builder’s work to the same degree. Which would be anxiety-inducing and possibly costly. Talk about a no-win situation.
Back into the dining room then through to the kitchen at the back of the house, we went on our not-so-merry adventure. I opened the door to the dingy staircase. “I like to call this the murder room. Dark, dank, dangerous. It’s got it all.”
No response from him as we made our way down. Tough crowd. It was just a basic concrete room with a boiler, laundry area, and more assorted crap. But the old boiler, the one before this one, used to make creepy noises. Hence my childhood fears of the basement. Helping with the laundry was always an ordeal. I usually avoided it by offering to do the dishes instead.
Lars began examining the ceiling.
“When did you find out you had this job?”
“Around eight this morning. The office called,” he said. “Mateo’s boyfriend got hit by a car riding to work.”
“Is he okay?”
“A few bumps and bruises and a sprained wrist.”
“Phew.”
“Yeah,” he said. “The job I was on was close to finishing and they could spare me, so they asked me to come here.”
“What gets me is that the paper looks old. I mean, the way the text is faded and everything.” I carefully turned the certificate over in my hands. “I wonder if we could get it tested, somehow.”
He scoffed. “You don’t actually think it’s real?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “What I do know is, if you didn’t put the certificate there to mess with me—and I guess I believe you when you say you didn’t—then I can think of no rational explanation for how it got there.”
He frowned harder and kept right on inspecting the ceiling. Even he had to admit that it was highly unlikely I’d put the decree of dissolution in the wall. Surely.
“Does your middle name start with A?”
“Alexander. Yes.”
“So the details are right, at least. No money judgement ordered. No real property judgement ordered. This marriage is dissolved. The petitioner and respondent are divorced. Not much information there to go on.” I chose my next words with care. “You know, my aunt, she was kind of eccentric. She was always burning candles and buying crystals.”
Looking back over his shoulder at me, he raised a questioning brow.
“The thing is, she used to talk to the house sometimes,” I finally said. “Like it was an actual living breathing entity. And yes, maybe she was lonely or a little strange. Please don’t say anything mean or dismissive about her.”
“I’m not going to say anything about your aunt.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t even blink. “But it’s not supernatural, Susie. This was no ghost or spirit or whatever you’re suggesting.”
“Okay. Fine. I just thought I’d put that out there,” I said. “Did you find anything down here?”
“No.”
“So now what?”
Face set, he walked over, staring into my eyes as if he could read my soul.
“Susie.”
“Lars.”
“I want to believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it. You always seemed like a pretty honest person to me,” he said. “A bit too honest, sometimes.”
“How so?” I asked, only mildly annoyed—although I was exercising great restraint.
“Some of the stuff you come out with sometimes is…unnecessary.”
“Let’s agree to disagree,” I said.
He shook his head.
“I would point out, however, that I’m not brutal. Ever notice how people who say they’re just being honest usually are?”
His nostrils flared on a deep breath. How that was in any way attractive I had no idea. Something must be wrong with me. Guess my vibrator was getting a little boring. Maybe it was time for me to get out there and meet some men. Then again, not dating for the rest of my life would also be great.
“For the last time,” he said, speaking nice and slow, “did you put that piece of paper in the wall?”
“No. I swear.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Fuck,” I agreed.
He sighed. “Someone’s messing with us.”
***
Author Bio
Kylie Scott is the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and international bestselling author of 19 novels including the Stage Dive series, the Dive Bar series, the Larsen Brothers series, and West Hollywood series. Her most recent release, Pause, debuted on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into fourteen languages, and she has sold over 2 million copies worldwide.
Today is my turn to share my Feature Post and Book Review for A WINGMAN FOR CHRISTMAS: A Sweet Water Novella by Barbara Barth on this WOW (Women on Writing) Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
***
Book Summary
The annual Sweet Water, Georgia, Christmas parade is nearing but relationships are fractured on Wild Rose Lane. Antique dealer Cheryl Calloway’s holiday spirit has tanked. It’s been a horrible year with her divorce, her ex marrying younger and perkier Miriam across the street, and Mama moving into Cheryl’s Victorian cottage with her Amazon parrot right before Thanksgiving. A party girl in her eighties, Mama smokes up a storm, likes her nightly vodka, has a hankering for men, and now a wingman named Nigel. If that isn’t enough, the Historical Society wants Cheryl to clean up all the projects on her porch waiting to go to Spivey’s Antique Mall for their Christmas Open House. Her desire to work her booth is as dead as her marriage. Miriam, President of the Historical Society, chastises her, “If it ain’t pretty don’t put it on the porch.” Then there’s Alice, her strange neighbor with the six-foot fluorescent light bulb cross nailed to the huge Magnolia tree in the middle of her rose garden. Alice watches all the neighbors too closely. Just when Cheryl thinks things can’t get worse, an incident shakes her to the core, and a mystery follows revealing family secrets long forgotten. Cheryl wants to believe in miracles and love again, and Dr. James may just be the man of her dreams as he helps her and Mama sort things out.
Filled with quirky characters, mystery, family secrets, and sweet love, all set in a hot Georgia small town.
A WINGMAN FOR CHRISTMAS: A Sweet Water Novella by Barbara Barth is a perfect holiday quick read novella from a new to me author. I almost never give a novella five stars, but this story is a heartfelt, charming, quirky, and funny mash-up of small-town holiday fiction/Southern women’s fiction/cozy mystery and romance with memorable characters all packed beautifully into a small package.
Cheryl has had a very rough year and is in no mood for Christmas. She caught her husband having phone sex with the younger woman across the street, divorced him and he immediately married the neighbor, and she must see them every day. Her elderly mother is having problems, so Mama moves in with Cheryl rather than her brothers of sister because Mama has become the proud owner of an Amazon parrot named Nigel and they do not want that bird in their homes.
When Mama’s boyfriend, Franklin passes out in Cheryl’s family room, the ambulance is called. When Cheryl and Mama rush to the Emergency Room, Cheryl is introduced to the handsome Dr. James. The holiday may be looking up for Cheryl, but then her home is broken into and Nigel is stolen.
With help from unlikely sources, a suspicious neighbor next door, and a handsome doctor, Cheryl just might find the holiday spirit and Nigel.
This is such a fun holiday novella, and I did not put it down until the end. The characters are believable and lovable. Cheryl is full of love even as she is exasperated with Mama and depressed about her failed marriage, but she learns forgiveness leads to unexpected friendships and romance. The small-town setting is perfect for all these quirky characters and the short, but sweet cozy mystery plot thread of Nigel’s theft.
This is a must read holiday mash-up novella that I highly recommend!
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About the Author
Barbara Barth turned to writing and adopting dogs to heal after her husband died fourteen years ago. Known as ‘Writer With Dogs’, Barth currently lives with four Chihuahuas in a charming town forty miles outside of Atlanta. She is Literary Arts Chair at a small art center where she promotes writing activities, author events, book launches, and hosts an online group Walton Writers. Inspired by the wonderful artists around her, Barth started painting and has won several awards with her whimsical art.
