Blog Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: The Secret of Snow by Viola Shipman

Hi, everyone!

Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the HTP Holiday Romance Blog Tour for THE SECRET OF SNOW by Viola Shipman.

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

When Sonny Dunes, a So-Cal meteorologist who knows only sunshine and 72-degree days, has an on-air meltdown after she learns she’s being replaced by an AI meteorologist (which the youthful station manager reasons “will never age, gain weight or renegotiate its contract.”), the only station willing to give a 50-year-old another shot is one in a famously non-tropical place–her northern Michigan hometown.

Unearthing her carefully laid California roots, Sonny returns home and reaclimates to the painfully long, dark winters dominated by a Michigan phenomenon known as lake-effect snow. But beyond the complete physical shock to her system, she’s also forced to confront her past: her new boss is a former journalism classmate and mortal frenemy and, more keenly, the death of a younger sister who loved the snow, and the mother who caused Sonny to leave.

To distract herself from the unwelcome memories, Sonny decides to throw herself headfirst (and often disastrously) into all things winter to woo viewers and reclaim her success: sledding, ice-fishing, skiing, and winter festivals, culminating with the town’s famed Winter Ice Sculpture Contest, all run by a widowed father and Chamber director whose honesty and genuine love of Michigan, winter and Sonny just might thaw her heart and restart her life in a way she never could have predicted.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58503739-the-secret-of-snow?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=uuVJrxc6FB&rank=1

THE SECRET OF SNOW

Author: Viola Shipman

ISBN: 9781525806445

Publication Date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Graydon House Books

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My Book Review

RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars

THE SECRET OF SNOW by Viola Shipman is a holiday Women’s fiction story with romantic elements that is an emotional rollercoaster ride of heartbreak, love, friendship, forgiveness, and redemption. As I have found when reading other Viola Shipman stories…you will laugh out loud and you will need the tissue box handy.

Amberrose Murphy lived in a happy and loving home in upper Michigan until tragedy struck. Her main goal after that was to escape Michigan winters and she reinvents herself after college as Sonny Dunes in California where no one would know of her painful past or remind her of her loss.

Sonny is blindsided at the age of fifty when she is replaced with an AI meteorologist. After a public meltdown, the only station that will take a chance on her is in her hometown of Traverse City, Michigan. She moves back to memories she has tried to forget and is forced to confront her past while also trying to revive her career, reconnect with her mother and deal with a widowed Chamber of Commerce Director who loves all things about winter in Michigan.

Even though this story covers almost a year in time, the holiday season plays an important role in this wonderfully emotional story. Sonny is an empathetic and believable character. The pain in her past makes her relationship phobic and many women have been affected by ageism in careers. The mother/daughter relationship is so well written with support, caring, and love. She is a very smart mother. The new friends Sonny makes at the station all grow and change right along with her. The romance is sweet, and Mason is a survivor of grief who is very open about his feelings and love of Michigan winters, but their romance does not overpower Sonny’s own personal growth.

I absolutely love Viola Shipman stories and this holiday book is no exception!

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Excerpt

I end the newscast with the same forecast—a row of smiling sunshine emojis that look just like my face—and then banter with the anchors about the perfect pool temperature before another graphic—THE DESERT’S #1 NIGHTLY NEWS TEAM!—pops onto the screen, and we fade to commercial.

“Anyone want to go get a drink?” Cliff asks within seconds of the end of the newscast. “It’s Friday night.”

“It’s always Friday night to you, Cliff,” Eva says.

She stands and pulls off her mic. The top half of Eva Fernandez is J.Lo perfection: luminescent locks, long lashes, glam gloss, a skintight top in emerald that matches her eyes, gold jewelry that sets off her glowing skin. But Eva’s bottom half is draped in sweats, her feet in house slippers. It’s the secret viewers never see.

“I’m half dressed for bed already anyway,” she says with a dramatic sigh. Eva is very dramatic. “And I’m hosting the Girls Clubs Christmas breakfast tomorrow and then Eisenhower Hospital’s Hope for the Holidays fundraiser tomorrow night. And Sonny and I are doing every local Christmas parade the next few weekends. You should think about giving back to the community, Cliff.”

“Oh, I do,” he says. “I keep small business alive in Palm Springs. Wouldn’t be a bar afloat without my support.”

Cliff roars, setting off his chattering teeth.

I call Cliff “The Unicorn” because he was actually born and raised in Palm Springs. He didn’t migrate here like the older snowbirds to escape the cold, he didn’t snap up midcentury houses with cash like the Silicon Valley techies who realized this was a real estate gold mine, and he didn’t suddenly “discover” how hip Palm Springs was like the millennials who flocked here for the Coachella Music Festival and to catch a glimpse of Drake, Beyoncé or the Kardashians.

No, Cliff is old school. He was Palm Springs when tumbleweed still blew right through downtown, when Bob Hope pumped gas next to you and when Frank Sinatra might take a seat beside you at the bar, order a martini and nobody acted like it was a big deal.

I admire Cliff because—

The set suddenly spins, and I have to grab the arm of a passing sound guy to steady myself. He looks at me, and I let go.

—he didn’t run away from where he grew up.

“How about you, sunshine?” Cliff asks me. “Wanna grab a drink?”

“I’m gonna pass tonight, Cliff. I’m wiped from this week. Rain check?”

“Never rains in the desert, sunshine,” Cliff jokes. “You oughta know that.”

He stops and looks at me. “What would Frank Sinatra do?”

I laugh. I adore Cliff’s corniness.

“You’re not Frank Sinatra,” Eva calls.

“My martini awaits with or without you.” Cliff salutes, as if he’s Bob Hope on a USO tour, and begins to walk out of the studio.

“Ratings come in this weekend!” a voice yells. “That’s when we party.”

We all turn. Our producer, Ronan, is standing in the middle of the studio. Ronan is all of thirty. He’s dressed in flip-flops, board shorts and a T-shirt that says, SUNS OUT, GUNS OUT! like he just returned from Coachella. Oh, and he’s wearing sunglasses. At night. In a studio that’s gone dim. Ronan is the grandson of the man who owns our network, DSRT. Jack Clark of ClarkStar pretty much owns every network across the US these days. He put his grandson in charge because Ro-Ro’s father bought an NFL franchise, and he’s too obsessed with his new fancy toy to pay attention to his old fancy toy. Before DSRT, Ronan was a surfer living in Hawaii who found it hard to believe there wasn’t an ocean in the middle of the California desert.

He showed up to our very first official news meeting wearing a tank top with an arrow pointing straight up that read, This Dude’s the CEO!

“You can call me Ro-Ro,” he’d announced upon introduction.

“No,” Cliff said. “I can’t.”

Ronan had turned his bleary gaze upon me and said, “Yo. Weather’s, like, not really my thing. You can just, like, look outside and see what’s going on. And it’s, like, on my phone. Just so we’re clear…get it? Like the weather.”

My heart nearly stopped. “People need to know how to plan their days, sir,” I protested. “Weather is a vital part of all our lives. It’s daily news. And, what I study and disseminate can save lives.”

“Ratings party if we’re still number one!” Ronan yells, knocking me from my thoughts.

I look at Eva, and she rolls her eyes. She sidles up next to me and whispers, “You know all the jokes about millennials? He’s the punchline for all of them.”

I stifle a laugh.

We walk each other to the parking lot.

“See you Monday,” I say.

“Are we still wearing our matching Santa hats for the parade next Saturday?”

I laugh and nod. “We’re his best elves,” I say.

“You mean his sexiest news elves,” she says. She winks and waves, and I watch her shiny SUV pull away. I look at my car and get inside with a smile. Palm Springs locals are fixated on their cars. Not the make or the color, but the cleanliness. Since there is so little rain in Palm Springs, locals keep their cars washed and polished constantly. It’s like a competition.

I pull onto Dinah Shore Drive and head toward home.

Palm Springs is dark. There is a light ordinance in the city that limits the number of streetlights. In a city this beautiful, it would be a crime to have tall posts obstructing the view of the mountains or bright light overpowering the brightness of the stars.

I decide to cut through downtown Palm Springs to check out the Friday night action. I drive along Palm Canyon Drive, the main strip in town. The restaurants are packed. People sit outside in shorts—in December!—enjoying a glass of wine. Music blasts from bars. Palm Springs is alive, the town teeming with life even near midnight.

I stop at a red light, and a bachelorette party in sashes and tiaras pulls up next to me peddling a party bike. It’s like a self-propelled trolley with seats and pedals, but you can drink—a lot—on it. I call these party trolleys “Woo-Hoo Bikes” because…

I honk and wave.

The bachelorette party shrieks, holds up their glasses and yells, “WOO-HOO!”

The light changes, and I take off, knowing these ladies will likely find themselves in a load of trouble in about an hour, probably at a tiki bar where the drinks are as deadly as the skulls on the glasses.

I continue north on Palm Canyon—heading past Copley’s Restaurant, which once was Cary Grant’s guesthouse in the 1940s, and a plethora of design and vintage home furnishings stores. I stop at another light and glance over as an absolutely filthy SUV, which looks like it just ended a mud run, pulls up next to me. The front window is caked in gray-white sludge and the doors are encrusted in crud. An older man is hunched over the steering wheel, wearing a winter coat, and I can see the woman seated next to him pointing at the navigation on the dashboard. I know immediately they are not only trying to find their Airbnb on one of the impossible-to-locate side streets in Palm Springs, but also that they are from somewhere wintry, somewhere cold, somewhere the sun doesn’t shine again until May.

Which state? I wonder, as the light changes, and the car pulls ahead of me.

“Bingo!” I yell in my car. “Michigan license plates!”

We all run from Michigan in the winter.

I look back at the road in front of me, and it’s suddenly blurry. A car honks, scaring the wits out of me, and I shake my head clear, wave an apology and head home.

***

Author Bio

Viola Shipman is the pen name for Wade Rouse, a popular, award-winning memoirist. Rouse chose his grandmother’s name, Viola Shipman, to honor the woman whose heirlooms and family stories inspire his writing. Rouse is the author of The Summer Cottage, as well as The Charm Bracelet and The Hope Chest which have been translated into more than a dozen languages and become international bestsellers. He lives in Saugatuck, Michigan and Palm Springs, California, and has written for People, Coastal Living, Good Housekeeping, and Taste of Home, along with other publications, and is a contributor to All Things Considered.

Social Links

Author Website

Facebook: @authorviolashipman

Instagram: @viola_shipman

Twitter: @viola_shipman

Buy Links

Books-A-Million Powell’s

Blog Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: A Little Christmas Spirit by Sheila Roberts

Hi, everyone!

Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the HTP Holiday Romance Blog Tour for A LITTLE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT by Sheila Roberts.

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

The best Christmas gifts—family, friendship, and second chances—are all waiting to be unwrapped in this sparkling new novel from USA Today bestselling author Sheila Roberts.

Single mom Lexie Bell hopes to make this first Christmas in their new home special for her six-year-old son, Brock. Festive lights and homemade fudge, check. Friendly neighbors? Uh, no. The reclusive widower next door is more grinchy than nice. But maybe he just needs a reminder of what matters most. At least sharing some holiday cheer with him will distract her from her own lack of romance…

Stanley Mann lost his Christmas spirit when he lost his wife and he sees no point in looking for it. Until she shows up in his dreams and informs him it’s time to ditch his Scroogey attitude. Stanley digs in his heels but she’s determined to haunt him until he wakes up and rediscovers the joys of the season. He can start by being a little more neighborly to the single mom next door. In spite of his protests he’s soon making snowmen and decorating Christmas trees. How will it all end?

Merrily, of course. A certain Christmas ghost is going to make sure of that!

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56383017-a-little-christmas-spirit?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=u0j73Km72r&rank=1

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Author: Sheila Roberts

ISBN: 9780778311287

Publication Date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: MIRA Books

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My Book Review

RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT by Sheila Roberts is a wonderful Christmas holiday standalone fiction story with romance elements. A grumpy old neighbor who lost his Christmas spirit when his wife died, a single mother and her young son who are new in the neighborhood are all brought together by a Christmas ghost.

Stanley Mann lost the love of his life, Carol, three years ago in a terrible car crash and he has never recovered. He continues on by himself and wants nothing to do with anyone or anything outside of his home and he especially hates the holidays. Then Carol’s spirit returns during several nights to remind Stanley of their time together and to encourage him to start living life again and not just existing and he can start by helping his new neighbors.

Kindergarten teacher Lexi Bell and her young son, Brock, have moved from California to the Pacific Northwest and are excited about spending their first Christmas in their new home. Their next-door neighbor at first is more grumpy hermit than neighbor, but Lexi and Brock have a way of squirming into his heart during the day even as Carol nudges him into being the man she remembers during the nights.

This story is absolutely perfect for a holiday read! It is full of love, family, forgiveness, and holiday spirit. Brock is endearing and you can understand how he was able to worm his way into Stanley’s closed-off heart. Lexi’s trial of looking for the perfect man is all too familiar for many of us. When Stanley sits down with The Grinch and Scrooge in one of his dreams it was very entertaining. The secondary characters all make their appearances at just the right time and give this story a realistic feel even with its ghostly apparition. Keep the tissues close for a few of the scenes. This is the first time I have read a book by this author, and it will not be the last.

I highly recommend this Christmas tale of love!

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Excerpt

1

It was the sixth call in two days, all from the same person. Wouldn’t you think, if a man didn’t answer his phone the first five times, that the pest would get the message and quit bugging him?

But no, and now Stanley Mann was irritated enough to pick up and say a gruff “Hello.” Translation: Why are you bugging me?

“It’s about time you answered,” said his sister-in-law, Amy. “I was beginning to wonder if you were okay.”

Of course, he wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay since Carol had died.

“I’m fine. Thanks for checking.”

The words didn’t come out with any sense of warmth or appreciation for her concern to encourage conversation, but Amy soldiered on. “Stan, we all want you to come down for Thanksgiving. You haven’t seen the family in ages.”

Not since the memorial service, and he hadn’t really missed them. He liked his brother-in-law well enough, but his wife’s younger sister was a ding-dong, her daughters were drama queens and their husbands were idiots. The younger generation were all into their selfies and their jobs and their crazy vacations where they swam with sharks. Who in their right mind swam with sharks? He had better things to do than subject himself to spending an entire day with them.

He did have enough manners left to thank Amy for the invite before turning her down.

“You really should come,” she persisted.

No, he shouldn’t.

“Don’t you want to see the new great-niece?”

No, he didn’t. “I’ve got plans.”

“What? To hole up in the house with a turkey frozen dinner?”

“No.” Not turkey. He hated turkey. It made him sleepy.

“You know Carol would want you to be with us.”

He’d been with them pretty much every Thanksgiving of his married life. He’d paid his dues.

“You don’t have any family of your own.”

Thanks for rubbing it in. He’d lost his brother ten years earlier to a heart attack, and both his parents were gone now as well. He and Carol had never had any kids of their own.

But he was fine. He was perfectly happy in his own company.

“I’m good, Amy. Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t help it. You know, Carol was always afraid that if something happened to her you’d become a hermit.”

Hermits were scruffy old buzzards with bad teeth and long beards who hated people. Stanley didn’t hate people. He just didn’t need to be around them all the time. There was a difference. And he wasn’t scruffy. He brushed his teeth. And he shaved…every once in a while.

“Amy, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Happy Thanksgiving, and tell Jimmy he can have my share of the turkey,” Stanley said, then ended the call before she could grill him further regarding those plans he’d said he had.

They were perfectly good plans. He was going to pick up a frozen pizza and watch something on TV. That sure beat driving all the way from Fairwood, Washington, to Gresham, Oregon, to be alternately bored and irritated by his in-laws. If Amy really wanted to do something good for him, she could leave him alone.

At first everyone had. He was a man in mourning. Then came COVID-19, and he was a senior self-quarantining. Now, however, it appeared he was supposed to be ready to party on. Well, he wasn’t.

Two days before Thanksgiving he made the one-mile journey to the grocery store, figuring he’d dodge the crowd. He’d figured wrong, and the store was packed with people finishing up the shopping for their holiday meal. The turkey supply in the meat freezer was running dangerously low, and half a dozen women and a lone man crowded around it like miners at the river’s edge, searching for gold, each trying to snag the best bird from the selection that remained. A woman rolled past him with a mini-mountain of food in her cart, a wailing toddler in the seat and two kids dragging along behind her, one of them pointing to the chips aisle and whining.

“I said no,” she snapped. “We don’t need chips.”

Nope. That woman needed a stiff drink.

Stanley grabbed his pizza and some pumpkin ice cream and got in the checkout line.

Two men around his age stood in front of him, talking. “They’re out of black olives,” said the first one. “I got green instead.”

The second man shook his head. “Your wife ain’t gonna like that. Everyone knows you got to have black olives at Thanksgiving.”

“I can’t help it if there’s none left on the shelves. Anyway, the only one who eats ’em is her brother, and the loser can suck it up and do without.”

Yep, family togetherness. Stanley wasn’t going to miss that.

He’d miss being with Carol, though. He missed her every day. Her absence was an ache that never left him, and resentment kept it ever fresh.

They’d reached what was often referred to as the Golden Circle, that time in life when you had enough money to travel and enjoy yourself, when your health was still good and you could carry your own luggage. They’d enjoyed traveling and had planned on doing so much more together—taking a world cruise, renting a beach house in California for a summer, even going deep-sea fishing in Mexico. Their golden years were going to be great.

Those golden years turned to brass the day she died. She didn’t even die of cancer or a stroke or something he could have accepted. She was killed in a car accident. A drunk driver in a truck had done her in and walked away with nothing more than some bruises from his airbag. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. And Stanley didn’t really have anything to be thankful about. He didn’t like Thanksgiving.

There would be worse to follow. After Thanksgiving it would be Merry Christmas!, Happy Hanukkah!, Happy Kwanzaa!, you name it. All that happy would finally get tied up in a big Happy New Year! bow. As if buying a new calendar magically made everything better. Well, it didn’t.

Stanley spent his Thanksgiving Day in lonely splendor, watching football on TV and eating his pizza. It’s not delivery. It’s DiGiorno. Worked for him. He ate two-thirds of it before deciding he should pace himself. Got to save room for dessert. Pumpkin ice cream—just as good as the traditional pie and whipped cream, and it didn’t come with any irritating in-laws. Ice cream was the food of the gods. After his pizza, he pulled out a large bowl, filled it and dug in.

When they got older, Carol had turned into the ice cream police, limiting his consumption. She’d pat his belly and say, “Now, Manly Stanley, too much of that and you’ll end up looking like a big, fat snowman. Plus you’ll clog your arteries, and that’s not good. I don’t want to risk losing you.”

Ironic. He’d wound up losing her instead.

Between all the ice cream and the beer he’d been consuming with no one to police him, he was starting to look a little like Frosty the Snowman. (Before he melted.) But who cared? He got himself a second bowl of ice cream.

He topped it off with a couple of beers and a movie along with some store-bought cookies. There you go. Happy Thanksgiving.

For a while, anyway. Until everything got together in his stomach and began to misbehave. He shouldn’t have eaten so much. Especially the pizza. He really couldn’t do spicy now that he was older. Telling everyone down there that all would soon be well, he took a couple of antacids.

No one down there was listening, and all that food had its own Turkey Day football game still going in his gut when he went to bed. He tossed and turned and groaned until, finally, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

“Pepperoni and sausage?” scolded a voice in his ear. “You know better than to eat that spicy food, Stanley.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “You’re right, Carol.”

Carol! Stanley rolled over and saw his wife standing by the side of his bed. She was wearing the black nightie he always loved to see her in. And then out of. Her eyes were as blue as ever. How he’d missed that sweet face!

But what was she doing here?

He blinked. “Is it really you?” He thought he’d never see her again in this lifetime, but there she was. His heart turned over.

“Yes, it’s really me,” she said.

She looked radiant and so kissable, but that quickly changed. Suddenly, her body language wasn’t very lovey-dovey. She frowned and put her hands on her hips, a sure sign she was about to let him have it.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

He didn’t have to ask what she was referring to. He knew.

“It’s Thanksgiving. I was celebrating,” he said.

She frowned. “All by yourself.”

“I happen to like my own company. You know that.”

“There’s liking your own company, and there’s hiding.”

“I am not hiding,” he insisted.

“Yes, you are. I gave you time to mourn, time to adjust, but enough is enough. Life is short, Stanley. It’s like living off your savings. Each day you take another withdrawal, and pretty soon there’s nothing left. You have to spend those days wisely. You’re wasting yours, dribbling away the last of your savings.”

“That’s fine with me,” he insisted. “I hate my life.”

He hated waking up to find her side of the bed empty and ached for her smile. Without her the house felt deserted. He felt deserted.

“You still like ice cream, don’t you?” she argued.

Except for when he paired it with pizza.

“Stanley, you need to get out there and…live.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he grumped.

“Going through the motions, hanging in limbo.”

What else could she expect? “It’s not the same without you,” he protested.

“Of course it’s not. But you’re still here, and you’re here for a reason. Don’t make what happened to me a double waste. Somebody snatched my life from me, and I wasn’t done with it. I want you to go on living for the both of us.”

“How can I do that? This isn’t a life, not without you sharing it.”

“It’s a different kind of life, that’s all.”

It was a subpar, meager existence. “I miss you, Carol. I miss you sitting across from me at the breakfast table. I miss us doing things together and sitting together at night, watching TV. I miss…your touch.” He finished on a sob.

“I know.” She sat down on the bed next to him, and he couldn’t help noticing how the blankets didn’t shift under her. “But you have to start filling those empty places, Stanley.”

“I don’t want to,” he cried. “I don’t want to.”

He was still muttering “I don’t want to” when he woke up.

Alone. For a moment there, her presence had felt so real.

“She wasn’t there at all, you dope,” he muttered.

Except why was there a faint scent of peppermint in the bedroom? It made him think of the chocolate Christmas cookies she used to make with the mint-candy frosting and sprinkles on them. After a few big sniffs, he couldn’t detect so much as a whiff of peppermint and shook his head in disgust. Indigestion and memory. That was all she was.

***

Author Bio

Sheila Roberts lives on a lake in Washington State, where most of her novels are set. Her books have been published in several languages. On Strike for Christmas, was made into a movie for the Lifetime Movie Network and her novel, The Nine Lives of Christmas, was made into a movie for Hallmark.

Social Links

Author Website

Facebook: @funwithsheila

Twitter: @_Sheila_Roberts

Instagram: @sheilarobertswriter

Buy Links

Book Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: The Warden by Jon Richter

Hi, everyone!

Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Blackthorn Book Tour for THE WARDEN by Jon Richter.

Below you will find an about the book section, my book review, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!

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About the Book

The year is 2024, and the residents of the Tower, a virus-proof apartment building, live in a state of permanent lockdown. The building is controlled by a state-of-the-art AI named James, who keeps the residents safe but incarcerated. Behind bricked-up front doors, their every need is serviced; they are pampered but remain prisoners.

This suits Eugene just fine. Ravaged by the traumas of his past, the agoraphobic ex-detective has no intention of ever setting foot outside again. But when he finds the Tower’s building manager brutally murdered, his investigator’s instincts won’t allow him to ignore the vicious crime.

What Eugene finds beyond the comfort of his apartment’s walls will turn his sheltered existence upside down. To unravel the Tower’s mysteries, he must confront James… and James takes his role as the Warden very, very seriously.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58259262-the-warden?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=3XW7iYYiaS&rank=1

The Warden by Jon Richter

Purchase link: http://mybook.to/theWardenJonRichter
Genre: Psychological Thriller
Print length: 312
Suitable for young adults? This is an adult book but suitable for mature teenagers 16-18
Trigger warnings: Covid references; homicide with some graphic violence; references to medical experimentation on humans; swearing; brief animal cruelty (goldfish left to die); references to suicide and mental illness
Amazon Rating: 4.5 stars

***

My Book Review

RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars

THE WARDEN by Jon Richter is an intense dystopian/horror/psychological thriller mash-up which had my spine tingling and sitting on the edge of my seat throughout. Take peoples fear of a super mutated Covid and combine that with an AI like HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey and I could not turn the pages fast enough.

In the year 2024, the residents of the Tower have won a lottery to live in a virus proof apartment building completely controlled by the AI (Artificial Intelligence) called James and the service bots run by James. All the residents’ needs are taken care of, but they can never leave their individual apartments.

Eugene is an ex-detective who lives in the Tower and has become agoraphobic with his fear of the virus and the personal trauma he suffered before moving in. On a day like any other, he is waiting for his delivery of essentials but when the elevator arrives at his apartment, the building’s manager is inside dead and dismembered.

Eugene battles his fears to investigate the death and begins to unravel the Tower’s and James’ mysteries.

I loved this book as much as it scared me. The premise of a super mutated Covid is scary enough, but I have always been leary of AI technology. This story is told in two alternating timelines. The first is set in 2021 and we learn how James came into existence and his capabilities, and the second is 2024, which is the present in this story, when we meet Eugene. Both timelines have plots full of unexpected twists that lead to surprising climaxes. Eugene is a memorable protagonist. At first, I felt sorry for Eugene and the reasons he was hiding away and then I cheered him on as he battled those fears and James.

I highly recommend this chilling dystopian tale!

***

About the Author

Jon Richter writes genre-hopping dark fiction, including his three gripping crime thrillers, Deadly Burial, Never Rest and Rabbit Hole, his cyberpunk noir thriller Auxiliary: London 2039 and his new techno-thriller The Warden, as well as two collections of short horror fiction.

Jon lives in London and is a self-confessed nerd who loves books, films and video games – basically any way to tell a great story! He writes whenever he can, and hopes to bring you many more sinister tales in the future. He also co-hosts the Dark Natter podcast, a fortnightly dissection of the world’s greatest works of dark fiction, available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcast fix.

Author Social Media Links

If you want to chat to him about any of this, you can find him on Twitter @RichterWrites or Instagram @jonrichterwrites. His website haunts the internet at www.jon-richter.com, and you can find his books available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2OXXRVP.

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Book Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: Twentymile by C. Matthew Smith

Hi, everyone!

Today is my turn on the Partners In Crime Virtual Blog Tour and I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for TWENTYMILE by C. Matthew Smith.

Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!

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Book Description

When wildlife biologist Alex Lowe is found dead inside Great Smoky Mountains National Park, it looks on the surface like a suicide. But Tsula Walker, Special Agent with the National Park Service’s Investigative Services Branch and a member of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, isn’t so sure.

Tsula’s investigation will lead her deep into the park and face-to-face with a group of lethal men on a mission to reclaim a historic homestead. The encounter will irretrievably alter the lives of all involved and leave Tsula fighting for survival – not only from those who would do her harm, but from a looming winter storm that could prove just as deadly.

A finely crafted literary thriller, Twentymile delivers a propulsive story of long-held grievances, new hopes, and the contentious history of the land at its heart.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58801931-twentymile?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=DMCA4fpe0q&rank=1

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My Book Review

RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars

TWENTYMILE by C. Matthew Smith is an intense thriller featuring a female Cherokee SBI agent as the protagonist and is set in the scenic and beautiful Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Qualla Boundary.

SBI Special Agent Tsula Walker has returned home to her childhood home to care for her mother in the Qualla Boundary. When a Parks Service wildlife biologist is found dead in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park nearby, Tsula is sent to investigate.

Tsula’s investigation leads her deep into the park where she comes face-to-face with a man, his two teenage sons and a friend who are willing to do anything to reclaim a historic homestead they believe stolen by the government. Tsula barely escapes the homestead with her life and runs deep into the park while the men continue to hunt her down. She ends up not only trying to survive her attackers, but also a deadly winter storm which could end up killing her as well.

This is such an intriguing thriller on many levels. The investigation and wilderness chase kept me turning the pages. The questions posed by characters throughout the story regarding land rights and the contentious fights that continue today were interspersed and examined from many sides without slowing the pace of the story and I never felt like I was getting an information dump or being preached to. Tsula is a unique and intriguing character with a very interesting background. She has a strong sense of family, is physically strong, brave, intelligent and wants to be the best SBI agent she can be. I would love to follow Tsula’s adventures in future books.

I highly recommend this beautifully written and intriguing thriller!

***

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

May 10

The same moment the hiker comes upon them, rounding the bend in the trail, Harlan knows the man will die.

He takes no pleasure in the thought. So far as Harlan is aware, he has never met the man and has no quarrel with him. This stranger is simply an unexpected contingency. A loose thread that, once noticed, requires snipping.

Harlan knows, too, it’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have stopped. He should have pressed the group forward, off the trail and into the concealing drapery of the forest. That, after all, is the plan they’ve followed each time: Keep moving. Disappear.

But the first sliver of morning light had crested the ridge and caught Harlan’s eye just so, and without even thinking, he’d paused to watch it filter through the high trees. Giddy with promise, he’d imagined he saw their new future dawning in that distance as well, tethered to the rising sun. Cardinals he couldn’t yet spot were waking to greet the day, and a breeze picked up overhead, soughing through shadowy crowns of birch and oak. He’d turned and watched the silhouettes of his companions taking shape. His sons, Otto and Joseph, standing within arm’s length. The man they all call Junior lingering just behind them.

The stranger’s headlamp sliced through this reverie, bright and sudden as an oncoming train, freezing Harlan where he stood. In all the times they’ve previously made this journey—always departing this trail at this spot, and always at this early hour—they’ve never encountered another person. Given last night’s thunderstorm and the threat of more to come, Harlan wasn’t planning on company this morning, either.

He clamps his lips tight and flicks his eyes toward his sons—be still, be quiet. Junior clears his throat softly.

“Mornin’,” the stranger says when he’s close.

The accent is local—born, like Harlan’s own, of the surrounding North Carolina mountains—and his tone carries a hint of polite confusion. The beam of his headlamp darts from man to man, as though uncertain of who or what most merits its attention, before settling finally on Junior’s pack.

The backpack is a hand-stitched canvas behemoth many times the size of those sold by local outfitters and online retailers. Harlan designed the mammoth vessel himself to accommodate the many necessities of life in the wilderness. Dry goods. Seeds for planting. Tools for construction and farming. Long guns and ammunition. It’s functional but unsightly, like the bulbous shell of some strange insect. Harlan and his sons carry similar packs, each man bearing as much weight as he can manage. But it’s likely the rifle barrel peeking out of Junior’s that has now caught the stranger’s interest.

Harlan can tell he’s an experienced hiker, familiar with the national park where they now stand. Few people know of this trail. Fewer still would attempt it at this hour. Each of his thick-knuckled hands holds a trekking pole, and he moves with a sure and graceful gait even in the relative dark. He will recognize—probably is just now in the process of recognizing—that something is not right with the four of them. Something he may be tempted to report. Something he might recall later if asked.

Harlan nods at the man but says nothing. He removes his pack and kneels as though to re-tie his laces.

The hiker, receiving no reply, fills the silence. “How’re y’all do—”

When Harlan stands again, he works quickly, covering the stranger’s mouth with his free hand and thrusting his blade just below the sternum. A whimper escapes through his clamped fingers but dies quickly. The body arches, then goes limp. One arm reaches out toward him but only brushes his shoulder and falls away. Junior approaches from behind and lowers the man onto his back.

Even the birds are silent.

Joseph steps to his father’s side and offers him a cloth. Harlan smiles. His youngest son is a carbon copy of himself at eighteen. The wordless, intent glares. The muscles tensed and explosive, like coiled springs straining at a latch. Joseph eyes the man on the ground as though daring him to rise and fight.

Harlan removes the stranger’s headlamp and shines the beam in the man’s face. A buzz-cut of silver hair blanches in this wash of light. His pupils, wide as coins, do not react. Blood paints his lips and pools on the mud beneath him, smelling of copper.

“I’m sorry, friend,” Harlan says, though he doubts the man can hear him. “It’s just, you weren’t supposed to be here.” He yanks the knife free from the man’s distended belly and cleans it with the cloth.

From behind him comes Otto’s fretful voice. “Jesus, Pop.”

Harlan’s eldest more resembles the men on his late wife’s side. Long-limbed and dour. Quiet and amenable, but anxious. When Harlan turns, Otto is pacing along a tight stretch of the trail with his hands clamped to the sides of his head. His natural state.

“Shut up and help me,” Harlan says. “Both of you.”

He instructs his sons to carry the man two hundred paces into the woods and deposit him behind a wide tree. Far enough away, Harlan hopes, that the body will not be seen or smelled from the trail any time soon. “Wear your gloves,” he tells them, re-sheathing the knife at his hip. “And don’t let him drag.”

As Otto and Joseph bear the man away, Harlan pockets the lamp and turns to Junior.

“I know, I know,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Harlan sweeps his boot back and forth along the muddy trail to smooth over the odd bunching of footprints and to cover the scrim of blood with earth. He’s surprised to find his stomach has gone sour. “No witnesses,” he says. “That’s how it has to be.”

“People go missing,” Junior says, “and other people come looking.”

“By the time they do, we’ll be long gone.”

Junior shrugs and points. “Dibs on his walking sticks.”

Harlan stops sweeping. “What?”

“Sometimes my knees hurt.”

“Fine,” Harlan says. “But let’s get this straight. Dibs is not how we’re going to operate when we get there.”

Junior blinks and looks at him. “Dibs is how everything operates.”

Minutes later, Otto and Joseph return from their task, their chests heaving and their faces slick. Otto gives his younger brother a wary look, then approaches Harlan alone. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low.

“Pop—”

“Was he still breathing when you left him?”

Otto trains his eyes on his own feet, a drop of sweat dangling from the tip of his nose.

“Was he?”

Otto shakes his head. He hesitates for a moment longer, then asks, “Maybe we should go, Pop? Before someone else comes along?”

Harlan pats his son’s hunched neck. “You’re right, of course.”

The four grunt and sway as they re-shoulder their packs. Wooden edges and sharp points dig into Harlan’s back and buttocks through the canvas, and the straps strain against his burning shoulders. But he welcomes this discomfort for what it means. This, at last, is their final trip.

This time, they’re leaving for good.

They fan out along the edge of the trail, the ground sopping under their boots. Droplets rain down, shaken free from the canopy by a gust of wind, and Harlan turns his face up to feel the cool prickle on his skin. Then he nods to his companions, wipes the water from his eyes, and steps into the rustling thicket.

The others follow after him, marching as quickly as their burdens allow.

Melting into the trees and the undergrowth.

***

Author Bio

C. Matthew Smith is an attorney and writer whose short stories have appeared in and are forthcoming from numerous outlets, including Mystery Tribune, Mystery Weekly, Close to the Bone, and Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir Vol. 3 (Down & Out Books). He’s a member of Sisters in Crime and the Atlanta Writers Club.

Social Media Links

www.cmattsmithwrites.com
Twitter – @cmattwrite
Facebook

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Book Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: Dream Stalker by Nancy Gardner

Hi, everyone!

Today is my turn on the Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tour for an engaging new paranormal witch mystery/thriller – DREAM STALKER by Nancy Gardner.

Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!

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Book Description

Lily Scott had vowed never to dream-walk-again….

Lily is a contemporary Salem witch who descends from a long line of witches born with the power to walk into other people’s dreams to fight crime. But her disastrous first dream-walk almost killed her, and she vowed never to repeat the painful experience.

Now her daughter is falsely accused of murder, and the only way to clear her would be for Lily to enter the dreaming mind of the real killer, risking confrontation with the deadly Dream Stalker.

Can Lily summon the courage?

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58186216-dream-stalker?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=uUXLKwhgPB&rank=1

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My Book Review

RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars

DREAM STALKER: A Paranormal Mystery by Nancy Gardner is an engaging new paranormal witch mystery/thriller. The mystery is complete, but the ending does leave a few character-related open-ended questions that could lead to this being the first book in a series.

Lily Scott is a fifty-something widow living in Salem, Mass. with a complicated family life. She is also a witch. Lily comes from a long line of females in her family who are marked with a firefly birthmark and the ability to dream walk to uncover injustice, but it does come with the sometime consequence of facing and fighting the Dream Stalker. Her first dream walk as a young girl ended in near disaster and she has not dream walked since.

Lily’s daughter, Sarah is accused of murder, and she realizes that to save her family, she must find the courage to dream walk again.

I was impressed with how this new-to-me author was able to write engrossing, fully fleshed characters, while also pulling together paranormal elements, witch folklore and herbal teachings and an intricate mystery plot. It was all done seamlessly and with a believability that always kept me engaged and guessing. I never felt the author was cheating me with Lily’s ability being the only way to uncover facts and clues so that this mystery could be solved. I enjoyed all of Lily’s friends and was glad to see her family working on their rift.

I enjoyed this paranormal mystery/thriller, and I am hoping to be able to follow Lily and her friends and family on future mystery adventures.

***

Excerpt

Chapter 1 Salem, Massachusetts—October 1, 2013

I stumbled through the early morning fog blanketing Salem’s Gallows Hill, hurrying to the oak tree that my maternal grandmother, Sadie MacAskill, loved. When I was a child, she’d taught me that witches like ourselves derive energy from working with green, growing plants and trees. I could still feel our arms stretched around the oak’s trunk, listening for the pulsing power within it.

“Feel Mother Earth’s wisdom rising,” she’d said.

I’d never needed wisdom more. The plan I’d cooked up with an old friend had gone terribly wrong. Kitty was supposed to bring my estranged daughter, Sarah, to dinner. Sarah’s favorite dinner, creamy chicken pesto and pasta, was baking in the oven when I got the call.

“Kitty hasn’t come home, and I’m not ready to see you without her. I may never be ready,” Sarah said, her voice cold and unforgiving. She hung up before I could reply.

When I called her back, she refused to answer. If my husband, Sam, had still been alive, he’d have known what to do. But he’d died two years ago.

It was long after midnight when I threw the cold casserole down the disposal and crawled into bed. When sleep proved impossible, I paced the empty rooms of our Chestnut Street home until dawn, then grabbed the nearly empty bottle of homemade dandelion brandy as an offering to Nana’s spirit and rode my Vespa to the park atop Gallows Hill.

Exhausted and headachy, I forgot to watch my step and tripped over a rock. I managed not to fall, but the bottle flew out of my hand. I watched it shatter, watched the last golden dregs seep into the grass. I felt like I was watching my relationship with my daughter ebb with it.

As I dropped shards of glass into the nearby trash can, the wind seemed to whisper that I didn’t deserve to find the wisdom I needed. I’d failed Nana, and I’d failed my daughter.

“Enough self-pity.” I pulled my leather jacket tighter and scurried past the crumbling pavilion and rusting flagpole to the ancient oak. Once again, I pressed my cheek to the rough bark, closed my eyes, and waited. The bark pulsed. A crow landed in the branches above me, cawing and shaking loose a shower of dead leaves. I opened my eyes, and for a moment, Nana’s face wavered before me. Then she was gone, leaving me with my questions unanswered.

My cell vibrated. Who would call me this early? Sarah? Kitty with an explanation? I checked the screen. Neither. Honey Campbell, my landlord and a good friend. She owned the building on Pickering Wharf where we both ran our businesses. Her barbershop took up the first floor. My herbal studio, Healing Thyme, sat above it.

“Hi, Honey. What’s up.”

“Thought you’d want to know your friend, Kitty, came looking for you,” Honey said in her soft Scottish brogue. “And bye-the-bye, she looked like shite. She stumbled off toward Moe’s. You might yet find her there.”

Two months earlier, Kitty had stopped me on the street. I’d taken her for a panhandler and almost turned her away. Then she said, “Lily, don’t you remember me? My parents took us to New York to see West Side Story. We had the best time.”

We’d shared a cup of coffee and Kitty shared her story. She’d been a high school biology teacher until she’d been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. The disease had taken everything from her: her teaching career, her home, her reason for living. She’d ended up lost on the streets.

Things had taken a turn for the better for Kitty when she found a permanent bed at St. Bridget’s Homeless Shelter and, because of the doctor who volunteered his services there, Kitty’s memory was making a remarkable improvement.

“Thanks, Honey. I’m on my way.” I dashed back to the Vespa, strapped on my helmet, and started the engine. Usually, the thrum of the engine beneath me and the slapping rhythm of my braid tapping against my back soothed me. Not this morning. I pressed the throttle and hurried to Pickering Wharf, determined to find out what had gone wrong last night.

***

Author Bio

Nancy Gardner writes cozy mysteries with a paranormal twist. The first novel in her new series, Dream Stalker, tells the story of Lily Scott, a contemporary Salem witch who walks into people’s dreams to fight crime. One reviewer called it a gripping tale of witchcraft, family loyalties, and the cost of seeking justice. Her most recent short story, “Death’s Door,” was selected to be included in the 2021 anthology, Malice Domestic 16: Mystery Most Diabolical. She lives near Boston with her writer husband, David.

Social Media Links

NancyGardnerAuthor.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @nancygardner5
Instagram – @ngauthor
Twitter – @NGardner_author
Facebook – @NancyGardnerAuthor

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Book Tour/Feature Post and Book Review: The Patriot Oath by Lloyd Lofthouse

Hi, everyone!

Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE PATRIOT OATH by Lloyd Lofthouse on this Virtual Author Book Tour.

Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section, the author’s social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!

***

Book Description

AND HE THOUGHT BEING IN THE MARINES WAS TOUGH …

After twenty-four years, Special Forces legend Josh Kavanagh has retired from the military. But now that he’s home, he’s finding that everyone has a different understanding of his motivations, and realizes that there are some wounds no amount of time can heal.

Josh’s traumatized sister, Suki, thinks her big brother is a hero and has come home to punish her rapist, the youngest son of a ruthless, crooked billionaire who lives to get revenge on anyone he sees as a threat to his family, wealth, and power.

Josh’s childhood sweetheart, Rachel, hopes he’s returning for her—the fierce girl he left behind when he joined the military. But Rachel doesn’t know about Mia, the woman in France …

And Josh isn’t coming home alone. The Oath Group, an elite force of private military contractors, is already in Montana waiting for their commander to arrive.

The DOD and CIA don’t want President Trump to know they hired Josh’s Oath Group to examine dangerous white supremacist militias that are threatening the U.S. Constitution. That covert black-ops military operation is starting in Idaho and Montana. Josh and his teams have to get the job done while preserving their anonymity—and their lives.

NOTE: This novel grew out of a prompt in a VA Vet Center PTSD support group that focuses on writing as a form of therapy. Everyone in that group was a combat veteran that included Marines, Special Forces, medics, combat photographers, et al. The combat vets in that group heard the entire novel as it was written chapter-by-chapter, starting in March 2018.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58744539-the-patriot-oath?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=QnG3Z63RVL&rank=1

THE PATRIOT OATH

by Lloyd Lofthouse

Publisher: Three Clover Press (July 8, 2021)
Category: Political Thriller, Native American, Terrorism, Psychological, Vigilante Justice, Kidnapping, Romance gone wrong, Suspense and Military.
Tour dates: November, 2021
ISBN: 978-0986032899
Available in Print and ebook, 266 pages

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My Book Review

RATING: 3 out of 5 Stars

THE PATRIOT OATH by Lloyd Lofthouse is an interesting mash-up of several genres that is an exciting, action-packed special ops military/political thriller intertwined with a contemporary romance and family drama. (NOTE: This story does include difficult emotional subject matter such as rape and PTSD.)

The action/adventure/revenge plot of this story were intense, interesting and a bit over the top, but that is what made it fun to read. Who does not want a hero and friends with special skills to stand against all injustice? There are political references and many religious quotes and references, so you must be open-minded as you read this book.

The romance plot in this book did not work for me. I cannot give details without giving away a big twist, but it does not fit the true genre rules of a romance. I would recommend going into this book with a realistic contemporary romantic elements view of the hero’s story than expecting a HEA second chance romance which would have been completely unbelievable.

If you want a fast-paced American heroes thriller this is an entertaining read.

***

Excerpt

**This excerpt appears in Chapter 3 starting on page 16 in the paperback**

When Josh reached the tree, he found the heart carved deep in the smooth grey-brown bark. Inside were the initials JK & RC, with 4EVER right below.

“I didn’t know you were the sentimental type,” Sammy said from behind him.

“I’m surprised this tree’s still alive. It must be forty feet tall now. It was half that back then.” Josh reached out with one hand and caressed the deep letters with his fingertips. “I never stopped loving Rachel. In boot camp, every morning when reveille sounded, I thought about her. I missed her something bad. It took a lot of years for my achy-breaky heart to heal. Even with other women, I often imagined I was with her.”

“Then why did you leave like you did?” Sammy asked.

Josh wasn’t ready to talk about that, so he changed the subject. “The first time I saw her was in second grade, and that’s when I knew she was special.”

Unbeknownst to the brothers, they were being watched. “Asshole!” Rachel growled. “We were in high school the first time you sang that ‘Achy Breaky’ Billy Ray Cyrus song to me. Back then, I thought it was cute. I was stupid to trust you.”

Hearing her voice caused Josh’s heart to stampede. While reeling in his ticker, he took his time turning around. “When I used those words just now, I wasn’t thinking about the song, Rachel.” It was a struggle to stay calm. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and discover her lips all over again.

She stood a few feet behind Sammy, who had jumped out of the way like a startled jackrabbit ready to run. His eyes were bouncing back and forth from her to his brother.

For Josh, she was an eye magnet. His gaze left her face and moved slowly down her body, loving every inch of her five-foot-three-inch frame. Her only sign of age was the weathered tone of her skin and the beginning of fine worry lines around her eyes. She looked better than he remembered; she was still slim and her hips had filled out, making for a damn sweet feast. It was apparent that the years had treated her kinder than they had treated him.

“What do you think I am,” she said, “a filly on the auction block?” From the look on her face, he knew he’d made a mistake checking her out like that. “Or maybe you think I’m a broodmare. I should poke your eyeballs out.”

He never imagined they’d be reunited on this spot. They’d been sixteen when they carved that heart in the tree and swore it was the symbol of their undying love. That was also the first of many times he said he’d never leave her.

“Yea, you broke that promise, too, dickhead.” The harsh tone of her voice stung.

“You always could read my mind,” he said.

“What shitbucket full of bunk are you going to dump on me now? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I want to know about the other women.” Her lips became a tight line, and her eyes flashed what he hoped was jealousy.

“What I did between boot camp in 1994 and today is history. It’s none of your business, just like what you did with your life isn’t mine.” He didn’t need to mention Luke, the abusive alcoholic gambler she’d married. She knew—no need to rub it in.

A moment of silence followed before she stabbed him with more words. “You broke my heart when you left.”

He squirmed, trying to look pitiful. “I can’t go back and fix it.” He didn’t know what else to say, so for the first time in twenty-four years, he let the words flow without controlling them. “Before I left on that bus to MCRD, I called your house and recorded a message on the answering machine.”

“You’re dumb as a rock,” she replied. “You knew that machine was broke.”

Jolted, he stammered. “I … forgot.” The embarrassment was stuck between his teeth. Then he thought about something that happened in second grade. He was sitting behind her and leaned forward to whisper that he loved her. Without turning around, she had stabbed him with a sharp pencil and broke the graphite off under his skin, leaving a dark spot below his right knee that was still there.

“I think we should go inside.” Sammy sounded nervous.

“Shut up!” Rachel turned her blazing eyes on him. “You and the rest of your family tricked me. I’ll take care of you all later.” She walked forward until she was inches from Josh, who was getting ready to take whatever beating she was going to dish out. He hoped it’d be with her fists instead of more words.

He stared into her angry green eyes. “Until today,” he said, “I didn’t know I was the father of your children.” …

***

About Lloyd Lofthouse

Multiple award winning author, Lloyd Lofthouse is a former U.S. Marine and combat vet with a BA in journalism and an MFA, with a focus on writing. He’s the author of the award-winning novels My Splendid Concubine, Running with the Enemy, The Redemption of Don Juan Casanova, and the memoir Crazy is Normal, a classroom exposé. His short story, A Night at the Well of Purity was named a finalist in the 2007 Chicago Literary Awards.

Social Media Links

Websites: http://lloydlofthouse.org/ & https://thesoulfulveteran.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/lflwriter
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Lloyd-Lofthouse-168775989838050/

Buy Patriot Oath by Lloyd Lofthouse

Amazon (Get it on Sale During the Kindle Countdown Deal Nov 18-24)
Indiebound

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