Excerpt - WHAT THE BAYOU SAW by Patti Lacy

Today's Wild Card author is:

Patti Lacy

and the book:

What the Bayou Saw

Kregel Publications (March 24, 2009)

The past can't stay buried forever Rising author Patti Lacy's second novel exposes the life of Sally, set amid the shadows of prejudice in Louisiana. Since leaving her home in the South, Sally Stevens has held the secrets of her past at bay, smothering them in a sunny disposition and sugar-coated lies. No one, not even her husband, has heard the truth about her childhood. But when one of her students is violently raped, Sally's memories quickly bubble to the surface unbidden, like a dead body in a bayou. As Sally's story comes to light, the lies she's told begin to catch up with her. And as her web of deceit unravels, she resolves to face the truth at last, whatever the consequences.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Patti Lacy graduated from Baylor University with a B.S. in education. She taught at Heartland Community College in Normal, Illinois, until 2006, when she began to pursue writing full-time. She has two grown children and lives in Illinois with her husband, Alan, and a dog named Laura.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (March 24, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825429374
ISBN-13: 978-0825429378

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue



Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, don’t let it blow.



—Negro spiritual, “Hold the Wind”



August 26, 2005, Normal, Illinois



“I’m meteorologist Kim Boudreaux.” Clad in a dark suit, the petite woman smiled big for her television audience. “Katrina’s track has changed.” She pointed to a mass of ominous-looking clouds that threatened to engulf the screen. “She’s no longer headed for Mobile but is on course for the Crescent City.”



Sally Stevens checked her cell phone, then paced in front of the television, as if that would make her brother Robert pick up the phone. She needed to talk to him, needed to know that he’d gotten her nieces and her sister-in-law out of the death trap that New Orleans suddenly had become. Needed to have him assure her, with his balmy Southern drawl, that he and his National Guardsmen were going to be okay.



A slender hand pointed to what must be a fortune’s worth of satellite and radar imagery. “As you can see, Katrina’s moving toward the mouth of the Mississippi, toward the levees . . .” The meteorologist buzzed on, seemingly high on news of this climactic wonder.



Every word seeped from the television screen, crept across the Stevens’s den, and crawled up Sally’s spine. Louisiana had once been her home. Her heritage. What would this hurricane do to the Southern state that she still loved?



A glance at her watch told Sally to get moving. Instead, she once again punched in Robert’s number. If she could just hear his voice, she’d know how to pray later as she stood in her classroom pretending to be passionate about her lecture on the history of American music, pretending to act like it was another ordinary afternoon in Normal, Illinois, while this mother of a storm wreaked wrath and vengeance upon her brother. Her home.



“. . . the next twenty-four hours are crucial . . .” The camera zoomed in for a close-up, focusing on a perfect oval face that, for just a moment, seemed to stiffen, as if a personal levee was about to be breached. “I’m not supposed to say this.” Urgency laced the forecaster’s voice “But I’m telling you. Leave. This is a killer.” The pulsating weather image seemed to confirm her report, a mass of scarlet and violet whirling about an ominous-looking eye. Growing like a cancer. Moving in for the kill . . .



Talk turned to evacuation, log-jammed roads, but Sally barely listened. Years flew away as she studied Ms. Boudreaux’s flawless mocha complexion, the tilt of her chin. The determination of this woman to save her city, or at least its people. So like the determination of Ella, that first friend, who’d taken off for New Orleans. It was as if the lockbox of Sally’s memories had somehow sprung open. Ella, that friend who’d saved her. Ella. And her brother Willie, if he’d gotten out of the pen. Were they digging in, evacuating—



A classical song Sally’s kids had downloaded onto her phone poured from the tiny speaker as the device vibrated in her palm.



“God, let it be—” She glanced at the readout. 504 area code. New Orleans. Robert. Her fingers suddenly clumsy, she struggled to flip open the phone.



Static greeted her.



“Robert? Bobby?” She was shouting, but she didn’t care. “Are you there? Are you—”



“Ssss—got them out.”



He’s out there somewhere, right in the elements, from the sound of it. “Where are you?” Sally cried. “Robert, what’s going on?” Sally pressed the phone against her ear until it hurt. All this technology, yet she could barely hear him, could barely—



The whooshing stopped. So did Robert’s voice. Sally stared at the readout. Ten seconds she’d had with him. Ten seconds to gauge the climate of a city. A city that might still claim as a resident that once-best friend. Sally whispered a prayer as she grabbed her briefcase and headed to class.



***



August 29, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana



“It’s no use! The generator’s flooded!” A single battery-operated hallway light revealed the faint outline of Dr. Powers, the thin, impeccably groomed physician whom Ella Ward had worked with for a decade. “Ella? Ella?” He groped against the hospital’s second floor wall, his hands and arms made ghoulish by the shadowy dark. “Are you there? Ella? We’ve got to get them out of here! Now.”



Screams, howling winds, and debris crashing against boarded-up windows swirled into a hellish cacophony that tore at Ella’s heart. What were the three of them, she, Willie, and the doctor—no. Willie didn’t count. What were the two of them going to do for sixty-three patients writhing in excrement, gasping for breath, thousands of dollars of ventilators and BiPAPs rendered powerless? Dying, minute by minute, second by second?



Just to keep from falling down, Ella dug her fingernails into a wall sweaty with humidity. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. At Dr. Powers’s side, she’d watched an aortic artery explode, a patient gurgle in his own blood . . . “The scalpel, Ms. Ward?” he’d said. “Suction, please.” With ice-blue cool, Dr. Powers had plucked life out of mangled messes and never even raised his voice. Now his screams pierced Ella’s ears, and her hopes. Even with one of New Orleans’ best surgeons at her side, the prognosis of surviving this storm was dim. There was nothing for Ella to do but close her eyes and beg. “Oh God. Please Spirit. Please Lord Jesus, please.”



Dr. Powers clutched at the sleeve of Ella’s cotton scrub. “Where’s Willie?”



The doctor’s touch and the mention of her brother brought Ella around. Still, she could barely speak for the quivering of her lip. “Where . . . do you think a junkie would be?”



“The . . . pharmacy?”



Even though Dr. Powers most likely couldn’t see her nod, Ella went through the motion. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d decided she and Willie would come here together. Yet even in her worst nightmare, she hadn’t really believed that they’d die here together.



“Someone, anyone, let me outta here!” It was Mrs. Smith, in Room 215.



“Hold the wind, Lord!” Mr. Lunsford, who’d thought he’d die of cancer.



Ella gritted her teeth. One by one, the patients were seeing the storm’s demonic fingers etching out a death sentence, and screaming their response.



“We’ve got to do something.”



Dr. Powers’s words sent a shiver through Ella. Had he read her mind? Or had she babbled without even knowing it? She clamped her hands over her ears. Lord! I’m goin’ crazy! Help me, Lord!



“What’s happenin’, Lawd? Oh, Lawd Jesus!”



“Sweet Jesus! Where are you?”



What had acted as a twisted tonic to incite the patients to a new level of chaos? Was it the howls of the winds, the thuds and crashes against the windows, the doors, the very roof of this place?



“Jesus, oh Jesus!”



Every moan, every scream, knifed into Ella like a scalpel. Nursing school hadn’t trained her for this. Nearly thirty years working at understaffed facilities hadn’t trained her for this. Nothing had trained her for this. With taut fingers, she pulled the doctor close, then shoved him to his knees and knelt by him, her hands flush against the wall. “We gotta pray,” she said.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Deadly Intent blog tour for July 10th

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.10.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

7/6 through 7/10 Steeple Hill forum boards eHosty Dream and I are playing a game called “Fact or Fiction” at the Steeple Hill forum boards all this week! Prizes galore! Come play! (You must register for the boards to enter)

I’m on Angie Breidenbach’s blog writing about the healing and value of spas for people from all walks of life.

Read an excerpt of Deadly Intent on Cataromance.com

Excerpt - Ransome's Honor by Kaye Dacus

Today's Wild Card author is:

Kaye Dacus

and the book:

Ransome’s Honor

Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2009)

The Ransome Trilogy from exciting new author Kaye Dacus combines the wit, romance, and social commentary of Jane Austen with the sea-faring adventure of Horatio Hornblower.

July 1814. The war with France has ended, and Captain William Ransome, known for never letting women aboard his ship, has returned to Portsmouth, England. Julia Witherington, considered an old-maid at 29, discovers that she must marry immediately to receive a large dowry. Julia knows that the only man she doesn’t want to marry is William Ransome. And the only man her father will approve of is…William Ransome.

When the couple strikes a financial deal to feign marriage for one year, the adventure begins. These stubborn people face humorous and hard situations that reveal what else they have in common—a growing affection for one another. This intriguing tale of faith and loyalty is a wonderful new offering for readers of all genres.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Kaye Dacus has a Bachelor of Arts in English, with a minor in history, and a Master of Arts in Writing Popular Fiction. Her love of the Regency era started with Jane Austen. Her passion for literature and for history come together to shape her creative, well-researched, and engaging writing.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927530
ISBN-13: 978-0736927536

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Portsmouth, England

July 18, 1814



William Ransome pulled the collar of his oilskin higher, trying to stop the rain from dribbling down the back of his neck. He checked the address once more and then tucked the slip of paper safely into his pocket.



He took the four steps up to the front door of the townhouse in two strides and knocked. The rain intensified, the afternoon sky growing prematurely dark. After a minute or two, William raised his hand to knock again, but the door swung open to reveal a warm light.



A wizened man in standard black livery eyed William, bushy white brows rising in interest at William’s hat, bearing the gold braid and black cockade of his rank. “Good evening, Captain. How may I assist you?”



“Good evening. Is this the home of Captain Collin Yates?”



The butler smiled but then frowned. “Yes, sir, it is. However, I’m sorry to say Captain Yates is at sea, sir.”



“Is Mrs. Yates home?”



“Yes, sir. Please come in.”



“Thank you.” William stepped into the black-and-white tiled entry, water forming a puddle under him as it ran from his outer garments.



“May I tell Mrs. Yates who is calling?” The butler reached for William’s soaked hat and coat.



“Captain William Ransome.”



A glimmer of recognition sparkled in the butler’s hazy blue eyes. In the dim light of the hall, he appeared even older than William originally thought. “The Captain William Ransome who is the master’s oldest and closest friend?”



William nodded. “You must be Fawkes. Collin always said he would have you with him one day.”



“The earl put up quite a fight, sir, but the lad needed me more.” Fawkes shuffled toward the stairs and waved for William to join him. “Mrs. Yates is in the sitting room. I’m certain she will be pleased to see you.”



William turned his attention to his uniform—checking it for lint, straightening the jacket with a swift tug at the waist—and followed the butler up the stairs.



Fawkes knocked on the double doors leading to a room at the back of the house. A soft, muffled voice invited entry. The butler motioned toward the door. It took a moment for William to understand the man was not going to announce him, but rather allow him to surprise Susan. He turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open.



Susan Yates sat on a settee with her back to him. “What is it, Fawkes—?” She turned to look over her shoulder and let out a strangled cry. “William!”



He met her halfway around the sofa and accepted her hands in greeting. “Susan. You’re looking well.”



Her reddish-blonde curls bounced as she looked him over. “I did not expect you until tomorrow!” She pulled him farther into the room. “So—tell me everything. When did you arrive? Why has it been two months since your last proper letter?” Susan sounded more like the girl of fifteen he’d met a dozen years ago than the long-married wife of his best friend. “Can you stay for dinner?”



“We docked late yesterday. I spent the whole of today at the port Admiralty, else I would have been here earlier. And I am sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot stay long.” He sat in an overstuffed chair and started to relax for the first time in weeks. “Where is Collin? Last I heard, he returned home more than a month ago.”



Susan retrieved an extra cup and saucer from the sideboard and poured steaming black coffee into it. “The admiral asked for men to sail south to ferry troops home, and naturally my dear Collin volunteered—anything to be at sea. He is supposed to be back within the week.” She handed him the cup. “Now, on to your news.”



“No news, in all honesty. I’ve been doing the same thing Collin has—returning soldiers and sailors home. I only received orders to Portsmouth a week ago—thus the reason I sent the note express, rather than a full letter.”



“But you’re here now. For how long?”



“Five weeks. I’ve received a new assignment for Alexandra.”



“What will you do until your new duty begins?”



“My crew and I are on leave for three weeks.” And it could not have come at a better time. After two years away from home, his crew needed some time apart from each other.



“Are you going to travel north to see your family?”



“At the same time I sent the express to you announcing my return to Portsmouth, I sent word to my mother telling her of my sojourn here. When I arrived ashore earlier today, I received a letter that she and Charlotte will arrive next Tuesday.”



“How lovely. Of course, you will all stay with us. No—I will brook no opposition. We have three empty bedchambers. I could not abide the thought of your staying at an inn when you could be with us.”



“I thank you, and on behalf of my mother and sister.”



“Think nothing of it. But you were telling me of your assignment. Your crew is not to be decommissioned?” Susan asked.



“No. I believe Admiral Witherington understands my desire to keep my crew together. They have been with me for two years and need no training.”



“Understands?” Susan let out a soft laugh. “Was it not he who taught you the importance of an experienced crew?”



William sipped the coffee—not nearly as strong as his steward made it, but it served to rid him of the remaining chill from the rain. “Yes, I suppose Collin and I did learn that from him…along with everything else we know about commanding a ship.”



Susan sighed. “I wish you could stay so that I could get out of my engagement for the evening. Card parties have become all the fashion lately, but I have no skill for any of the games. If it weren’t for Julia, I would probably decline every invitation.”



“Julia—not Julia Witherington?” William set his cup down on the reading table beside him. He’d heard she had returned to Portsmouth following her mother’s death, but he’d hoped to avoid her.



“Yes. She returned to England about eight months ago and has become the darling of Portsmouth society, even if they do whisper about her being a ‘right old maid’ behind her back. Although recently, Julia’s presence always means Lady Pembroke—her aunt—is also in attendance.” The tone of Susan’s voice and wrinkling of her small nose left no doubt as to her feelings toward the aunt.



“Does Admiral Witherington attend many functions?”



“About half those his daughter does. Julia says she would attend fewer if she thought her aunt would allow. I have told her many times she should exert her position as a woman of independent means; after all, she is almost thir—of course it is not proper to reveal a woman’s age.” Susan blushed. “But Julia refuses to cross the old dragon.”



“So you have renewed your acquaintance with Miss Witherington, then?” The thought of Miss Julia Witherington captured William’s curiosity. He had not seen her since the Peace of Amiens twelve years ago…and the memory of his behavior toward her flooded him with guilt. His own flattered pride was to blame for leading her, and the rest of Portsmouth, to believe he would propose marriage. And for leading him to go so far as to speak to Sir Edward of the possibility.



“Julia and I have kept up a steady correspondence since she returned to Jamaica.” The slight narrowing of Susan’s blue eyes proved she remembered his actions of a dozen years ago all too well. “She was very hurt, William. She believes the attentions you paid her then were because you wished nothing more than to draw closer to her father.”



William rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window beside the crackling fireplace. His reflection wavered against the darkness outside as the rain ran in rivulets down the paned glass. “I did not mean to mislead her. I thought she understood why I, a poor lieutenant with seeming no potential for future fortune, could not make her an offer.”



“Oh, William, she would have accepted your proposal despite your situation. And her father would have supported the marriage. You are his favorite—or so my dear Collin complains all the time.” Silence fell and Susan’s teasing smile faltered a bit. “She tells the most fascinating tales of life in Jamaica—she runs her father’s sugar plantation there. Collin cannot keep up with her in discussions of politics. She knows everything about the Royal Navy—but of course she would, as the daughter of an admiral.”



A high-pitched voice reciting ships’ ratings rang in William’s memory, and he couldn’t suppress a slight smile. Julia Witherington had known more about the navy at age ten than most lifelong sailors.



“William?”



“My apologies, Susan.” He snapped out of his reverie and returned to his seat. “Did Collin ever tell you how competitive we were? Always trying to out-do the other in our studies or in our duty assignments.” He recalled a few incidents for his best friend’s wife, much safer mooring than thinking about the young beauty with the cascade of coppery hair he hadn’t been able to forget since the first time he met her, almost twenty years ago.





Julia Witherington lifted her head and rubbed the back of her neck. The columns of numbers in the ledgers weren’t adding properly, which made no sense.



An unmistakable sound clattered below; Julia crossed to the windows. A figure in a dark cloak and high-domed hat edged in gold stepped out of the carriage at the gate and into the rain-drenched front garden. Her mood brightened; she smoothed her gray muslin gown and stretched away the stiffness of inactivity.



She did not hear any movement across the hall. Slipping into her father’s dressing room, she found the valet asleep on the stool beside the wardrobe. She rapped on the mahogany paneled door of the tall cabinet.



The young man rubbed his eyes and then leapt to his feet. “Miss Witherington?”



She adopted a soft but authoritative tone. “The admiral’s home, Jim.”



He rushed to see to his duty, just as Julia had seen sailors do at the least word from her father. Admiral Sir Edward Witherington’s position demanded obedience, but his character earned his men’s respect. The valet grabbed his master’s housecoat and dry shoes. He tripped twice in his haste before tossing the hem of the dressing gown over his shoulder.



She smothered a smile and followed him down the marble staircase at a more sedate pace. The young man had yet to learn her father’s gentle nature.



Admiral Sir Edward Witherington submitted himself to his valet’s ministrations, a scowl etching his still-handsome face, broken only by the wink he gave Julia. She returned the gesture with a smile, though with some effort to stifle the yawn that wanted to escape.



He reached toward her. “You look tired. Did you rest at all today?”



She placed her hand in his. “The plantation’s books arrived from Jamaica in this morning’s post. I’ve spent most of the day trying to keep my head above the flotsam of numbers.”



Sir Edward’s chuckle rumbled in his chest as he kissed her forehead. He turned to the butler, who hovered nearby. “Creighton, inform cook we will be one more for dinner tonight.”



“Aye, sir,” the former sailor answered, a furrow between his dark brows.



That her father had invited one of his friends from the port Admiralty came as no surprise. Julia started toward the study, ready for the best time of the day—when she had her father to herself.



“Is that in addition to the extra place Lady Pembroke asked to have set?” Creighton asked.



Julia stopped and turned. “My aunt asked…?” She bit off the rest of the question. The butler did not need to be drawn into the discord between Julia and her aunt.



The admiral looked equally consternated. “I quite imagine she has somebody else entirely in mind, as I have not communicated my invitation with my sister-in-law. So I suppose we will have two guests for dinner this evening. Come, Julia.”



Once in her father’s study, Julia settled into her favorite winged armchair. A cheery fire danced on the hearth, fighting off the rainy day’s chill. Flickering light trickled across the volumes lining the walls, books primarily about history and naval warfare. She alone knew where he hid the novels.



He dropped a packet of correspondence on his desk, drawing her attention. She wondered if she should share her concern over the seeming inaccuracy of the plantation’s ledgers with her father. But a relaxed haziness started to settle over her mind, and the stiffness of hours spent hunched over the plantation’s books began to ease. Perhaps the new steward’s accounting methods were different from her own. No need to raise an alarm until she looked at them again with a clearer mind.



She loved this time alone with her father in the evenings, hearing of his duties, of the officers, politicians, and government officials he dealt with on a daily basis while deciding which ships to decommission and which to keep in service.



The sound of a door and footsteps in the hallway roused her. “Papa, how long will Lady Pembroke stay?”



Sir Edward crossed to the fireplace and stoked it with the poker. “You wish your aunt to leave? I do not like the thought of you without a female companion. You spend so much time on your own as it is.”



“I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate the fact that Aunt Augusta has offered her services to me, that she wants to…help me secure my status in Portsmouth society.” Julia stared at her twined fingers in her lap.



“It seems to have worked. Every day when I come home, there are more calling cards and invitations on the receiving table than I can count.” Going around behind his desk, he opened one of the cabinets and withdrew a small, ironbound chest. With an ornate brass key, he unlocked it, placed his coin purse inside, secured it again, and put it away.



“Yes. I have met so many people since she came to stay three months ago. And I am grateful to her for that. But she is so…” Julia struggled for words that would not cast aspersions.



The admiral’s forehead creased deeply when he raised his brows. “She is what?”



“She is…so different from Mama.”



“As she was your mother’s sister by marriage only, that is to be expected.”



Julia nodded. To say anything more would be to sound plaintive, and she did not want to spoil whatever time her father could spare for her with complaints about his sister-in-law, who had been kind enough to come stay.



Sir Edward sat at his desk, slipped on a pair of spectacles, and fingered through the stack of correspondence from the day’s post. He grunted and tossed the letters back on the desk.



“What is it, Papa?”



He rubbed his chin. “It has been nearly a year…yet every night, I look through the post hoping to see something addressed in your mother’s hand.”



Sorrow wrapped its cold fingers around Julia’s throat. “I started writing a letter to her today, forgetting she is not just back home in Jamaica.”



“Are you sorry I asked you to return to England?”



“No…” And yes. She did not want her father to think her ungrateful for all he had done for her. “I miss home, but I am happy to have had this time with you—to see you and be able to talk with you daily.” Memories slipped in with the warmth of the Jamaica sun. “On Tuesdays and Fridays, when Jeremiah would leave Tierra Dulce and go into town for the post, as soon as I saw the wagon return, I would run down the road to meet him—praying for a letter from you.”



His worried expression eased. “You looked forward to my missives filled with nothing more than life aboard ship and the accomplishments of those under my command?”



“Yes. I loved feeling as if I were there with you, walking Indomitable’s decks once again.”



His sea-green eyes faded into nostalgia. “Ah, the good old Indy.” His gaze refocused and snapped to Julia. “That reminds me. An old friend made berth in Spithead yesterday. Captain William Ransome.”



Julia bit back sharp words. William Ransome—the man she’d sworn she’d never forgive. The man whose name she’d grown to despise from its frequent mention in her father’s letters. He had always reported on William Ransome’s triumphs and promotions, even after William disappointed all Julia’s hopes twelve years ago. He wrote of William as if William had been born to him, seeming to forget his own son, lost at sea.



Her stomach clenched at the idea of seeing William Ransome again. “He’s here, in Portsmouth?”



“Aye. But not for long. He came back at my request to receive new orders.”



“And where are you sending him, now that we’re at peace with France?” Please, Lord, let it be some distant port.



Sir Edward smiled. “His ship is to be in drydock several weeks. Once repairs are finished, he will make sail for Jamaica.”



Julia’s heart surged and then dropped. “Jamaica?” Home. She was ready to go back, to sink her bare toes into the hot sand on the beach, to see all her friends.



“Ransome will escort a supply convoy to Kingston. Then he will take on his new assignment: to hunt for pirates and privateers—and if the American war continues much longer, possibly for blockade-

runners trying to escape through the Gulf of Mexico. He’ll weigh anchor in five weeks, barring foul weather.”



Five weeks was no time at all. Julia relaxed a bit—but she started at the thump of a knock on the front door below.



“Ah, that must be him now.” Sir Edward glanced at his pocket watch. “Though he is half an hour early.”



“Him?”



“Aye. Did not I tell you? Captain Ransome is joining us for dinner.”

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Deadly Intent blog tour for July 9th

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.09.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

7/6 through 7/10 Steeple Hill forum boards eHosty Dream and I are playing a game called “Fact or Fiction” at the Steeple Hill forum boards all this week! Prizes galore! Come play! (You must register for the boards to enter)

Find out about my fictional “family” on Janna Ryan’s blog.

My friend and fellow Love Inspired Suspense author Virginia Smith reviews Deadly Intent

Deadly Intent blog tour

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.08.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

7/6 through 7/10 Steeple Hill forum boards eHosty Dream and I are playing a game called “Fact or Fiction” at the Steeple Hill forum boards all this week! Prizes galore! Come play! (You must register for the boards to enter)

My gorgeous friend, Mrs. Montana International, Angie Breidenbach reviews Deadly Intent.

Excerpt - Fatal Illusion by Adam Blumer

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Fatal Illusions
Kregel Publications (March 5, 2009)
by
Adam Blumer


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Adam Blumer lives in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with his wife, Kim, and his daughters, Laura and Julia.

He works full-time as a freelance writer and editor. A print journalism graduate of Bob Jones University (Greenville, SC), he served in editorial roles for fourteen years at Northland Baptist Bible College (Dunbar, WI) and Awana Clubs International Headquarters (Streamwood, IL).

He has published numerous short stories and articles. Fatal Illusions released by Kregel Publications (Grand Rapids, MI) is his first novel.

ABOUT THE BOOK
An amateur magician, an unassuming family . . . a fatal illusion Haydon Owens wants to be the next Houdini. He has been practicing his craft and has already made four women disappear. All it took was a bit of rope and his two bare hands.

The Thayer family has come to the north woods of Newberry, Michigan, looking for refuge, a peaceful sanctuary from a shattered past. But they are not alone. Little do they know that they are about to become part of Haydon's next act. Time is running out and already the killer has spotted his next victim. Who will escape alive?

“Fatal Illusions is an engaging, fast-paced read with a captivating storyline that grabs you from page one and doesn't let go. Highly recommended!”--Mark Mynheir, homicide detective and author of The Night Watchman

“An awesome ride!”--Rosey Dow, Christy Award winning author of Reaping the Whirlwind

“Adam Blumer tells a fast-paced story that weaves together a serial killer, a physically wounded pastor and his spiritually wounded wife. The twists and turns will keep readers guessing.”--Rick Acker, author of Blood Brothers

Excerpt of chapter one:

Fatal Illusions
Kregel Publications (March 5, 2009)


Prologue

As dusk settled over the suburban Cincinnati neighborhood, the sodium-vapor lights along the quiet street blinked and came to life on cue. They chased the shadows from the grade school parking lot, now littered with dried leaves that scraped across the pavement and swirled in their seasonal dance of joy.

Across the way, a man in a jet-black jogging suit eased behind a tree and checked his watch as the chilly breeze tousled his hair. He breathed deeply, noting the intoxicating aroma of burning leaves, and impatiently studied the faces of the pedestrians now strolling toward the school auditorium. Anxious children tugged at reluctant parents, their excitement barely contained.

“Yes, yes,” he overheard a woman tell a child. “We’ll get there in plenty of time. No need to rush.”

He smiled. He had been that overzealous child once, but that was a long time ago. He’d grown up, things had changed, and not every change had been welcome.

His smile faded as he continued to search for a certain bespectacled face. He’d been watching her for weeks and knew everything about her: when she got up in the morning, when she went to bed, where she went each day, how she spent her time. He even knew she was failing English for the second time, even after her teacher had given her a two-week extension on her term paper. Going through her trash, he’d discovered her addiction to Snickers bars, her affection for Ruffles potato chips and cream soda, and her preference for Pantene shampoo, which added luster to the blond hair she wore long and wavy.

A familiar red nylon jacket caught his eye, and he sucked in his breath. Concealing himself further behind the tree, he waited for her to pass.

Hmm. She was so close. He could have reached out, could have touched her hair. But he steadied his breathing and let the moment pass, deciding that reason must win the battle with emotion. There were simply too many people around who might see him and remember his face. He watched as she strolled into the school with her two charges in tow, carefree and unsuspecting.

Just the way he wanted her.

He took another deep breath, surprised by how calm he felt tonight. He knew what he needed to do and realized he had the resolve to execute his plan. Now all he needed was the opportunity, but waiting had never been easy for him. He could hear his mother’s chiding words strumming across the strings of his memory.

You’re so impatient, Donny. So restless. Don’t you know that good things come to those who wait?

Time to get inside.

***

Someone was watching her. For weeks, she’d felt unseen eyes following her every move. Evaluating. Judging. But when she would whirl around, no one was ever there—just brittle leaves scudding across the empty sidewalks.

“C’mon, you two. Hurry up.”

Clutching their hands with icy fingers, Erin yanked Daphne and Thomas along to match her stride. It was bad enough that she was stuck taking care of these first-grade brats on a Friday night. Worse, the evening’s entertainment promised to be a childish, elementary school musical, and she had better things to do with her time.

She’d been planning to give Sheryl a cut and dye job tonight. Her hairdressing service brought in more money than babysitting, but her mom had said she owed the Spensers a favor.

Yeah, whatever.

Erin wished for her father right now. Divorced from her mom and recently remarried, he had moved three states away, leaving them with the mortgage and a barely enough paycheck from her mom’s job as a nighttime gas station attendant. Her mom had said he was a no-good lowlife, that they were better off without him, but Erin wasn’t so sure. She had fond memories of her dad taking her ice-skating, just the two of them. He had shown her the spins he’d mastered as a young man, when he had almost qualified for the Olympics.

Almost. Dreams are never easy, he’d told her. You have to work hard and never, ever give up.

One more year and she would graduate from high school. Maybe then she could free herself from her mother’s stranglehold and open the beautician’s shop she’d always wanted.

The lights of Bridgetown Elementary glimmered against the darkening sky, the crisp wind swirling the leaves at her feet. She wished she’d worn her jean jacket instead of the thin, red windbreaker. She pushed her wire rim glasses up on her nose and glanced at her watch, realizing that in her reverie she’d slowed her stride.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late if you two don’t hurry,” she said.

“Slow down!” Daphne cried. “We can’t keep up.”

Erin peered down into Daphne’s frustrated hazel eyes. “Look, I’ll let you wear my watch if you’ll get a move on.”

Daphne squealed. “Cool!”

Though they were five minutes late, the program hadn’t yet started. But Erin realized that they should have come much earlier if they’d wanted to get a good seat. The place was packed, and she didn’t see an open row anywhere.

Biting her lip, she spied a friend coming down the aisle toward her. Laurie was a stagehand—and, as it happened, she was also the solution to their problem. She had been saving seats for her mother and sisters, but they’d all been waylaid by food poisoning or something, and wouldn’t be coming.

Three seats. Right in front. Perfect.

Erin couldn’t help smiling smugly as Laurie escorted them to the front row like celebrities at the Academy Awards, minus the red carpet pre-show, of course. She felt the indignant glares drilling into her back from those who had arrived a half hour early to get their seats. She felt a rush of pleasure at the realization that she was the cause of their indignation.

Let them sulk. Sometimes good things happen when you least expect it.

Her mind replayed a similar thrill she’d felt just a month ago, when she’d been summoned to give testimony in a big court case downtown.

***

She’d done up her hair special, dry-cleaned her special navy twin set, and worn her new high-heeled shoes, which made her short, lithe figure seem several inches taller. Approaching the stand, she had, for once in her life, felt important; felt as if every eye in the room was glued to her, mesmerized by this long-haired, blonde goddess with the porcelain skin and sapphire blue eyes. She hadn’t realized until later how important her testimony had been.

“And you saw the defendants enter Margaret Stowe’s house?” Stan Loomis, the prosecuting attorney, had asked.

“That’s right.”

“And you’re sure it was Walter and Virginia Owens. You’re positive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, Miss Walker, you are under oath. You saw their faces?”

She had bitten her lip as she tried to remember.

She had just finished house-sitting for Mrs. Stowe, as another way to make some extra money. The old lady was loaded. She had said good night to Mrs. Stowe and had walked off, feeling giddy at the sizable check. Almost to her car, she’d dropped her keys and bent to pick them up. Hearing voices, she’d glanced back and had seen two people walking up the sidewalk to Mrs. Stowe’s front door.

A man and a woman, wearing long, dark overcoats. They had looked wealthy. The man had placed his black-gloved hand at the middle of the woman’s back.

“You don’t think she’ll mind?” the woman had asked, a musical quality to her husky voice. “It’s late.”

“You’re right. It is late. Too late.” The man’s voice had sounded rough, like a smoker’s. “She can’t turn us away now.”

Standing beside her car, Erin had watched as the man knocked. When the door opened, a band of light had slashed across their faces for an instant before they disappeared inside.

Staring unflinchingly at Stan Loomis, she had said, “Yes, it was them. I’m sure of it.” She’d pushed away the fact that the encounter at Mrs. Stowe’s house had occurred the week before she’d gotten her new glasses.

“For the benefit of the jury, would you please point out who you saw?”

Her hand had trembled as she pointed to the pale-faced Owenses, who sulked beside their defense attorney. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t move. But their eyes—they hated her. They wanted her dead. Ever since, those eyes had stared back at her in her dreams.

Those dark, hateful eyes.

***

The sound of a grade school chorus singing an upbeat song drew her attention back to the stage. She stifled a yawn and glanced at her watch, only to realize that Daphne was still wearing it. Well, no big deal. She’d get it back later. The musical version of Winnie the Pooh was okay, she supposed. She reminded herself that she’d worked more demanding babysitting jobs for even less than the paltry, subminimum wage she was being paid.

The musical was drawing to a close. In another five minutes, the show would be over, and she’d take the kids home. Maybe there’d even be time for Sheryl’s cut and dye job.

A female voice sliced into her thoughts. Amid the waves of applause, the director was acknowledging the stage crew, who bowed awkwardly in their matching black jeans and T-shirts. Erin’s gaze locked onto one of the crew members, who appeared to be staring at her. A look of recognition glinted in his black eyes before Erin glanced away.

Do I know him? He didn’t look familiar. Unsettled, she rushed Daphne and Thomas home as soon as the show was over.

***

Walking home from the Spensers alone, Erin kept to the edge of the roadway, away from the sidewalk and out from beneath the shadow of the trees, as her mother always insisted. She scuttled between the dim pools of light cast by the streetlights, which seemed to do a better job of lighting the tops of the posts than illuminating the street below; she walked briskly, though she was really in no hurry to reach her quiet, lonely house. Her mother would be working at the gas station, and Erin would have the rest of the evening to watch HBO, to see if Sheryl wanted to squeeze in that haircut, and maybe to take a long, hot bath.

A familiar prickly feeling crawled up the back of her neck. Someone was watching her again. She whirled around, but no one was there. Exhaling a relieved sigh, she resumed her journey. A fresh blast of frigid wind cut through her thin jacket and set the leaves to dancing at her feet. Thoroughly chilled, she hugged herself as she walked along the shadowy street.

She heard the car before she saw it—a distinctive chirping noise above the sound of the engine as it pulled alongside.

“Hey, it’s cold out there. Want a ride home?” the driver called to her through the open passenger-side window.

Erin glanced in his direction, but couldn’t see his face. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” She kept walking.

“It’s me. From the musical.”

She stopped and looked closer, recognizing the guy from the stage crew. He was the one who’d been staring at her. She’d felt uncomfortable then, but didn’t feel uneasy now. He was attractive and friendly enough, but still she was cautious. “I don’t think I know you.”

“Well, maybe we could talk, get to know each other a little bit. I’m not so bad, if you give me a chance.”

Her hands automatically moved to smooth back her hair. He had to be at least ten years older. “I don’t know . . .”

“You look like you’re freezing. At least let me give you a ride home. I don’t bite. Honest.” He opened the passenger-side door and swung it toward her.

Stepping closer, Erin peered in and studied his face in the dome light. He had a nice smile and white, even teeth. His black, curly hair was kind of cute, too. She wondered if his curls were natural. “Well, it is pretty cold out here . . .”

***

Daphne Spenser tugged at her mom’s arm. “Erin let me borrow her watch, but I forgot to give it back.” She held up the too-large watch for her mom to see.

Washing dishes at the sink, Diane Spenser wagged her head. “How many times have I told you to return things you borrow? Hurry. Erin just left. Maybe you can still catch her.”

Out the front door and pulling her jacket on, Daphne scampered down the steps to the sidewalk and peered down the road. Halfway down the block, Erin was standing beside a brown car and talking to someone through the open window.

“Erin!” Daphne ran toward her. “Erin, wait!” But the wind was howling, and Erin couldn’t hear her. Daphne kept running, hoping Erin would see her.

She saw the passenger-side door open, and Erin stepped closer to the car. Just then, a hand shot out from inside the car and closed around Erin’s arm. She screamed and tried to pull away.

Daphne’s heart slammed into her throat. She froze.

A man was pulling Erin into the car in spite of her screams. Daphne saw his dark hair, but couldn’t see his face.

The car squealed away. The passenger door slammed shut as the car sped around the corner and headed out of sight.

Daphne’s heart pounded in her ears.

She wouldn’t see Erin again until the funeral.

Deadly Intent blog tour

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.07.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

7/6 through 7/10 Steeple Hill forum boards eHosty Dream and I are playing a game called “Fact or Fiction” at the Steeple Hill forum boards all this week! Prizes galore! Come play! (You must register for the boards to enter)

On the So Many Books, So Little Time blog, check out the link to see the view from the actual winery where my favorite scene in Deadly Intent takes place.

I’m at Lynn Mosher’s blog, talking about satisfying romantic suspense novels.

Deadly Intent blog tour

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.06.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

Steeple Hill forum boards eHosty Dream and I are playing a game called “Fact or Fiction” at the Steeple Hill forum boards all this week! Prizes galore! Come play! (You must register for the boards to enter)

Today's update talks about what I've been doing since last Thursday with Dream!

My heroine from Deadly Intent, Naomi Grant, is being interviewed by award-winning Steeple Hill author Margaret Daley.

Book giveaway - SECOND CHANCE FAMILY by Margaret Daley

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.06.2009

The winner of Mom NEEDS Chocolate
by
Debora M. Coty is
Miranda
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
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Blog book giveaway:

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and saying you want to enter. International readers are welcome to enter!

Please leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, July 13th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

Second Chance Family
by
Margaret Daley

Dedicated teacher Whitney Maxwell gave up her dream of a family years ago. But she's about to get a lesson in faith and family from an unexpected source—a brave little boy named Jason. Jason and his dad are dealing with his autism the best they can, but Dr. Shane McCoy can't put his tragic past behind him. As Whitney and Shane work together to help his son, could these two lost souls open their hearts to love again and become a lasting family?




Excerpt of chapter one:

"This is not negotiable. My son will attend your school, starting this Thursday." After dealing with a suicidal teenage girl most of the night, Dr. Shane McCoy didn't need this.

"We aren't equipped to deal with him. Jason should go to Eisenhower Elementary where there's a class for children like him," the principal said in a tight, highly controlled voice.

The woman's last sentence shredded what composure he had. Pacing his bedroom, Shane plowed his fingers through his hair and tried to remain calm. He gripped the phone. "You've known he would attend for months."

The rumble of thunder in the distance drew him toward an upstairs window at the front of his house. Jason didn't do well in thunderstorms. Please, Lord, don't let it rain— not today. He drew back the drapes and searched the sky. Dark clouds raced toward the east, away from his house.

"We've tried to find the right staff to handle your son, but…" The woman paused, taking a deep breath.

Jason appeared on the sidewalk leading from his house.

What was he doing out front? Going to get the newspaper for Aunt Louise?

"But there aren't—" the woman continued on the other line.

When his son ignored the paper lying in the grass, concern shot through Shane. He hurried toward his door. "I'll be there for the meeting this afternoon. I've got to go," he said, and clicked off the cell phone.

Am I making a mistake?

As the question intruded into Whitney Maxwell's mind, her long hair whipped across her face, momentarily obstructing her view of the street she drove down.

"Jason! Stop!"

To the right of her someone's frantic tone pierced the early morning air. Whitney fought the wayward strand, finally managing to hook it behind her ear at the same time her gaze riveted to a sudden movement. A child disappeared between two parked vehicles ahead of her, a second later reappearing in the path of her car as he raced across the road.

Clenching the steering wheel of her convertible Volkswagen vehicle, she jerked to full attention and slammed on the brakes. Not soon enough.

Without thought Whitney swerved her VW to the right. Into a big SUV. The sound of crunching metal drowned out the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears. When she was thrown forward, her seat belt halted her progress. The strap cut into her chest, disrupting her shallow breaths.

Almost to the other side of the street near a yellow trash can, the little boy stopped, pivoted and came straight toward her. When he reached the crash, he slid his hand over the smashed hood of her car, his gaze glued to it.

"Jason! Jason!" the woman screamed, her view blocked by the big SUV.

The little boy looked up, cocked his head, then whirled around and ran back the way he came—straight into the arms of the older woman who rushed between the parked vehicles. Whitney stared into the lady's pale face as she quaked and hugged the child to her.

Everything happened so fast—only seconds—that Whitney's head spun. Her hands shaking, she fumbled for the handle. She shoved the door open, swung her legs to the pavement and stood.

The thought of the near miss shuddered through her. Her legs weak, she started to sink and clutched the car to steady herself. She needed to check on the little boy and the older woman, but her whole body quaked. Drawing in several stabilizing breaths, she made her way to the pair now on the grass between the sidewalk and the street.

The older woman, tears in her eyes, held the child away from her. "Jason, you cannot run out into the street."

"Like yellow."

Yellow? What's the child talking about?

"Wanted to touch. So pretty."

Whitney glanced toward the trash can then at her yellow Volkswagen car. Her steps faltered at the implication of what could have happened. Thankfully she'd only been going twenty-five miles per hour because the child had been oblivious to the danger involved, and yet he appeared to be at least six or seven years old.

The sounds of a slamming door and pounding footsteps nearby drew Whitney's focus toward the house in front of her. A large man, over six feet tall, jogged across the lawn toward them. His intense gaze first took in the child and woman, then slipped to Whitney hovering a few feet from the pair. It skimmed down her length before moving away. When his appraisal connected with her Volkswagen bug, a frown carved hard lines into his face.

"Aunt Louise, what happened?"

"Jason—" the older woman whimpered the name, tears streaking down her face as she clung to the child. "He— he…"

After patting the woman and whispering, "It's okay. I'll deal with this," the man fixed his gaze on Whitney and strode toward her. "What happened?"

His question frosted the air between them. She straightened, her hands clenched at her sides. "The little boy ran out into the street from between these two parked cars." She gestured toward the vehicles. "I had to swerve to avoid hitting him."

His color drained from his face. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy and the older woman. The child tried to pull from her embrace, his arm outstretched toward Whitney's VW "Aunt Louise, can you take Jason inside? I'll be there in a minute." When the pair was on the porch, the man turned back to Whitney. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" His cultured voice held a smooth, calmer tone, meant to put a person at ease. Concern—directed totally toward her— darkened his green eyes.

"Better than my car." She flipped her quivering hand toward her convertible. "I ran into someone's SUV. I—"

"Don't worry about that. It's mine. Cars can be fixed much easier than people." He walked toward the back of his vehicle and examined the damage. When he looked at hers, he whistled. "Yours will be more involved."

"Yeah. It's sorta like a beetle slamming into a wall." Where was she going to get the money to pay for this?

Even if the man could take care of his SUV, her car repairs would cost a lot and with a five-hundred-dollar deductible—money she didn't have—she had no answer. She would not accept any more help from her older brother. She'd always managed to make her way in the world by herself. She wasn't going to let this change that. She would figure out something.

After rounding the back of her vehicle and inspecting the crash from all angles, the man came back to her side. "I see what you mean. I'll take care of your car."

"No, I crashed into your SUV."

"But if you hadn't reacted quickly, my son would have been hit. I owe you. I'll take care of it." He stuck his hand out for her to shake. "Shane McCoy."

"I'm Whitney Maxwell." His warm, firm clasp conveyed a man who took charge of situations and solved problems. Her defenses quickly went up.

"Noah's sister?"

"Yes, you know my brother?"

"I've been working with Stone's Refuge ever since it began. And since he's on its board, we've gotten to know each other these past few years."

Now that she was thinking somewhat rationally, she remembered Noah talking about a Dr. McCoy seeing some of the kids who lived at Stone's Refuge, a place for foster children who needed help. "You're the child psychologist." Then she recalled her brother mentioning how much Dr. McCoy had helped his adopted son. "The one who worked with Rusty."

"Your brother was the best thing that happened to Rusty."

"I think my nephew would agree. Noah's taken to being a dad." Although she had discovered she loved children since returning to Cimarron City, she never saw herself as a mother. She never wanted to disappoint a child like she had been.

"Come in and I'll call a wrecker to take your car to a shop I know that does excellent work for a fair price."

Shane McCoy had everything figured out. She fortified her defenses. "I'll drive my car to school and come up with something."

He shook his head. "That car isn't going anywhere without a wrecker."

Whitney did her own examination of her VW and noticed the front hood was crumpled into her right tire. He was correct. Although the school was about two miles away, maybe she could walk and still make it on time. She glanced down at her watch and winced. That wasn't an option if she wanted to be on time or at least only a few minutes late.

"You mentioned driving to school—the university?"

"No, Will Rogers Elementary School."

"You're a teacher there?"

"A teacher's assistant." If all her plans worked out, she would be a teacher in three years.

"My son starts kindergarten there on Thursday. We've been marking off the days until school starts. So since I was going there this morning anyway to show Jason around before the meeting there this afternoon, I can take you. That's the least I can do."

She looked down at the damaged hood. "Fine, but I need to call a wrecker then the school to let them know I'll be a few minutes late." She hated being late her first day on the job, but there was just so much help she would accept from Shane McCoy.

"Are you sure I can't arrange for a wrecker to take your car to Carl's Body Shop?"

"I'm sure." If she had been paying better attention instead of looking for Zoey Crandell's house, maybe she would have seen the child racing across the lawn toward the street. But ever since she'd made the decision to move out of her brother's guesthouse, her attention had been focused on finding an apartment, and Zoey's sounded perfect for her.

"You can call inside while I prepare Jason to leave now."

"Prepare?" slipped out before Whitney could stop it. Jason didn't act like a normal kindergartner. What was wrong with him?

"It won't take long. I just have to prepare my son for something a little different. He already knew he was going to the school today." Shane started for the large Victorian house, stopped and said, "My aunt makes a great cup of coffee. Would you like some?"

"That sounds good." Whitney reached into her VW and grabbed her purse and the classified section of the newspaper she'd brought with her. Peering at a circled ad, she noted the address she'd been searching for and the reason she was on this particular street. "Do you know Zoey Crandell?" she called out to Shane.

He paused a few steps away from her and swung back around. "Yes, she lives at the end of this block." He pointed toward another Victorian house five away from his on the other side of the street.

Whitney noticed he wore a wedding ring and wondered where his wife was since it wasn't much after seven. "I wanted to get a peek at the garage apartment she had advertised for rent," she said when she saw the question in his eyes.

"That's right. She does rent that out. I didn't realize her tenant left."

"Have you ever seen it?"

"No, but she's a good neighbor. She goes to my church." Shane started again for his front door.

As Whitney ambled toward the house, she thought about the little boy she'd almost hit. Her earlier question crept again into her mind. Was she making a mistake? Maybe her wanting to be a teacher wasn't what she should do with her life. Before coming back to Cimarron City nine months ago, she would never have dreamed of becoming a teacher and not all children were like her niece and nephews. Ones like Jason would be a challenge. Could she deal with that?

She couldn't get the image out of her mind of the child coming out between the parked vehicles so suddenly, then after she had crashed, walking over to her car and touching it. In her education classes she took at night at the university, she hadn't had the Exceptional Child course yet, but it was obvious something wasn't right with Shane McCoy's son.

But wasn't that why she had decided to be a teacher's assistant? To see if she could handle the job?

Inside his house Shane immediately headed toward the kitchen, which flowed into a den. Whitney followed. His son sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, watching Animal Planet and rocking back and forth, while he clutched a yellow cloth.

"Aunt Louise, this is Whitney Maxwell, Noah's sister. I'm going to drive her to Will Rogers Elementary School where she works."

His aunt smiled at Whitney then turned to Shane and said, "Are you taking Jason?"

"Yeah, since later this afternoon I have that meeting at the school and I don't know how long it will last." He handed Whitney a cordless phone and the telephone book.

While she placed a call to a wrecker service and the school, he poured coffee into a mug sitting on the counter then took a new one down from a cabinet and filled it for Whitney. He handed it to her as she wrapped up her second call.

After taking a large sip of the brew, Shane strode toward the den area and knelt next to his son. He placed his hand on the boy's arm before he said his name. Pressing a yellow cloth to his chest, Jason slowly looked up at his dad. Shane's lowered voice didn't carry to Whitney.

"He has the patience of Job."

Surprised by the comment, Whitney turned on her heel and faced the older woman, slim, medium height, her gray hair pulled back in a bun at the base of her head. "Shane?" She picked up her mug and drew in a deep breath of the coffee-laced air.

"Yes. It's been hard since his wife died."

"Oh, she died recently?" Whitney asked, remembering the ring on his hand.

"Five years ago so he's been mostly the one responsible for raising Jason. He does a wonderful job with his son. If anyone can prepare Jason for a change, it's my nephew."

What happens if you don't prepare Jason? Whitney wanted to ask the question, but it was a private affair, and if anyone understood the need for privacy, it was she. That thought prompted a decision to call Zoey Crandell and set up an appointment this week to see the apartment because at Noah's estate—as large as it was—she never had much alone time.

Louise released a deep sigh. When she brushed back a stray strand of hair, her hand shook. "I'm not nearly as good as Shane, hence the runaway this morning. Jason didn't like the breakfast I fixed him. We'd run out of his favorite cereal so I made him pancakes, his second favorite. I don't move as fast as I once did. He was out the front door before I could stop him. I'm so sorry for what happened. Are you all right?"

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Deadly Intent blog tour

Captain's Log, Stardate 07.05.2009

The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.

My hero from Deadly Intent, Dr. Devon Knightley, is being interviewed at the CRAFTIE Ladies of Suspense blog.

Heartsong Presents author Lena Nelson Dooley asks me what the happiest day of my life was.