Emerald Isle by KaSonndra Leigh Excerpt & Giveaway

Emerald Isle
KaSonndra Leigh
(Path Seekers, #2)
Publication date: October 24th 2024
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Suspense

A year ago, Tandie Harrison learned she was a Pathseeker, a shaman who can manipulate time. With the help of her soulmate, Eric Fontalvo, she was able to break a 300-year-old curse. Now she has established herself as a private paranormal investigator in the quiet little old southern town of Bolivia, North Carolina. With the past behind her, she’s prepared to embark on a new journey of love and success.

However, the past has a way of coming back to haunt you when you least expect it. Enter Saul Chelby: the handsome real estate tycoon who stepped aside to allow Tandie happiness with Eric. Now a new entity threatens everything Tandie, Saul, and Eric worked to conquer. Will Tandie and Eric’s newly reignited love will pass this latest test?

Love, ghosts, witches, old houses, handsome heroes, and a secret that will threaten everything Tandie and Eric fought to achieve. The Emerald Isle, a Paranormal Time Travel Mystery.

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

Waves from the Atlantic Ocean pummeled the coastline of the small dune known as Shelly Island. A scent like rotten eggs drifted past them. The sun’s last rays gave way to nighttime’s watery embrace.

A strange pang lit up her chest. Something behind that window called Alyssa. Or rather some force called to the supernatural side of her, a gift to call upon spirits, passed down through the females in her family. Alyssa had impressed her future sorority mates with tales of the way she attracted ghosts. Going inside and calling up one shouldn’t be a big deal, right?

The initiation included calling up the spirit and taking photos. Alyssa removed her phone from her pocket and aimed the lens at the structure. Darkness loomed around the trio, and she stilled her thudding heart.

“Let’s get these photos done,” Alyssa said.

“We can leave Rodney out here to keep watch. I don’t want him puking all over the floor and making us fall,” Chris said.

“Screw you.” Rodney stood tall. “I can do this.”

“No one’s leaving anyone,” Alyssa said. “We do this thing together.”

Alyssa and her friends turned toward the strange house and went up the stairway. The house cried out in pain.

“Make sure we don’t fall through the floor,” Chris said, his confident look replaced by worry. He pushed on the first step and hesitated.

Alyssa turned to Chris. “Now who’s the pussy?”

“Yeah, right. I got yours right here.” Chris grabbed his crotch and shook it.

“Oh, please.”

Alyssa wouldn’t let the thought of going inside in the dusk bother her. At night, a demon prowled the area. Or so they said. Sharks washed up on shores at the oddest times. The so-called demon was probably one of those beasts thrashing about.

She turned the knob. The door creaked open. A pungent scent of rot and mold wafted out, engulfing the three friends. It was time for the séance.

Alyssa led the way inside the dark and musty structure. The floorboards creaked underfoot with every step, as though the house was alive and protesting their intrusion. Though she tried to stifle it, a feeling of unease creeped up her spine. This was different than anything she had ever experienced before. It was almost as if the house was alive and watching them.

Chris shone his flashlight around the room, illuminating piles of discarded furniture and debris. The air was thick with dust, making it difficult to breathe without coughing.

“This place is creepy,” Rodney said. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Don’t be such a wimp,” Alyssa snapped, her nerves beginning to fray.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Chris interrupted. “What do we do first?”

Alyssa pulled out a bag of candles and matches from her backpack. “We light the candles and begin the séance.”

They found a small, decaying table in the center of the room and set the candles on top. Alyssa lit them one by one, watching as the flames flickered and danced in the dark. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting her mind clear as she focused on calling forth the spirit of the master.

“May the spirits of the other world hear our call,” she said in a low, steady voice. “We ask that you come forth and make yourself known to us.”

At first, nothing happened. The only sounds were those of the candles flickering and the winds outside. But then, Alyssa felt a cold breeze brush against her skin and a low, guttural growl filled the air. The table began to shake as though something was trying to push its way through from the Otherworld into this one.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in front of Alyssa, appearing out of nowhere. It was tall and shadowy, with glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. The chill of terror ran through Alyssa’s veins as the smoky figure grew. It moved with a swift, eerie silence that sent chills up her spine. Then an inhuman howl pierced the darkness, echoing off the trees and sending a shockwave of dread that froze Alyssa and her friends to the spot. Before she could react, the mysterious figure vanished into thin air.

“Guys, listen,” Rodney said.

Alyssa stood and walked outside. “You hear that?”

“I thought this island was deserted.” Chris turned to Alyssa.

“What are you looking at me for? Rodney was supposed to check.”

Two more howls cut through the silence. The wind picked up, and the waves crashed against the shores harder than before. The full moon pushed her hand against the water.

“We need to go back,” Rodney said.

This time, neither Alyssa nor Chris teased him about the suggestion.

All three kids turned toward the growing fog surrounding the house. A damp and rancid smell, one that was even stronger than the scent of wet wood coming from the house, filled the air.

“All right, we’re going back to the boat,” Alyssa announced, punching in the ferryman’s number on her cell phone.

No one hesitated as Alyssa walked away from the house, and Rodney and Chris followed close behind her.

Another howl sliced through the air. The wind screeched an eerie wail, adding to the burgeoning feeling of terror inside Alyssa’s belly.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Rodney said.

The group headed toward the spot where the boat should’ve been. However, the pier sat empty.

“Thought you said this was the spot?” Chris turned on Alyssa, his face swollen with rage. “I never should have listened to you. This shit’s gonna get us killed.”

“Shut up and let me think!” Alyssa said.

The fog thickened, and the chill caressed Alyssa’s skin. The touch almost felt human.

She shook off the thought and focused on the situation.

At once, Chris’s body went airborne, his screams echoing through the air. Wails of terror.

“What the fuck?” Rodney asked in a strained voice.

“Stay close to me!” Alyssa shouted. The fog thickened and stung her eyes. “Chris! Where are you?”

Author Bio:

Meet your word sculptress...

Author of the International bestselling novels, the Prelude and the Lost Immortals Saga, KaSonndra is also a mother, designer, reader, gardener, home renovator, and a slayer of undead Egyptian mummies in Tomb Raider. She believes in karma, coffee, and seriously wishes that the producers of Xena would bring her favorite show back.

KaSonndra was born in the race-car city of Charlotte, NC, and now lives in the City of Alchemy and Medicine, NC, when she's not hanging out in Bardonia (Lost Immortals Saga setting). Most of her characters are based on people that she has met throughout her travels and adventures.

People tend to stop and start conversations with KaSonndra as if she has known them her entire life. Does this freak her out? Not really. Her mom says that one day she’ll get kidnapped by one of these folks. KaSonndra's response? She told her mom that if it weren’t for these lovely people, then she wouldn’t be able to create such fabulously romantic stories!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

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A Thousand Flying Things by Kathryn Brown Ramsperger EXCERPT & GIVEAWAY

A Thousand Flying Things
Kathryn Brown Ramsperger
(A Bridge Between Shores, #1)
Publication date: September 20th 2024
Genres: Adult, Historical

A Pulpwood Queen’s International Book of the Year
A Foreword Indies Winner
A Sarton Fiction Award Finalist
A Chanticleer’s Hemingway Award Finalist
A Royal Dragonfly First Place in Fiction Award

A love lost. A soul restored. A decade of secrets and separation.

It takes a child to lead them home.

American Dianna Calloway is committed to educating children in the thick of war-ravaged 1990s Southern Sudan. Hampered by disease, a corrupt government and a fierce tribal leader who is harboring a mysterious young boy, Dianna’s passionate calling to help others in a dangerous country is only complicated by the chance meeting of a long-lost love, Qasim. Faced with the choice to protect a child or reconnect with the man she still holds dear, Dianna must make the most difficult decision of her life. Or must she?

Dianna and Qasim can’t be more different. He’s a worldly Lebanese Muslim in his 40s, from a political family, and she’s a 30-something white Christian American. They’ve been challenged by geography, culture, trust, career, and the passing of time. Now there’s a young boy who’s stolen Dianna’s heart. She’ll do anything to get him a visa out of S. Sudan. But when her mother becomes ill, she leaves Africa physically, but her heart remains there, as if it alone can protect the man who loves her and the boy who needs her. What choice does she have now?

Dianna’s alone in Africa, and nothing is as it seems …
It may be that no one needs love more than Dianna …
But a young boy is about to show her the way back home …

Sweeping across continents and cultures, this captivating novel showcases Ramsperger’s work as a humanitarian journalist and will draw readers in with a gripping storyline, gritty details, and profound sensitivity. The novel is both timeless and timely, as war and climate change attack Sudan and S. Sudan once again. A Faulkner Wisdom Literary finalist and a Pulpwood Queen’s International Book of the Year, A Thousand Flying Things is a riveting, poignant read that will work to heal global misunderstandings and encourage conversations about perspectives and assumptions around race, country, and culture while also showing readers that love, not war, conquers all.

A Thousand Flying Things is the stirring, standalone second book in the A Bridge Between Shores women’s fiction series. If you like passionate characters, lyrical prose, and well-researched settings, then you’ll adore award-winning author Kathryn Brown Ramsperger’s international tale.

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

February 14, 1991

Piecewood Displaced Persons Camp Near Bor, Southern Sudan

Dianna peeks through the smooth, worn canvas flap of her thatched hut. It’s only 30 days since she arrived. It might as well be 300. She pulls on a T-shirt and shorts for her daily run before the heat sets in. She runs no matter where she is. Here, the children, already awake, follow her. It’s a game to them. They’d never imagine her reason for it.

She began running to maintain weight. Then, she ran to forget her past. Now, she runs to avoid thinking about her future. The endorphin rush is better than food, much better than romance. It’s a multi-purpose tool for boredom, anxiety, strategizing, or blotting out thought.

These children mean everything to her because her presence in Africa is what she has left. She has a year to reach them. A year from now, most will join the fighting, or the dead. Reaching even one would be enough reward for the time spent in this restless, ragged heat. Reaching a few would be a miracle. Books are her only tool.

Her eye catches a motion in her peripheral vision. At first, she jumps. It’s a crouching animal, a hyena, or worse. But no, it’s a tiny boy, no more than five. She’s about to stop and ask him why he’s here, but he disappears into the predawn shadows. She keeps running, but she asks another boy who he is.

“Khalil,” the boy answers with a shrug.
“Why is Khalil here?”
“He is with Commander Biel.” She doesn’t like the sound of that. What warring tribal leader would bring a family member? He must have kidnapped him, or worse, bought him. She’ll have to tell her colleagues, especially the social worker, Mirembe, when they visit next month. But she’s not sure who she can trust. Most of her colleagues are five or more kilometers away, not that she minds. The U.N. has a new policy to enlist regional staff for its programs. “Teach a man to fish,” and all that. She can’t trust any of them—or anyone in the bush—white or Black, Muslim or Tribal, Arab or Dinka, aid worker or resident—until they prove their trustworthiness. That usually means divulging their allegiance in this layered war. It’s useless hoping to make friends here.

She’s certain now that her teaching is a diversion, that less than a kilometer away, these boys are being prepared to shoot rifles, even missiles. Biel is training them for his war and pretending to teach them to read. Yet perhaps she can save one or two lives.

She must be careful how she presents it to the woman called Mirembe at the delegation. Without Biel’s approval of her mission here at camp, Dianna will be sent home. The government wants her here, but Biel, he’s forced to let her teach to receive U.N. aid. She suspects he’s using her as a ruse for more international fund- ing. A shiver courses down her back with drops of sweat.

That afternoon, the boys straggle into the schoolroom, their mouths curving up when they see her, their dark eyes bright, their fingertips reaching into her pockets, searching for Life Savers or cigarettes she brought to make friends. They speak to her with their eyes instead of their mouths. Her suitcase full of bribes—piles of unboxed Marlboros—is almost empty. Her supposed students turn up their noses at anything, like a pencil, that they cannot inhale with their lungs or bellies.

They are still a bit young to be sticking needles in their arms, but that too will come, once they see some action. She’s observed the dull eyes of teenaged soldiers-in-training too many times to imagine these bright-eyed boys’ futures would turn out otherwise. Young combatants are a tradition and necessity here. Sudan has had conflict, usually civil war, since the late 1950s, when the country claimed independence from Britain and Egypt. They’ve been fighting here as long as she’s been alive. The boy soldiers, only slightly older than the students, are starving for food but laden with pharmaceu- ticals. They march through wasted grassland covering oceans of untapped petroleum. All their fighting will never yield a drop for them.

As she waits to begin, Dianna takes out an emery board, a vestige of home. Her nails are crooked and cracked from the heat, drawing water, and chopping weeds from around the doorway to her hut.

Funny how its rough, sandy surface, which echoes this world but also reminds her of home, comforts her. Right, left, right, left, she files down the nails until she reaches the skin where the nail ends and the finger begins.

She is filing when more children skip in, brandishing a knife, a rusty fishing hook, or a spent grenade.

“What?” an almost-adolescent boy asks, peering at the strange stick in her hands. It’s the first time she’s seen him.

Time and again, Dianna has explained. Time and again, the chil- dren fail to understand. “It’s a tool for my fingernails,” she tells him.

“Need?” he asks, shaking his head, either mystified or judgmental. The children may learn to read before they learn the use of a mani- cure utensil. Yet still, she files. It is her statement of faith.

Some boys don’t ever show. Dianna watches them performing their chores, eating their stewy, beany fu, preparing for nightfall, marching in formation. Still, these rations are infinitely better than the boiled leaves and grass they had before. They never meet her eye, and she knows not to push. They come to her only if their curiosity to learn overtakes their fear of their tribal leader Daniel Biel’s disapproval. These children owe everything, including their survival, to him.

She’s been on the receiving end of Biel’s judgment and wouldn’t want to be in the path of his anger. It arrives without warning like a snake coiled under the brush. He’s not happy she’s here. The government forced this relationship, probably to meet some sort of educational quota. Countries with abuses of human rights and low literacy rates don’t receive much international aid. He wants money to fund the military he’s building that’s full of children, and he’s getting it by calling his training ground a language school. She’s little more than a babysitter.

Biel’s a funny one. She can’t figure him out entirely. She’s seen him take time with each boy, ensuring they have enough to eat, that they are groomed, that they have moments of play in addition to work. He calls them his “little men.” They worship him, and so they fear getting close to her.

She stretches, rolling her head to get out the kinks, rubs off the cold sweat, flicks away a minute, insistent insect. She wanders outside to see if anyone else is showing up and notices a flowering bush she can’t remember being there yesterday. She strolls over to smell its perfume. Bending over the plant, she expects a jasmine blossom’s gentle, white scent. Instead, thousands of swarming in- sects fly every which way. She backs up, shocked, trying to avoid them, batting them away from her face. What she thought were white petals are flapping wings that have eaten any bud that tried to appear. Things in the bush are never as simple as they appear. Impressions of people are even more deceptive. Like Biel. Maybe like Mirembe at the delegation, too. Even though she likes her, she can’t trust her.

Today she’s reading from The Jungle Book, but none of them are listening. The few boys in front of her are exhausted before the day begins from yesterday’s hard work and training. They probably have little time in their day for fantasy stories with talking tigers and snakes. Nothing like their lives. Mowgli is Indian, and the story is implausible and sometimes racist. A colonialist wrote it over one hundred years ago.

She sees Thon sneer each time she reads the label “Man Cub.” She should have thought to call him Mowgli throughout. Twenty years ago, when she was about Thon’s age, Dianna fell in love with this novel because of its foreignness, its animals, and its message, but it’s not what she should be reading aloud here.

“This book was written a very long time ago, and it’s about a jungle, not Sudan,” she explains, her gaze fixed upon Thon.

“Men are not animals,” the boy answers, picking at his front tooth with a blade of grain.

She nods in agreement and puts down the book, but Alier protests. “I want to hear what happens to the boy!”

“Shhhhh!” The entire room shushes him and shames him. His head hangs down.

She looks around the room. “We call this story a fable. It’s meant to have a message. It’s not meant to be reality but to reflect reality. Shall I continue?” she asks no one in particular, least of all Alier, though he gives her a pleading glance.

Chol rests his chin on his hands, almost asleep. Jok’s eyes wander around the room. Mabior comes up to her “desk,” made of two crates, and tries to dig into her pocket a second time. She hears the first threads rip from cloth. There, he’s ruined her jeans.

“Stop it!” Dianna hisses at him and almost slaps his hand but catches herself. He’s just a child, and she can’t afford to make enemies here. She catches his eye. He’s laughing at her. She feels new sweat trickling down from her forehead to the wrinkled crow’s foot that’s getting deeper beside her left eye, to the nape of her neck to the bare part of her blistered shoulder. Abe, almost a teen, sucks on an unlit cigarette. She doesn’t allow them to smoke in her presence, even though she’s their dealer. At least she’s kept that much under her control.

School is over for her as much as for them. They’ve been here almost an hour. She slams the book shut and drops it with a thud on her crates.

After class, the boys play football with an ancient, deflated soccer ball. They use tent poles as goal posts and the younger boys as goalies. She brings her old Polaroid camera out. The boys drop their football and race toward this contraption, a camera from
her past, but an object these boys have never seen. The resulting yellow, blurred images create quite a stir in this little camp. The children love to see themselves. They delight in making faces for the camera. They even primp sometimes, hoping she will choose to snap one of them. It is more than a conversation starter; it is a showstopper, marketing her words with their pictures.

She lets the boys roam around the pile of dusty photos and moves back to the shade of the canopied “schoolroom.” Its stale air reminds her of her days in her North Carolina frame house, pre-air conditioning. As a girl, she lay in her four-poster, the air settling above her bed like a bubble too thick to prick. Moist but unyielding, it hovered as she lay in wait to leave that bedroom, that house, just as she is standing by to leave this place. She lets her thoughts unravel, barely noticing the boys at play.

She is hard pressed to determine which makes her feel emptier. This “schoolroom” is not much more than a tent. On rainy days, they must retreat to the tiny cinderblock closet of books,which is even more stifling. At least in North Carolina, she could visit the library. Books could make her forget the heavy air, the heat electrifying her spine, her mother lying down in the next room, in her own sort of limbo. Books could even rid her of the pain of her monthly cycle or empty stomach when she was sent to her room without dinner. Reading’s more important than running. Reading is more import- ant than food. It fills the emptiness of this place when she longs for love and attention. Yet would words ever mean as much to these boys as they did to Dianna? Would they lay down their rifles to turn the pages of the books she provided? Her mind pushes against the languid heat that presses her into the earth, and her lungs try to take in more air. The smell of overused cooking oil, reminiscent of the many meals fried in it, cuts the air like a scythe. She longs for just one ice cube. That is when she sees a young child’s hand.

The hand waves at her from behind a large nearby rock. Flat on top, nature’s idea of a throne, the stone hides the rest of the child’s body. The hand itself, though, is a work of art. It is a hand a hyena could tear off with one swift chomp. Tiny, ragged fingernails, dirt caked over hidden fingerprints, flies buzzing this way and that. Yet the wrist is another thing altogether. Smooth and shiny and strong. She takes up her Polaroid and begins snapping. The shutter clicks, and the photos whirl out until the film is gone. They fall at her feet, creating a small dust storm. The specks float suspended in the air, then rest one by one on the photos.

She wants to wash his hands to see what lies beneath this grime, so she walks around the rock obscuring the body that owns this miniature man’s hand. It’s the boy from this morning.

“Hello?” She wonders if he will understand even that simple greeting.

“Hey,” he answers.

Her eyes go wide. How does he know that word? Most boys know “hi” or “hello,” but seldom use it because she greets them in their own language. And this boy looks barely old enough to speak many words at all.

“I teach myself book.” The boy smiles. “You help?”

“Do you speak English?” Dianna fumbles in a mixture of English, Arabic, and Dinka.

“Engoish.” The little boy smiles again, attempting to mimic her sounds. Then, he slaps her hand with his, reaches in her pocket, finds an English tea biscuit, and pops it whole into his mouth. “Tank.”

Dianna laughs at the mispronunciation, wondering how long it took him to learn the sentence he greeted her with. Her heart is in her ears. She may have found her student.

“Name?” she asks.
“Annee,” he answers.
She laughs again, this time a broad, imp-like Dianna laugh, a laugh she barely recollects.
“No, that’s my name. I’m Dianna.” Her fingers point to her chest, correcting him, showing him that this is how to pronounce her name. His beautiful, muddy palm slips around them. “You?” She points at his chest.

“Ka. Leel,” he answers, sounding it out just as she did for him. She does not know if both words form his name, whether it is a varia- tion of some Nuer pronoun, or whether he has made it up himself.

“You mean this name?” She writes it out for him in the sand, and he nods. “How do you know my name?” she asks.

He doesn’t understand the question. He simply stares at her with a certain fascination. Biel must have mentioned her to some of the boys. That was a good sign.

Khalil giggles, and his broad smile, still with its baby teeth, makes her want to hug him, but she doesn’t. It is possible he was plucked from his village before he even answered to the name his mother called him. Many of these boys were orphans, and still, others were sent away, pawning, they called it. They were lent to others so that they—and the rest of the family—would not starve. The official word was that they were child laborers. Yet turning over this practice to reveal its dirty underside showed a far grimmer picture: slaves, sex slaves, child soldiers. Sacrifices, yet sacrifices with the hope of a fuller belly, and fuller for the conscripts than for their parents.

They walk hand in hand toward the canopy. They plop onto the ground, and he curls his elbow into her lap. Polaroid pictures look up at them through the earth like a faded carpet. Khalil picks up his image and squints. “Khalil?” he asks.

“Khalil.” Dianna puts away her camera while smiling at his realization that he is the subject of the photograph. She chooses a book from a nearby stack, opens it to page one, and begins to read. As she mouths each word, he repeats it after her. He points at the detailed illustrations of leafy branches and curvy women in full skirts and stays. He points at the letters. Beatrix Potter’s bunnies and hedgehogs dance in a land of cobras and hippos. He’s interested in books! She wants to get to know him, help him succeed.

She has just broken a professional and personal credo—never get close to anyone again, especially not a client or student. She smiles in dazed but sated wonder. She always thought it would be a tall, dark man walking through camp who posed the most risk to her heart. And here, this little boy has grabbed it with one sentence and a few fingers. She will give him a good washing, make sure he is free from parasites, give him a T-shirt and a book all his own. Tomorrow, she will speak to Biel. This boy could not possibly be old enough for military training.

Khalil seems in awe of her classroom, the only one of its kind in the camp. He runs his hands over the wall and floor, and his deep-set, round eyes rove up and down again. People here at camp reside in thatched mud huts or sleep under flimsy tents. Many boys sleep in the open air. This “schoolhouse” has one cinderblock wall, though the other sides are open to the air. His delicate hands glide over each brick’s cold, rough surface, one by one, as though it were a sculpture. If he even knows what a sculpture is. She fills a vat with all the cold water they can haul, pours soap into it, and orders him in. Khalil is having none of it. He is not getting his uniform wet. He crouches in the corner, still all smiles, but head wagging from side to side, “No.” She hauls him in his strange uniform, which resembles ragged shorts and surgical scrubs more than fatigues, and dumps him into the vat. He couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, but he is arms and legs and sharp nails, flailing, no other sound. Then he is still as she pours the soapy water over him—and scrubs, scrubs his work-torn fingernails. He relaxes and blows bubbles. And gradually, the smooth, burnished skin shines through.

Author Bio:

Kathryn Brown Ramsperger began her writing career with newspapers, then investigative reporting. As a researcher and writer for National Geographic and Kiplinger, and later, as a humanitarian journalist working throughout Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, she met countless courageous people facing disaster, famine, and war. Their stories inspired both of Kathryn's novels. Kathryn now lives in Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC with her husband. They have two adult children, bound for their own creative adventures.

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Pity Present by Whitney Dineen EXCERPT & GIVEAWAY

Pity Present
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series #5)
Publication date: October 24th 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Molly
I haven’t beeninterested in dating since my ex dumped me for a new girl at his law office. Since then, I’ve thrown myself into my work as a hotel gift shop designer. While being single isn’t what I expected, there’s truth to that old saying, “Once bitten, twice shy.” And the bite of a cheater stays with you.

Christmas can be a particularly vulnerable time, which is why I accepted a job right before the holidays. I had no idea the lodge that hired me was also hosting a singles’ event. Imagine my surprise when they had a last-minute cancellation and asked me if I wanted to join them.

Blake
When I left LA for my dream job in Chicago, I never dreamed by first assignment would be spending two weeks in Elk Lake, Wisconsin, covering the Midwestern Matchmaker’s new venture to set up Chicagoland singles. I’m a sports journalist for Pete’s sake, not some airheaded twit who writes about the lovelorn.

Unfortunately, the job I transferred for isn’t open yet, so here I am. In Wisconsin. Living my worst nightmare. There is no way anybody is going to find love at this thing. No way.

So, imagine my surprise when the most awkward woman in the world trips over me …

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

When the train pulls into the Elk Lake stop, I jump to my feet and practically run for the exit. Unfortunately, I don’t see the foot blocking the aisle. As such, I wind up making a spectacular display as I trip up the aisle for several yards. My performance is akin to a vaudevillian physical comedy routine. Luckily, a hand reaches out to steady me before I hit the ground. “Whoa there. I’ve got you.”

I take a moment to catch my breath before turning to thank my rescuer. One look at his hazelly green eyes and chiseled jaw renders me nearly speechless. Is that a tan? I finally manage to say, “Thump queue.”

The Adonis stands up and reaches toward his overnight bag. “Excuse me?”

“Thump queue,” I repeat before forcing my mouth to form proper words. “I mean, thank you.”

His lips curve ever so slightly before he responds with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

I know I just told my sister I wasn’t interested in dating and that she was crazy to suggest I might be about to embark upon my very own cheesy movie experience, but for a split second, a wave of possibility washes over me. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You aren’t a lumberjack by any chance, are you?”

His eyes widen. “No.”

Feeling foolish, I try to think of something to say that will make me seem less weird. I decide to go with, “Me neither.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Good to know. I hear it’s hard work.”

I’m going to be single forever. While I claim to be fine with that outcome, I secretly want to find the man of my dreams, get married, have two point five children, and then adopt a Bernese Mountain puppy or three. The house in the suburbs and white picket fence are a given.

Turning around, I continue to make my way off the train while chastising myself for being such an idiot. I step down to the ground before lugging my suitcase to my side. The gorgeous stranger is behind me, but he doesn’t stick around to continue our inane small talk. Instead, he veers to the right and exits the platform.

I don’t move as quickly. I simply look around at my charming surroundings. There’s nothing like a small-town train station decorated for the holidays. The depot windows are strung with colored lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps lining the walkway are festooned with flocked wreaths, and Christmas carols are booming from the speakers against the side of the building.

Laughingly, I tell myself, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Not that Chicago is at all comparable to Kansas, but a certain Wizard of Oz magic seems to have overtaken me.

I appreciate my surroundings for long enough that by the time I turn around, I’m the only person left on the platform. The text I received from the Elk Lake Lodge said they would send a driver to pick me up. As such, I make my way through the depot to the other side of the building.

The sidewalk is covered in fresh snow, so I’m careful to step into the footprints left by others. I look around for a van with the hotel’s name on it, but the only vehicle at the curb is a dark blue Suburban. Before I can approach it, a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a gray parka steps out. “Molly Anders?”

I throw a hand up in the air and reply, “That’s me!”

He walks over and takes possession of my suitcase before putting it in the back hatch. Then he opens the door for me. “Name’s Paul. You’re my last pickup which is good because we’re expecting more snow.” I’m glad I decided to come tonight and not wait until morning.

Getting into the back of the truck, I’m greeted by a familiar face. “Hey, there.” It’s the hottie from the train.

“Hey, hi. Fancy meeting you here.”

The driver gets in and asks, “You two know each other?”

Before I can answer, my seat mate explains, “We met on the train. Neither of us are lumberjacks.” Kill me now.

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries -- not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

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Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn: An Ariadne Winter Mystery by Ellen Butler Interview & Giveaway

Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn: An Ariadne Winter Mystery by Ellen Butler

About Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn

Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn: An Ariadne Winter Mystery 

Historical Cozy Mystery 

1st in Series 

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Power to the Pen 

(October 2, 2024) 

Print length ‏ : ‎ 323 pages 

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0D9ZLTG5D 

Stumbling across a dead body could be the making … or breaking of an aspiring reporter.

During 1958, when the workforce is predominantly male, societal norms dictate women should be compliant, fashionable housewives. To Ariadne Winter, the sole tradition she aims to embrace is that of being fashionable. Amidst the ambiance of Ivy Tree Inn, where she's been dispatched as a writer for Ladies’ Lifestyle Magazine, her focus wavers as she grapples with an interview assignment concerning a Hollywood starlet on the cusp of royal matrimony—an event hailed as the "Wedding of the Century." While Ariadne dutifully attends to her task, her heart yearns for the pursuit of her collegiate ambition: to be an investigative reporter for a renowned newspaper.

However, fate intervenes when she discovers a dead body and recognizes the opportunity it presents to write her way into the role she desires. Yet, as Ariadne delves deeper into the lives of the inn's inhabitants, she uncovers a labyrinth of intertwined relationships and long-buried secrets among guests and staff alike, yielding a plethora of suspects. With a murderer on the loose, her magazine deadline looming, and the inn cordoned off by authorities, Ariadne faces a race against time to untangle the web of deceit and solve the murder before she loses more than just her job.

About Ellen Butler

Ellen Butler is the international bestselling author of the Karina Cardinal mystery series. Her experiences working on Capitol Hill and at a medical association in Washington, D.C. inspired the mystery-action series. Multiple books in the series have hit #1 on Amazon bestseller lists in the US and abroad. Book critics call the Karina Cardinal mysteries, “intelligent escapism." Butler is also the author of the award-winning historical suspense novel, The Brass Compass. The Brass Compass has won multiple awards for historical fiction including: 2022 Speak Up Talk Radio Firebird Book Award, 2018 Indie Reader Discovery Award, 2019 Readers’ Favorite Silver Medal Winner. Butler started writing in the romance genre and won the The Romance Reviews Readers’ Choice Award 2015 with her novel Planning for Love. Her 12th book Operation Blackbird, a Cold War Spy novel, was published in October 2022 and won a Next Generation Indie Book Award gold medal for historical fiction.

Interview

Where are you from?

That is an interesting question for me. Right now, I live in the tourist town of Williamsburg, VA. We moved here recently. For over thirty-five years, I lived in the Washington, DC metro area, and I often think of Northern Virginia as my home.

Tell us your latest news?

The first book in my new Ariadne Winter series, Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn, has just been released. In 1958, Ariadne Winter, craves to break away from gender norms by becoming an investigative reporter. On her first assignment for Ladies’ Lifestyle Magazine, she discovers a dead body and realizes this could be her chance to obtain the role she desires. However, unraveling the inn's secrets, puts her in the crosshairs of the killer.

When and why did you begin writing?

I had a story rambling around in my head for almost three years. It was time to put pen to paper and see if I had what it takes to be a novelist. The book came out in 2014. Ten years and fourteen books later . . .

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When my first novel was published by a small press. It was exciting to see a story that I wrote, out there in the big world.

Do you have a specific writing style?

Sometimes, I wish I was a faster writer, so I could get more books out. However, I self-edit as I go. I realize this slows down my writing process. Sometimes I will work on knotty plot problems for days or even weeks, instead of plowing through and coming back to it. However, because I need to write stories in a chronological fashion, I can’t move forward without fixing the problem. I’ve met writers who I call “chunkers”. They write their stories in chunks, a scene here, some dialog there, and then they fit it all together to make a cohesive story. I’ve tried the chunking method. It didn’t work out for me.

How did you come up with the title?

Ugh, I hate the titling process. It’s a lot of words crossed out in my spiral notebook. Visits to thesaurus. Opinion polls on the top 3. Then finally, I chose one. Sometimes, I fall back on a different name. Most of the time, when the decision is finally made, I run with it. I’ve never had a title that I’ve kept from day one of sitting down at the computer. A title tends to come last for me.

As for Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn – I decided to include the inn’s name in the title, and ink and intrigue describe my character’s investigation and her job as a journalist.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

It is made obvious from the storyline, that Ariadne faces gender bias when she visits newspaper offices after graduation. In 1958, the newsrooms tended to be male dominated.

What would you like my readers to know?

If you like Agatha Christie books, and movies like Knives Out, you’ll enjoy Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn. My character is as fashionable as Mrs. Maisel (i.e. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) with the smarts of Benoit Blanc. 

Serving Up Suspense with Style

Ellenbutler.net

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Purchase Link - Amazon - 

TOUR PARTICIPANTS

October 23 – Mystery, Thrillers & Suspense – AUTHOR GUEST POST

October 24 – Ascroft, eh? – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 25 – View from the Birdhouse – REVIEW

October 25 – MJB Reviewers – SPOTLIGHT

October 26 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – SPOTLIGHT

October 27 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

October 28 – Deal Sharing Aunt – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 28 – Books, Ramblings, and Tea – SPOTLIGHT

October 29 – Cozy Up With Kathy – REVIEW, AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 30 – Ruff Drafts – SPOTLIGHT

October 30 – Christy's Cozy Corners – CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 31 – StoreyBook Reviews – REVIEW

October 31 – Novels Alive – REVIEW

November 1 - Boys' Mom Reads! – REVIEW

November 1 - Literary Gold – SPOTLIGHT

November 2 - Celticlady's Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

November 3 – Christa Reads and Writes – SPOTLIGHT

November 4 – Sapphyria's Book Reviews – REVIEW 

November 5 – Maureen's Musings – SPOTLIGHT

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Immortal Wounds by Angie Barton Recipe & giveaway

SPOOKY COOKIES 

I LOVE baking, especially around the holidays! 

Every October I make these amazing double chocolate  chip cookies and it’s easy to say that they are a hit  with both children and adults! They are soft and chewy  with just the right amount of chocolate, but it’s the candy eyeballs that are the star of the show!

 

INGREDIENTS

• ½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature

• ½ cup granulated sugar

• ½ cup dark brown sugar, packed

• optional: black food coloring

• 1 large egg

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 cup all-purpose flour

• ½ cup + 2 Tbsp. Hershey’s Special Dark Cocoa Powder

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• ¼ teaspoon salt

• 2 Tbsp. milk

• 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips (I use semi-sweet)

• Candy Eyeballs for topping the cookies

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 350˚ F. Line baking sheets with parchment paper. Using an electric mixer, combine the butter and sugars. You can add black food coloring at this time to get a deeper shade of black in the cookies. Beat together on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, 2-3 minutes. Blend in the egg and vanilla, scrape down the bowl if needed.

2. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients in the mixer on low speed just until mixed. Mix in the milk on the lowest speed and fold in the chocolate chips.

3. Roll about 2 tablespoons of dough into balls and place on the baking sheets. Flatten slightly. Top cookies with candy eyeballs. 

Place cookie sheet in freezer for 10-15 minutes.

4. Bake for 10-11 minutes. Let cool on the baking sheets for about 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. ENJOY!

Immortal Wounds

Immortal Wounds Series

Book One

Angie Barton

Genre: Fantasy/Historical Fiction/Magical Realism

Publisher: Angie Barton 

Date of Publication: April 22, 2022

ISBN: 979-8990647206

ASIN: BOD9XTF25K

Number of pages: 392

Word Count: 93,000

Cover Artist: Donnell McKenzie

Tagline: Did Isobel make an error in landing in the wrong time, or was it part of her destiny?

Book Description: 

After witnessing the brutal deaths of her mother and husband, Isobel overhears a confession from one of the murderers, a ruthless vampire who claims to be her father. For fear that she and her unborn daughter’s death could come next, Isobel uses the only magic she possesses and summons a portal to take her two hundred years in the past to revisit an ancestor in Scotland who she believes may know the truth of her parentage. However, in her haste, Isobel lands in the wrong century. Before she realizes her mistake, she stumbles upon a family: a ferocious Highland warrior and his two sisters.

Isobel could not have prepared herself for what she discovers during her stay: the vampire who claimed to be her father, alive three hundred years in the past! With the help of Meg, the youngest sister, and Mariam, both women’s ancestor, Isobel finds herself belonging in a world she never dreamed of—one entangled with vampires and webbed with revenge, curses, and a prophecy that has dictated all of their lives for the last four hundred years. 

Did Isobel make an error landing in the wrong time, or was it part of her destiny?

Amazon

About the Author: 

Award winning author, Angie Barton, published her first novel, Immortal Wounds, in 2022. Angie’s love for writing centers around the fantasy genre, but she also enjoys writing thriller and romance. Her passion for reading, which led to her love of writing, began in elementary school with the Scholastic Book program. Her parents, who are life-long avid readers, have been a huge influence on her reading. Therefore anything and everything Angie could get her hands on she read.

Angie has been an early childhood educator since 1986 and hold a B.S. in Child Development. Her love for literacy has continued throughout her career, not only for herself, but also with the children she has cared for and taught. What Angie is most passionate about is helping others discover the excitement that reading brings. Her greatest desire in writing is to create and bring joy and entertainment to everyone she touches.

Currently, if Angie isn't reading at least three books at a time or working on a rough draft for her next book, she can be found outdoors gardening, woodworking, or relaxing by her pond. She shares that she's a Capricorn, tried and true, drinks way too much tea, and that her "to be read" pile of books can spike at any time.

www.authorangiebarton.com

https://www.facebook.com/author.AngieBarton

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/angie-barton

https://www.instagram.com/immortal_wounds/

https://www.goodreads.com/goodreadscomangie_barton

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