Phobic by Cortney Pearson

Fifteen-year-old Piper Crenshaw knows her house is strange. It’s never needed repairs since it was built in the 1800s, and the lights flicker in response to things she says. As if those things aren’t creepy enough, it’s also the place where her mother committed murder.

To prove she’s not afraid of where she lives, Piper opens a forbidden door, which hides a staircase that leads to the ceiling. That’s when the flashbacks of the original residents from 1875 start, including a love affair between two young servants. Each vision pulls Piper deeper into not only their story, but also her house. Piper confides in her best friend, Todd, whom she’s gradually falling for, but even he doesn’t believe her. At least, not until her house gets axed during a prank, and the act injures Piper instead, cutting a gash the size of Texas into her stomach.

Piper realizes her house isn’t haunted—it’s alive. To sever her link to it, she must unravel the clues in the flashbacks and uncover the truth about her mother’s crime, before she becomes part of her house for good. 




“I guess a direct approach would probably have worked better,” he says. Then he balls his hands into fists and taps them at his knees. “I have the biggest crush on you. There. I said it.”

“You—you do?” This is absurd. And yet I’m ravenous inside. It’s a challenge to concentrate on anything but him, and I want nothing more than for him to keep talking.

Cortney author pic

Cortney is a book nerd who studied literature at BYU-Idaho, a music nerd who plays clarinet in her local community orchestra, and a writing nerd who creates stories for young adults. She lives with her husband and three sons in a small Idaho farm town.



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Necromancer’s Whisper by Alaina Stanford

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Sarah’s stomach. Her eyes opened wide as she gazed at him in horror. He wasn’t worried about Nicole. He wasn’t worried about being discovered as Elves. He was worried about her being taken for a witch. “The barbarians burn witches in this world don’t they?”
Cabal’s blue eyes turned to steel. “I won’t let anything happen to you. On my honor, I will guard your safety with my life.”


Necromancer’s Whisper by Alaina Stanford

Sarah discovers magic is not only forbidden in the human realm, it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist for everyone except the Necromancer, who has taken Jack prisoner.

Jack travels to the realm of the barbarians across the sea to discover the whereabouts of the parents who failed to appear at the end of the school season. When time passes with no word from Jack, Nicole decides its time to take action and enters a human realm where magic is forbidden under penalty of death. Cabal and Nicole must hide their elven heritage. Meanwhile, Hopper and Tom discover the renegade trolls are on the move and armed for battle. Will Nicole and the others find Jack and return in time to defend their home from the renegades? Will Jack survive long enough to be found?

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Author bio:

I have one of those brains that won’t turn off at night. Many nights I would distract my intellect by revamping a movie, book or TV show in my mind. I would twist and turn the plots and characters to achieve the ending I preferred. That developed into side stories about my favorite minor characters. Each night I fell asleep in the middle of a grand adventure. It wasn’t long before I began to create stories of my own and put pen to paper.

I love a good adventure. I love a good romance. As the mother of seven children, I also learned to love to play video games. One day it occurred to me to write an adventure that flowed like a video game and I added a touch of romance. Thus, Hypnotic Journey was born. The HJ characters are like a family to me. They are foolish, daring, resourceful, passionate and dedicated to their friends.

My love for Science Fiction gave birth to the Treborel Series. It’s a paranormal Sci-Fi romance featuring a psychotic villain and a multiple layer of hero’s fighting to survive the chaos.

I write about how friendship and love can carry you through situations that you might not otherwise survive. You will find my stories exciting and steamy, but I am not an erotic writer. My stories fade to dark when the steam begins to rise, but take it from me, the steam does rise and emotions do soar.


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#Review: Night Crawler by Candy O’Donnell

The Past Never Stays Where it Belongs! In Westwood, California, was where John Francis, the town’s priest re-encountered the beast. To his astonishment, horrifying events began unraveling before him. These unprovoked occurrences soon turned to fright when Sister Teresa’s body was found murdered. When Kathy Riego stepped into the Sister’s shoes she showed him a renewed identification for the word love. John began this new relationship with a masked reality as the horrid beast began showing him a long forgotten past that was supposed to be buried long ago.

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Night Crawler by Candy O’Donnell is a beautiful, magical, and slightly terrifying tale. A priest with six-pack abs, a blond bombshell with twinkling blue eyes, a “Dumb-ass redneck”, a red-eyed strange animal, the mysterious death f a nun and a series of incomprehensible events that haunt a small town: what to not be liked?

This is rapid-paced suspenseful story spiced with romance and with a satisfying ending. A great reading for Halloween!

My rate: 4.3*

Candy O'Donnell

Author Bio:

Candy O’Donnell was born in Carmichael, California.

At the age of twelve, she wrote her first mini book. Filled mostly with what took place with her mother and her long tedious bout with leukemia. It was a short story told as extra credit when she suffered a sprained ankle and had to be out of school for over two months. School officials refused to believe a word of what she had written until her grandmother, her guardian back then, entered the school with the truth. Everything she had written down was exactly what took place. Unfortunately her mother succumbed to the disease.

             She earned a Bachelor’s degree in History and Culture. After living with her aunt and uncle for over five years she wished to explore her uncle’s Native heritage and did so with vigor. She also has 6 Grad units in Criminal Justice. Someday she might go back and finish her Master’s.



Twitter: @Candyodonnell

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Legends and Lore Athnology: Charon’s Obol #Review #Interview

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When I signed up for the Legends and Lore Anthology Blog Tour I asked Becca & Sarah from Loving the Book Launch Party, who are the Tour organisers, to review Charon’s Obol by. R. M. Ridley. I didn’t know what the story was about, or I should say that what I only knew was what the short description says: “Jonathan Alvey didn’t believe in gods, until he helps a lost child find her all-powerful parents.”

But a word was what intrigued me: Charon.

In Greek mythology, Charon (Greek: Χάρων) is the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead.

So, it was a pleasant surprise to find out that this story, part of the Legends and Lore Anthology, is inspired by Greek Mythology.

As much as I felt a proud Greek, I was even more delighted because what I read was a fast paced, well constructed and beautifully written story. R. M. Ridley’s writing style has many to do with this because the author knows how to engage the audience.

I haven’t read yet the rest of the book, but if tit has the quality Charon’s Obol has, I’m sure it’ll be a great success.

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Q&A with R.M.Ridley

How did the idea for this story come to you?

As for every story I write, it starts with an image, or moment of dialogue, that my Muse slaps into my head and I just let it unfurl from there. In this case, it was the image of a little girl standing in door to Alvey’s office.

What makes your main character unique?

He’s almost an anti-hero. He wants nothing more than to sit in his office smoking, drinking, and reading but the universe keeps throwing things in life which he’s just can leave alone because he’s driven by a sense of duty and of guilt.

Is this part of a series?

Yes. This is a short story set in the White Dragon Black series. The first story to see print from this world was in last years paranormal anthology, ‘Shades and Shadows’ and then the full length novel ‘Tomorrow Wendell’ came out in June of this year.

When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?

I have written stories for as long as I can remember. I didn’t want to devote the majority of life to it until about fifteen years ago, however. It wasn’t until the character of Jonathan Alvey came along, four years ago, that I said I need to get this published.

What have you written?

I write urban fantasy / paranormal and horror. I have completed four novels that have never even been submitted anywhere and a stack of short stories. I have had a few of my short stories published, both the paranormal and the horror.

What are you working on?

Currently I am working on the edits of the second White Dragon Black novel, ‘Bindings & Spines, as well as writing the fifth novel in the series. I am also working with Xchyler on a secret project for fans of the White Dragon Black series.

How do you write? Longhand, typewriter, laptop, tablet?

My hand writing is atrocious, I can’t even read it half the time, so I use a laptop. A lap top also makes it easier for me to write in the style that I do, which is non-chronological. I flit from beginning, to end, to middle— all over the place– where ever the inspiration hits, I write that scene and eventually it all gets woven together.

What is your writing zone and how do you get there?

If my Muse is with me, I’m writing. If she steps out for coffee, I’m useless – I can’t write a thing. I’m just a conduit for her idea’s.

What’s the hardest thing about writing?

Not writing. Every moment you are not working with the words, for whatever reason, is the hardest part of writing.

What’s the easiest thing about writing?

When it all suddenly clicks – when the whole picture snaps into place and you understand everyone’s motives, reasons, and, minds, then it just flows out like and open tap.

What are you currently reading?

I’m working my way through the entire collection of Raymond Chandler’s short stories.

Do you prefer reading eBook or paperback?

I have never even tried reading from an eBook, so that probably says something.

What advice do you have for fellow writers?

Learn to love editing. See edits as the flips side of writing – still creative, still full of possibilities – and every aspect, from the first word written, to the first word printed, will be a joy.

Author’s Bio

R.M. Ridley lives in rural Ontario on a small homestead, raising a menagerie of animals, including a flock of sheep and a swarm of foul. He has been writing stories, both long and short, for three decades, the themes of which range from the gruesome to the fantastical. As an individual who suffers from severe bipolar disorder, R.M. Ridley is a strong believer in being open about mental health issues because myths should be kept to stories.




Twitter: @RavenMRIdley

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#Review: The Fall by Stephen Cost


The Fall by Stephen Cost has a great advantage and a quite important disadvantage. Its main weapon is Mr Cost’s writing. Poetic, elegant and sophisticated makes the reader want to absorb every well described detail and makes this book a pleasant reading experience. It reminded me the great noir novels of the past. And in my opinion, that’s exactly its main problem. It’s not a noir novel, it’s a paranormal one. I believe Mr Cost’s intention was to give a breath of fresh air in paranormal genre, and he would have succeeded if the pace of the first half of the book wasn’t that slow.

There are some scenes like the airport one, that despite the fact they are exceptionally described, they seem to be dropped into the plot for no reason. The real action begins with “the fountain of the four soldiers” incident. Since I got there I didn’t want to put this book down. If only the entire book had the pace the last 30 pages have…

I would like to read more from Stephen Cost. I believe that if he adds more twists of plot in his stories, he’ll make a great neo-noir author.

My rate: 4*




“…forced to live a life filled with human emotions and moral judgments, but also forced to take lives to feed our undying hunger…”



By: Stephen Cost

Pages: 314

Genre: Thriller/Fiction/Mystery


For thousands of years, Death walked behind the dark veil of the living, waiting to ferry the dead. That is, until the day that Death took a life for pleasure rather than duty. On that day, the first Reaper fell to Earth. Now, Reapers live among us, craving the taste of death, forcing them to kill to satisfy their immortal hunger.



Giles Reid fell more than 300 years ago starving for the taste of death, only to find himself drowning in a sea of the living and blinded by a hunger that forces him to kill. In the centuries since his fall he has tried to be more human, desperate to live a life that makes up for what he is and the wrong he has done. Driven by his guilt over killing, he has chosen to feed only on evil; humans that have never been a threat to him but who are always a danger to others. That is, until the day he tries to feed on a human as strong, fast and cunning as himself; a human who, it turns out, has been hunting him. Now he is being pursued by the very evil he has fed on for centuries, embroiled in a deadly cat-and-mouse game, where friends and other Reapers connected to him are simply pawns on a chessboard waiting to be sacrificed. Giles is left with a choice, save the life of the women he loves, the daughter of his mentor, or betrays her for his own survival.


To save the woman he loves, Giles will have to be the monster he is.

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By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all His work. And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it He rested from all the work of creating that He had done.” The day that is the basis for The Fourth Commandment. (Genesis 2:2-3) 

The following text was provide passage for his Children of Earth to his Kingdom of Heaven.  This, he completed before the setting of the sun on the seventh day and so He rested from all His work. And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on this day He celebrated his creation of life and Death, He rested from all provide passage for his Children of Earth to his Kingdom of Heaven.  This, he completed before the setting of the sun on the seventh day and so He rested from all His work.

And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on this day He celebrated his creation of life and Death, He rested from all the work of creating that He had done.  (Geniza fragments, found Cairo, Egypt, 1947)

“Death is the beginning of immortality” Maximilien Robespierre, July 26, 1794



People say they love the smell of fresh cut daisies, but I far prefer the scent of what pushes them up, the dead. You see, death has a scent all to itself, slightly tangy and bitter, pleasing and calming on the palate. Sure there are other aromas I love too, not just that of death, which can chase the chill from my heart, or would, if I had a heart; at least one that could beat and warm the night’s cold from my blood.

Every day I crave the smell of death and evil, I have since my birth. But living in a sea of flesh and blood, I have developed an appreciation for other human and earthly scents; Like the ocean, its sea salt assaulting my senses with a clean, pure bouquet, quite unmatched by anything manufactured. Or the first morning smell of fresh-cut, wet grass and, of course, women. Women smell so much sweeter than men. They, over the millenniums, have refined their scents out of necessity as much as pleasure, each expertly adapting their sultry, seductive and secret combinations of body lotions and perfumes. Honing this craft throughout the ages, to tempt and seduce men out of their minds.

But these are not the only olfactory delights to curl my toes and tickle my senses. For nothing—not the tangy stench of death, nor the sweet scent of a woman—compares to the most inspired aroma of all. Coffee. Nothing in my three-hundred-plus years of experience has compared. Sure, coffee itself has evolved, from non-filtered to filtered, from espresso to cappuccinos, and now from mocha’s to Frappuccinos, but the essence is the same. The intoxicating sweetness, the mild-to-bitter flavors that leave you wanting more—needing more. 

You see, that’s my drug. Some people need cocaine, others heroin, and some crave cigars or alcohol. I, on the other hand, have the most

decadent, refined and expensive vice of all. And it’s because of this little addiction—or weakness—that I can be found most nights here, sitting on the dimly-lit, damp, covered balcony of Martin’s Books and Coffee.

I sip my overpriced drug while the not-so-distant smell of the ocean creeps its way through the maze and tangled web of Seattle’s wet streets. The cars filing by below enhance the scent of the ocean sitting not too far from here, as the sound of their tires splashing through wet, potholed roads echoes that of the rush of a wave over a rock and the sound of ocean spray.

On most days, Martin’s tends to be a good place to relax. One of the few independently-owned book stores left in Seattle, the atmosphere here is calming and the lighting muted. Not so dark that you cannot read a book and enjoy your coffee, but just dim enough so that someone of my, let us say fair complexion, can go unnoticed by the everyday person stopping by for a fix and a good book. 

The décor is modern contemporary, although the designer clearly relied far too much on his collection of old IKEA catalogs, with a thousand shades of tans and browns with brushed steel accents scattered throughout, for effect. I do think that they might have gone a little overboard with the alternating redwood and pine floor boards. The effect is still pleasantly calming if not somewhat dull.

So, why so critical, you may ask? It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. We all, Reapers and humans alike, must have a day job and mine happens to be that of a wine critic. The crème de la crème of critics, although, truth-be-told, I’m not a big fan of wine. However, I have been gifted with a palate most French chefs would give their sous chefs right hand for. Not their own hand, of course. No French chef I have ever met, and I have met more than my fair share, would ever think of giving that much for their craft.

“Mr. Reid, would you like another?”

The sound of her sing-song voice pulls me back to the moment, temporarily suspending my hazy, drug-induced stupor.

The question comes from Sarah, one of my favorite wait-persons here at Martin’s. Yes, I said wait-persons. Living—if you can call what I

do living—in a world of political correctness, I’ve learned it is no longer appropriate to refer to someone as a ‘waitress’. That would be such denigration. Sarah is just the typical twenty-something coffee house wait-person who can be seen in any of the hundred or so coffee houses that pepper the Seattle Landscape—not Sarah herself, of course, but the type. Tall, but not too tall, with long blonde hair. A lightly tanned complexion and the body, a perfectly sculpted masterpiece. I’m not sure about the other Sarah’s out there, but my Sarah has one defining attribute that I find hard to resist, her smell. The bouquet that wafts around her is subtle and ambiguous, what is that? Lavender with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, perhaps?

I shift my head to look up at her. She really is a beautiful girl and I can tell I make her a little uncomfortable, but I’m used to that. Being a Reaper does have certain perks after all and it isn’t all about death and feeding, we have our needs, too. And women, well, they always find us Reapers attractive, mysterious and alluring. If they only knew the truth. 

Sarah’s question hangs suspended in the air a few seconds, patiently awaiting my response.

“Do I want another?  How many is that tonight, Sarah?” I ask.

She gives me a seductive little side grin. You know the kind; the grin that accomplished women practice in the mirror at night, trying to hone their craft to better seduce their prey.

“You’ve only had two tonight,” she replies.

Two is not entirely true. I have only had one and a half so far. Let’s not cheat me out of my other half cup.

Most nights at Martin’s are about the coffee, but not tonight. Tonight is not about my vices. Tonight is about my needs. My vices will have to wait.

“No more tonight. I’ll just be finishing off what I have left, Sarah.”

With that, she gives me another of her little sultry side grins, flips her hair over her left shoulder and strolls back to the bar. My eyes cannot help but follow her. She really does have a certain something about her walk. Perhaps it’s been too long since I let a woman seduce me. But tonight cannot be about that; tonight I have other needs that must be attended to.

I glance down at my watch to check the time, enjoying the novelty of it.

I find wearing a watch is such a novelty here in the twenty-first century. No one wears watches anymore. All around me I see people texting, playing games and talking in quiet whispers to unknown others on their cell phones. A cell phone may be the one-stop shop of entertainment and information overload, but it is also the tool slowly killing the faithful and dependable wrist watch. Progress be damned, I still love my watch. This is reinforced by the fact that I hate cell phones. They are the digital leash of the twenty-first century and unless it’s leather, I’m not wearing it around my neck or anything else for that matter.

My watch reads 9:45 p.m. 

Soon, very soon.

Two weeks ago there had been a new addition to Martin’s. A customer, but not just any customer: This one had a certain scent about him, if you will. The sweet nectar of evil; I could smell it, I could feel it. It was palatable in the air, like an early morning mist hovering over the shore, waiting for the early entrance of sunlight to wash over it and chase it away. 

I know evil. And yes, I suppose it does take evil to know it. But what is evil? 

Is it the monster who kills? Or the monster who kills the killer?

This man’s evil was distinctive. He had killed and not out of necessity or duty. Those who have killed in that way had a different essence. But this man murdered for pleasure; he lusted for it. Ecstasies of power drive him to kill, control his actions and decide for him who is to be next, and when.

Not long to wait now. Soon. It will be very soon. 

I can feel my hunger building; excitement, I suppose. 

It has been almost three weeks since my last snack, a 42-year-old CEO who used his position to sexually abuse and harass those in his employ. Not as tasty or satisfying as a kill-happy psychopath or the hidden sociopath next door, but a tasty morsel nonetheless.

I crane my neck to the left a little, stretching to release the building tension. 

Over my shoulder I can see the bestsellers rack and the number one book for this week; another vampire novel. How original.

Vampires. If only the world knew the truth. 

People have told old-wives tales about vampires for centuries, desperately trying to explain what they could not understand. Very human, I suppose, but oh-so wrong. Vampires, werewolves, goblins, ghouls and banshees, oh my. All fictional creatures and all created in a desperate attempt to explain the inexpiable

To grasp understanding of the supernatural. To try to embrace the unbelievable. Although, truth-be-told, misinformation can be a useful distraction for humans, when the truth lies far beyond the boundaries of their comprehension. 

I’m fascinated by humans obsessions with the supernatural, especially in the Twenty-First Century. The stories have been so sensationalized over the ages that these romanticized creatures have had humanity grafted into their lore and being.

Really, humans should rethink their reality. Do you romanticize about a warm steak, or a perfectly cooked duck breast before you eat it? No, I don’t think you do, and neither do we.

I suppose it’s not hard to see how, at one time or another in history, one of my brethren may have been seen as one of those monsters. After all, every urban legend has its basis in truth. I wouldn’t be surprised if sometime in the past, someone looked at one of the smaller members of our group and the emergence of little gray aliens came to be. As I said, we do look a little pasty in the skin. In some lighting, you might even say, light grey. 

This thought always brings a smile to my face. I mean really, what sorry excuse for a Reaper was ever mistaken for a four-foot, big-headed, skinny alien? And if it was one of us, what’s with the anal probing? Feed—Yes. Catch and release—sure. Fishermen weren’t the first to coin that phrase. Play with our food—we’re all children at heart. But anal probing? Well the Devil only knows where that may have originated.

What you have to understand is that, as Reapers, we have our proclivities to perversion in one form or another. I mean, you can only live for a few centuries before normal becomes boring and a little bit of deviancy spices up your day.

The sound of heavy footsteps atop the redwood floors capture my attention. I know those footsteps. I’ve been waiting for those footsteps. 

9:55 p.m. exactly. 

Predictable and punctual; always a nice trait to find in a fellow monster. I mean, really, could I ask for more? I suppose he could come on over, take a seat and let me kill him right here and now. But where’s the fun in that?

I track his steps as he stops at the counter to place his order.

What will it be tonight?

I feel like a kid in a candy store, waiting to see what delicious delicacy Mother has picked out for me. Of course, I have my preference: coffee, thank you. What could be better than a late snack and a cappuccino-flavored dessert? At this thought, I wipe away the smallest sliver of saliva that crests the corner of my mouth.

“Large coffee, black, to go,” he says smiling broadly.

Coffee, black. What, no cinnamon coffee cake? It’s excellent this time of year, I hear, and the sweet aftertaste of cinnamon. It’s divine.

My mouth starts to moisten and I have to swallow so as not to drool. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.


Stephen Cost was born in Wexford Ireland and raised in a small seaside town not far from Dublin.  From a young age he would spin dark tales and write them down for his own amusement.  At the age of 13 he moved from his home in Ireland to America and his love of dark American cinema took root.

He passes his free time, when not writing, by reading horror and fantasy genre novels in addition to watching science fiction and horror movies.

He graduated from University with a degree in Psychology and a minor in Sociology.  A computer engineer by trade, he specializes in integrated system services and uses the knowledge gained from his degree to write emotionally captivating urban fiction.

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New Release and Giveaway: Gone for a soldier by Marsha Ward

Today I’m featuring author Marsha Ward and her new book Gone for a soldier.

Make sure you scroll down to find the link to the Rafflecopter Giveaway and enter for a chance to win amazing prizes.

Gone for a Soldier cover

Rulon Owen loves two things more than life—his country and Mary Hilbrands.

When Virginia secedes from the Union, Rulon enlists, and finds himself
fighting foes both in battle and in his own camp. He struggles to stay
alive against all odds, with a knife-wielding tent-mate and a Union
army that seems impossible to defeat. It will take every ounce of
vigilance he has to survive and, with a little luck, he might make it
home to his wife and the son he’s never seen.

Forced to live with her parents for the duration, Mary faces a battle
for independence. With a mother whispering that her husband won’t come
home to her and a son who needs her to be both father and mother, Mary
has to dig deep for strength to overcome her overwhelming loneliness
and the unknown future ahead.

Separated by war and circumstance, Rulon and Mary discover that not
all enemies wear the Union blue.


Rulon saw the bend in the road ahead where lay the turnoff to a lane that he could find on the

darkest of nights. At the end of the lane, his family would be going about their daily tasks,

perhaps thinking about him, perhaps not. He cleared the bend in the road and reined the horse

into the wide path. He had to be quick. Harrisonburg wasn’t far away, as the crow flies, but he

would need most of the time left of the day to make the trip on horseback.

Julianna saw him first when she turned from feeding the hogs. “Rulon!” his younger sister

shouted, then dropped her pails and ran toward him, braids flying, spindly legs showing beneath

her swirling skirt, skinny arms outstretched to him.

He dismounted before she reached him and caught her in his arms, noting the tears streaking her


“Why are you goin’ to fight?” The anxiety in her voice caused it to come out high and thin, and

he hugged her tighter than before.

“Our country needs me,” he answered, muffling his answer against her sunbonnet.

“What if you die?” she wailed.

He couldn’t reply. When he raised his head to take a last look around the place, Ma was there

with Marie beside her, their grave faces bringing a lump to his already tight throat.

Then Albert, the mischievous scamp, came running down the lane, with Pa and the rest of the

boys walking behind him. Ben was the only one missing. They had made their farewells in town.

He had to hug them all, even Pa. Then Ma began a prayer, and they quit their hats, joined hands

right there in the lane, and listened to her heartfelt plea for a short war and safety for the troops.

As Ma spoke the “amen” and the family joined in, Rulon was reminded that he hadn’t left Mary

with a prayer. Mayhap he should have, instead of bedding her one last time. Devotion to God

should be in their marriage, as it was in his parents’ union, he reminded himself. As he climbed

on the horse, he pledged that he would be a better husband when he got the chance. If I get the



Marsha Ward was born in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, in the southwestern United States; and grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. She became a storyteller at an early age, regaling her neighborhood friends with her fanciful tales during after-school snacks. Her love of the 19th Century Western era was reinforced by visits to her cousins on their ranch, and listening to her father’s stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the southern part of Arizona.

Over the years, Marsha became an award-winning poet, writer and editor, with over 900 pieces of published work, including her acclaimed novel series featuring the Owen family. She is the founder of American Night Writers Association, and a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. A workshop presenter and writing teacher, Marsha makes her home in a tiny forest hamlet in Arizona. When she is not writing, she loves to spoil her grandchildren, travel, give talks, meet readers, and sign books. Visit her at either her website or one of her blogs!

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Jenifer Ruff’s exquisitive writing style


Nobody is perfect, they say. Well, Brook is determined to achieve perfection whatever it takes. Whatever, literally. As Jenifer Ruff did whatever she has to do in order to create a great psychological thriller with a dark finale as chilling as the blizzard that strikes New Hampshire at the end of the book.

Jenifer Ruff’s writing style is exquisite. I didn’t know she’s a debut author until I checked her Amazon page. Everett is her first novel but it’s like been written by an experienced author. All characters are well drawn, with their advantages and disadvantages, which we get to learn gradually. Each scene in the book is well described, that well I felt like I was in the middle of that blizzard trying to find my way through the snow and the wind.

I enjoyed very much reading this book and now I have to wait for the next one to discover what happens next and if justice will be served.

If you like reading psychological thrillers, practicing yoga and eating healthy, this book is highly recommended to you!

My rate: 4,5*

Everett on Amazon

Everett on Goodreads