tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63513117184048684092024-02-15T03:44:09.971-06:00Sundown PressWelcome to SUNDOWN PRESS (SP), a publishing company devoted to publishing fiction and non-fiction works of all lengths!Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-7999701995058779202021-12-15T01:00:00.002-06:002021-12-15T01:00:00.192-06:00New Release — Wary Partners by J. L. Guin <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilm56t4TXQf7e3SNwu4TVsU3-EqcoPJVM7fZEgQuMdHKmouGIJtr9nGP93uSEX9CapgZvRLiRsF8RfGr9Do9JvEe6TQIqpTzg9tjC-Tu24KJpjrkYPBVEateQogH2K_7eWw7WVnciZIPRVyZWBWvBjaKV2aOVah3teMGpSPxpQ-wKRKEuiPkXOY_mN8g=s600" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilm56t4TXQf7e3SNwu4TVsU3-EqcoPJVM7fZEgQuMdHKmouGIJtr9nGP93uSEX9CapgZvRLiRsF8RfGr9Do9JvEe6TQIqpTzg9tjC-Tu24KJpjrkYPBVEateQogH2K_7eWw7WVnciZIPRVyZWBWvBjaKV2aOVah3teMGpSPxpQ-wKRKEuiPkXOY_mN8g=s320" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; text-align: start;">When Larry Creed shoots and kills a man in a saloon altercation, his father hires bounty hunters Judd Jacoby and Faye McJunkin to help prove his innocence. But with a saloon full of witnesses and Creed holding the smoking gun when the law arrives, the case seems to be open-and-shut.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; text-align: start;">Thomas Creed will not allow his son to go to prison—or hang—for something he knows he didn’t do. Larry is not a murderer. Can Thomas Creed convince Judd and Faye to take the case? There is one witness who has fled—a soiled dove, Lanie Brooks. She holds the key to Creed’s son being convicted of murder—or going free.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; text-align: start;">As Judd and Faye set off in search of Lanie, Creed tags along with them, determined to see his son gets a fair shake. Everything depends on Judd and Faye tracking Lanie down and convincing her to come with them to testify—or bringing her with them by force. Armed and desperate, Lanie could prove to be a bigger challenge than they ever expected.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; text-align: start;">Will Larry Creed hang for a crime he might not have committed? His life hangs in the balance, based on his father’s determination and the bounty hunters’ skill. How long can Lanie run from these</span><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-weight: 700; text-align: start;"> WARY PARTNERS?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-weight: 700; text-align: start;"><i>EXCERPT</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 700; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #0f1111; line-height: 105%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The other man,
also wearing a badge, stepped behind Larry and stuck the barrel of his six-gun
into Larry’s kidneys, while the red-bearded man snatched Larry’s pistol from
the surprised youth’s fist. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #0f1111; line-height: 105%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When Larry twisted
to protest, the man behind him slammed the butt of his six-gun to the back of
Larry’s head. Larry toppled to lie on the floor. A moment later, the officers
cuffed his hands behind his back. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #0f1111; line-height: 105%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The beefy
deputy then talked to the bartender and several of the bystander witnesses for
a few minutes. No one mentioned Lanie Brooks by name, only that a girl, a
soiled dove, was nearby when the shooting happened, but had now disappeared. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #0f1111; line-height: 105%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Each of the deputies
grabbed Larry by a shoulder and dragged him out of the saloon, more or less
carrying the youth to the jail, a half-block away.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09NC89JQ9&asins=B09NC89JQ9&linkId=e4d0eb14de823bfc695456a494c6ef82&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: georgia; text-align: start;"> </span><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09NGV7WXH&asins=B09NGV7WXH&linkId=f7b2c1bd7e863e530b3d78217515d25f&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></div></span></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-34320781094655444222021-12-08T01:00:00.001-06:002021-12-08T01:00:00.166-06:00New Release - Tahoe Destiny (A Will Toal Novel Book 4) by J. L. Crafts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj99KfThusxmHBUJf5uyq-Zj_JXFEOcbSlzl8dSTRvS-rpzk2SO9iclL9J2mQvBv_Xgl7QWVeKVf-vAnFbM_YrZZu9KAKmbjqrGFB6X5kZvvGpicxZ4AejRrUmWRcq8OambBDdXYe5r03EffTS_kfIUml-SEKlHa5gzJGFRfskgw6Gjg2OXlr9KUy398A=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj99KfThusxmHBUJf5uyq-Zj_JXFEOcbSlzl8dSTRvS-rpzk2SO9iclL9J2mQvBv_Xgl7QWVeKVf-vAnFbM_YrZZu9KAKmbjqrGFB6X5kZvvGpicxZ4AejRrUmWRcq8OambBDdXYe5r03EffTS_kfIUml-SEKlHa5gzJGFRfskgw6Gjg2OXlr9KUy398A=w213-h320" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><div aria-expanded="true" class="a-expander-content a-expander-partial-collapse-content a-expander-content-expanded" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">Nevada rancher Will Toal is left with no alternative but to move his cattle to his northern lands to save them. With a prolonged drought dropping his animals in their tracks, he’s about to lose everything—along with his fellow neighboring ranchers of southern Carson Valley.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />But moving that many cattle north where the Truckee River flows from Lake Tahoe brings a long-simmering feud with opposing formidable forces in California to the boiling point over water rights. They’ll do whatever it takes—even commit murder for hire—to protect the flow of water for their own needs.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The bitter fight over Tahoe water runs deep. In desperate need of a new water source, California has dammed the Truckee to generate that water supply for San Francisco, with no thought for the Nevada ranchers. In an un-winnable battle, California, Nevada, railroad and lumber barons, ranchers, and politicians are pitted against each other. Guns are drawn… and fingers are on the triggers.</div><div aria-expanded="true" class="a-expander-content a-expander-partial-collapse-content a-expander-content-expanded" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">Though Will tries to distance himself, he’s inexorably pulled in, unable to turn his back on his fellow ranchers. There has to be an alternative—but this potential powder keg is ready to blow at any moment. Can anyone save Tahoe? The battle rages, and once again, bullets fly. Is there any hope for a peaceful <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;">TAHOE DESTINY</span>?</div><div aria-expanded="true" class="a-expander-content a-expander-partial-collapse-content a-expander-content-expanded" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 20px; position: relative;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></div><div aria-expanded="true" class="a-expander-content a-expander-partial-collapse-content a-expander-content-expanded" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 20px; position: relative;"><p class="Style1" style="line-height: 97%;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">August 1877<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Style1" style="line-height: 97%;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jack’s Valley, Nevada</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 97%;"><span style="line-height: 97%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
animal trembled, legs shaking as it reached down into one of the many small rivulets
that cut through the grasslands. Sharply carved sides of the small streams
jabbed straight sided into what usually was soft dark dirt. But the dirt was
not moist. It was not dark. The rivulet was dry, full of nothing but dust.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 97%;"><span style="line-height: 97%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With
the utmost effort, the steer spread its front legs to drop its head and nose
below the normal level of the turf. The beast lowered all the way to the base
of the natural sluice in anticipation of a watery reward. Its brain, though
markedly limited, kept accurate memories of kin, herd, food and water, but not
much else. It had come here pushed by a stored recollection that it would find
something to drink. Survival was simple and water was necessary for survival.
But the effort was for naught. The animal’s head lifted out of the empty
streambed. With a heave of resignation from its lungs, a bovine version of a
sigh, its legs gave way. It buckled onto its side in acceptance of its fate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 97%;"><span style="line-height: 97%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Will
Toal watched from atop his gray mustang Powder, as the steer collapsed. That
was his beef. He now counted nine steers that had collapsed in the last few
days. It was only August. He gazed up, lifting his hat off his head to wipe
away a bead of sweat from his brow. Still early morning and already getting hot
again. Would it not end? Nine steers…he had to do something.</span><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 97%; text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09MZNK576&asins=B09MZNK576&linkId=b43eed94f98314ed4fd13f751ba5f74a&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09MYTN3LK&asins=B09MYTN3LK&linkId=e267cc50149e04f2179e65ffab638efd&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe></p></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-43934970881181458042021-10-27T01:00:00.005-05:002021-10-27T11:10:40.716-05:00New Release — Blood and Gold: The Legend of Joaquin Murrieta by Jeffrey J. Mariotte and Peter Murrieta<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZr_8_CAEb_A4a3FFEMNHegAXZ_p9NLzCdWUuY4bVT8fAQ-opQYTUAk1yIAGMWq0R0nlvL64OcpESMxZ6uZroFxi07GSgF_t2-hW6K5hSPE2Gvows9jwkSHo9PSvjmZjK2WqQIjF6gKtQW/s614/Blood+and+Gold_+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZr_8_CAEb_A4a3FFEMNHegAXZ_p9NLzCdWUuY4bVT8fAQ-opQYTUAk1yIAGMWq0R0nlvL64OcpESMxZ6uZroFxi07GSgF_t2-hW6K5hSPE2Gvows9jwkSHo9PSvjmZjK2WqQIjF6gKtQW/s320/Blood+and+Gold_+Web.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="color: #26282a;">Gold Camps of California—1850s<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="color: #26282a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;">When Joaquin Murrieta’s older brother and cousin head for
the riches of the California gold fields, he cannot resist the restless desire
to follow. In a bold move, he convinces Rosita, the young woman he loves, to
run away with him under cover of darkness. They follow the irresistible lure of
the future they might grasp for their own in America, the land of dreams. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;">Instead, they face deep prejudice and explosive violence
that leads to unspeakable tragedy, and forces Joaquin to set his sights on
being a leader of men—becoming a legend, in the process. To make a place for
himself and his people, he strikes back at the whites and the devastating,
perpetual hatred they feel toward the Mexicans. Determined not to fail, to
carve out a place in this vast land for himself and his followers, Joaquin
Murrieta fights back with a stubborn will that is sure to win all…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;">But can he succeed? With his band of outlaws—and then, an
army of patriots—he is determined to drive the Americans from the land that had
so recently belonged to his beloved Mexico. It seems an almost unattainable
achievement to some, but Joaquin cannot consider failure in this obsession. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;">With Joaquin’s brother murdered, and his band of
renegades on the run, they must make their final stand and face Murrieta’s evil
nemesis—cruel California Ranger Harry Love—who has been given carte blanche to
do whatever it takes to kill Murrieta and drive his followers out of California
for good. As the battle rages in a final showdown between Love and Murrieta,
it’s kill or be killed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;">Only one of them can walk away from <b>BLOOD AND GOLD…</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #26282a;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWpz6kq95R3UEmHAelr_LP9IS4j7o1reL2YkUMAD8PLxO7JaA3bXtlsnbSnKoVB-4TSo3Xm7DghVxuOpwncQeg9_aUn12bIMYVE7AE4a1vFNPRNsKyOt_B-OFS0GrxSbXNkHX466UNKQD/s3060/Divider+4++PNG.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="135" data-original-width="3060" height="14" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWpz6kq95R3UEmHAelr_LP9IS4j7o1reL2YkUMAD8PLxO7JaA3bXtlsnbSnKoVB-4TSo3Xm7DghVxuOpwncQeg9_aUn12bIMYVE7AE4a1vFNPRNsKyOt_B-OFS0GrxSbXNkHX466UNKQD/s320/Divider+4++PNG.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #26282a;"><i>In BLOOD AND GOLD, award-winning author Jeffrey J. Mariotte and acclaimed TV producer/writer Peter Murrieta have joined forces to create a compelling blend of history, legend, and folklore. BLOOD AND GOLD is more than a richly detailed examination of the life and dangerous times of legendary California bandit Joaquin Murrieta. It's also a colorful, entertaining novel full of passion, violence, and adventure, a splendid retelling of those days in early California when men and women would do anything for gold.</i></span></p><p style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="color: #26282a;">— James Reasoner, NY Times bestselling author</span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09HL81YT9&asins=B09HL81YT9&linkId=9ec07733681866c0037f9c1932dd00cc&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=0578989492&asins=0578989492&linkId=aa1b2778642ec953048a92c254a52b69&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><br /></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-28924369585367027202021-10-06T01:00:00.002-05:002021-10-06T01:00:00.311-05:00New Release - Gypsy Rock by Robert D. McKee <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeUerbC-dObI_1uKL47qHOXzvH74QlLDfqi_IgbWRyzWyvWmuwzP0AOC7FTc1LSysvuYgPo9AkOQN3IP-gFHh-_XdNNk5z6c37W26Ltk78QdVY66A7sFDOsLQJB_KFmxa_Sf8k0tRIT4w/s600/Gypsy+Rock+RDMcKee+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeUerbC-dObI_1uKL47qHOXzvH74QlLDfqi_IgbWRyzWyvWmuwzP0AOC7FTc1LSysvuYgPo9AkOQN3IP-gFHh-_XdNNk5z6c37W26Ltk78QdVY66A7sFDOsLQJB_KFmxa_Sf8k0tRIT4w/s320/Gypsy+Rock+RDMcKee+Web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div> <i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Central Wyoming—1892</span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wyoming Territory is the kind of land where a man can
make a life for himself, but it can be just as easy to take the outlaw trail as
to do the right thing…easier, sometimes.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Deputy Hugo Dorling is determined to take the hard
way—and stand up for justice, no matter how rough things might get. In the
midst of the vast grazing lands and the discovery of precious metals, greed
abounds, and there are a few who will commit murder to take what they want.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But Deputy Dorling isn’t alone in his fight. Twenty-year-old
Billy Young stands with him through it all. Billy has suffered losses, and
views the grizzled deputy as the family he no longer has. His loyalty runs deep
for his mentor and friend.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">When one evil act sets off a chain of events that
spirals downward culminating in dozens of brutal deaths, Billy is determined to
join Hugo Dorling in the almost insurmountable fight against the hate and
prejudice that envelopes Gypsy Rock and the entire community. But the
corruption and brutality runs much deeper than Hugo or Billy realize, and the
only people they can trust are one another. When guns blaze, will either of
them be able to survive the showdown at <b>GYPSY ROCK?</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Seems to me,” said Hugo, “any
fella who’s been living in the middle of Wyoming since he was four years old
oughtta be able to handle the crisp climate better than you do.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Billy shrugged. “Pa always said
I had thin blood. He figured that’s the way some folks’re built.” Billy pulled
his blanket tighter around his shoulders.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hugo spread the two long tails
of his heavy duster and plopped down, too. He brushed his bushy mustache away
from his lips and dug out his tobacco and papers. “I kinda like the chilly
months myself,” he said. He rolled a thin, tight cigarette as he spoke. “Folks
get into less mischief when the air’s a little on the frigid side, which tends
to make my job some easier.” He struck a match, and as he lit his smoke, he
cupped his hands to protect the blaze from the wind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Maybe you should explain your opinions
on cold weather and crime to Mr. O’Dell,” Billy suggested. No matter the
season, Ben, his brother Thatcher, and their gang of ruffians were eager to
cause trouble. “Killing an old woman just because she’s a Gypsy sounds like
mischief to me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well,” Hugo said as he flicked
away the spent match, “Benjamin O’Dell is worse than most.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09H9GC72H&asins=B09H9GC72H&linkId=cc54a041260d9607b745077a15014913&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09HFXXDSF&asins=B09HFXXDSF&linkId=0d8af867b6bbaf4730c679ccb25a1b50&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><br /></div><p></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-79525136534152066632021-09-22T01:00:00.002-05:002021-09-22T01:00:00.239-05:00New Release - Clear Cut Justice by J.L. Crafts (A Will Toal Novel Book 3)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjhX93sAIfWuTFNYkityuaaOXozf4vMKryKWzKdMQej_Bhe4z_OLu1QbK95iOAmnhHpgzCFeilM60WsHfZ6Gt0_oUWxUNDLfEOgKORdvIMuvCksoQQHZYsXGcjemKhS2Iw57KueQFs5yf/s2048/ClearCut_CVR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjhX93sAIfWuTFNYkityuaaOXozf4vMKryKWzKdMQej_Bhe4z_OLu1QbK95iOAmnhHpgzCFeilM60WsHfZ6Gt0_oUWxUNDLfEOgKORdvIMuvCksoQQHZYsXGcjemKhS2Iw57KueQFs5yf/s320/ClearCut_CVR.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div>Spring 1876…</div><div><br /></div><div>When a bomb explodes in a sawmill near Glenbrook Harbor, the residents and businessmen on the shores of Lake Tahoe are left reeling. Will Toal and his wife, Beth, are caught in the deadly, fiery fragments of the devastating explosion, and Beth is severely injured. </div><div><br /></div><div>Will gets Beth to the doctor and sets out to find those responsible. Once again, he is drawn back into the crosshairs of business barons clashing among themselves while competing for economic and political clout amid the silver riches of the West. Will’s been in this position before in earlier days, but this time, the big company money is out to get him—and things just got personal. </div><div><br /></div><div>Will just wants those who hurt Beth brought to justice, but he must find out who’s responsible for setting that blast— the first of many to come, if he figures right. With the timber business leveling the forests around Lake Tahoe, and the silver mines clamoring for the necessary wood, the arsonists could be working for anyone. Those who don’t believe in the deforestation process will go to any lengths to save the woodlands, but those who need the jobs lumbering provides are just as determined.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a race against time, Will is forced to work with an old nemesis, private investigator Dale Paris, to try to stop the arsonists and save the sawmills from disaster. Can they stop the bloodshed? At any price, Will is determined to have <b>CLEAR CUT JUSTICE… </b></div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>EXCERPT</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“It’s so beautiful,” she said. So
clear, so untouched until they built those sawmills and sunk all the pilings.
And look at the slopes uphill. Those slopes once held a forest of pine trees.
Now, only a few small trees and saplings sprout here and there. It looks
stripped.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">Will replied as he closed his eyes,
“People say he destroyed the forest by clear cutting it. But Bliss told me he
leaves all trees less than twelve inches across because he knows he’ll have to
come back in a few years for more wood, and if he did cut everything he’d be
out of business,”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“He might think he is preserving some
part of the forest, but if you look around, it sure doesn’t seem like there is
any timberland left. Lots of people down in Carson City are not shy about
saying Bliss ruined Tahoe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“You’re right about that,” Will added.
“There are some who think the fires last year in two of the mills were started
on purpose by those who were mad about the logging.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">As if Will’s comment on fire called up
lurking powers of destruction, an explosion rocked the beach, the meadow and Glenbrook
House itself. To Will, it felt like the entire harbor moved. The violence and
upheaval was enhanced by the deafening sound. He jumped up, losing his hat, but
instantly noticing the mass of wood and metal pieces flying into the air amid
dark smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09FTJMBWG&asins=B09FTJMBWG&linkId=0fef3a522c796525c55e9c04b6a25731&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09GQJRGD8&asins=B09GQJRGD8&linkId=46c944d9427f93d8161137e883b9cca9&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><br /></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-83226628033820008802021-09-08T01:00:00.002-05:002021-09-08T01:00:00.220-05:00New Release - Out of the Darkness by Robert D. McKee<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYpOHvYAy5yB3CoJ4MmxVUi9TrGsRHKzrnDV_OKJ4tZ76NCIjqJkQCv9pUU8Nu9UwbcsB2Ost1Pl6FymgPR2-e0s0mPPHrSRvg5b97kcdI2FGMJj_7NIWBXciIr5txvnS-d04GVZFWHB3/s600/Out+of+the+Darkness+RDMcKee+2+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYpOHvYAy5yB3CoJ4MmxVUi9TrGsRHKzrnDV_OKJ4tZ76NCIjqJkQCv9pUU8Nu9UwbcsB2Ost1Pl6FymgPR2-e0s0mPPHrSRvg5b97kcdI2FGMJj_7NIWBXciIr5txvnS-d04GVZFWHB3/s320/Out+of+the+Darkness+RDMcKee+2+Web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div>Micah McConners returns to his hometown of Probity, Wyoming, to set up his law practice. He never dreams his best friend, Doctor Chester Hedstrom, will be his first courtroom case—and Micah will be defending him for a crime that could put him in prison for fourteen years!</div><div><br /></div><div>Doctor Hedstrom, bound by his moral convictions, has admitted to what he did—performed an illegal abortion on a young woman who has been raped. The perpetrator of the rape, Sonny Pratt, is the entitled son of a wealthy rancher—and he’ll go to any lengths to keep his freedom—even commit a murder or two.</div><div><br /></div><div>Can an inexperienced Micah defend the doctor well enough to exonerate him from the charges he faces and set him free? And can the citizens manage to survive the psychopathic vengeance that Sonny Pratt has begun to wreak on the town of Probity?</div><div><br /></div><div>As the tension builds to a shattering climax, the two friends must bring Sonny to justice, but at a terrible life-altering cost for both of them. Justice may be served in this frontier town, but can it bring them <b>OUT OF THE DARKNESS…</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><i>EXCERPT:</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Micah McConners had been back in
his hometown of Probity, Wyoming, less than fifteen minutes when the peaceful
afternoon was cracked open by a gunshot. He could tell it came from around the
corner on Main Street, so Micah, being curious, edged in closer to the
buildings and started in that direction. The second shot, though, brought him
to a stop. By the sound of it, the gunfire was getting closer, and his natural
curiosity began to drain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">It was August 1900, and central
Wyoming was mostly civilized. From time to time, a band of young Indians would
ride around the countryside raising a little havoc, and trains were robbed
often enough to cause the railroad barons back East some sleepless nights, but
the land's wildness, for the most part, had been tamed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Micah's father, John, used to
tell stories of the old days when about everyone wore a sidearm. During those
unruly times, gunfights in the streets were not uncommon, but now, times were
modern, and such things were rare. After all, it was almost the twentieth century.
Some wrongly believed the new century had begun on January 1, 1900, but Micah
knew it wouldn't really start for another four months.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">As Micah reminded himself that
times were less wild now than in his father's day, he heard a third shot, and
that pretty much took away whatever curiosity he had left. He decided it would
be wise to duck between the buildings until he could determine what was going
on. As that prudent thought came to mind, a riderless horse raced around the
corner at full gallop.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09DF78G7Y&asins=B09DF78G7Y&linkId=eca5ca1aefeb14663a0ef3a352a96497&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09FCHQZ6G&asins=B09FCHQZ6G&linkId=971371f2bf92a1ed80d3717dc3996d6d&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><br /></div></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-78571893783341920922021-08-18T01:00:00.001-05:002021-08-18T01:00:00.225-05:00New Release - Silver City Reckoning (A Will Toal Novel Book 2) by J. L. Crafts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr35WGDOF5aRpqT7EulO39BsnMn4MGd3SkWtls7q_hfiHEJv-Rhvl1gev1tBRtnzoZ7JWjKs4gWBLBzn_0ivLRYF2PfaziWMOIUUZqHEypVVzYOeGLnVTNM-Il5_N1YQRZHVJKVzHh69-B/s2048/Silver+City+Reckoning.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr35WGDOF5aRpqT7EulO39BsnMn4MGd3SkWtls7q_hfiHEJv-Rhvl1gev1tBRtnzoZ7JWjKs4gWBLBzn_0ivLRYF2PfaziWMOIUUZqHEypVVzYOeGLnVTNM-Il5_N1YQRZHVJKVzHh69-B/s320/Silver+City+Reckoning.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Will Toal’s sons have been kidnapped by Sam Brown, a brutal desperado who wants revenge for the death of his brother. When Will returns home from a business trip to discover his sons taken, his foreman murdered, and his woman, Beth, already gone after their boys, he heads out after them to set things straight.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">With a $25,000 ransom on his sons, Will has to think fast—he certainly can’t raise that kind of money. But help comes from an unlikely source—a man he’s never met, wealthy mine owner John Mackay. After helping Mackay save his mine and men from a devastating fire, Mackay offers to give Will the much-needed money to save his boys.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Just as things begin to look up for Will, he discovers that Brown has Beth, the woman he loves, the mother of his twin sons. Can he find Beth before Brown murders her? It’s a tall order for one man to face Brown and his evil henchmen, but for the first time, Will realizes he is not alone. He’ll do whatever it takes to protect his family, starting with killing Sam Brown.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">Hell is on the horizon. There will be a <b>SILVER CITY RECKONING…</b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><i>EXCERPT:</i></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The party passed the priest
without slowing or paying any heed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Roberts
looked at Brown again. “We’ve robbed banks, stages, and payrolls together. But
we’re headed out to a ranch where you’ve been told the guy you want dead is
gone on some job. Not sure I understand what we’re doin’ this for.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Brown
spoke in a low voice staring straight ahead. “Because he has to feel a loss. If
I just shot him from behind a rock out on some road, he’d never know the loss
I’ve felt since he killed Drake. Drake was my twin. Twins are special close. I
feel like a piece of me is missin’. This hillbilly rancher must feel a kind of heavy
loss first.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Killing
Toal with a rifle had some appeal that was not necessarily out of character for
Brown. Not as quick on the draw as his deceased brother, he confronted his
targets only on rare occasion. He preferred to surprise his prey when in a
position of superiority and they were either caught off guard or unarmed
altogether. But if he killed Toal with a rifle, the man would never know why
he’d been hunted, no less killed. Will Toal had to know and feel the loss. He
had to know the name of the man who’d cause the loss. Sam Brown. He’d know the
name.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09C53L6CK&asins=B09C53L6CK&linkId=7abf1184196fc036100f6f8a680ba383&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09CRN5PLF&asins=B09CRN5PLF&linkId=2319fa4882a7d0dbedaa181b172b53fe&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></p><b></b><p></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-47398924113035771262021-08-11T01:00:00.002-05:002021-08-11T01:00:00.240-05:00New Release - The Bounty Trail by Clay More<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1dpLrtZDC6ql9tdxpcV69r7NkWHlFXrLseQWo9J3A5bAOWQi-NwRtKPVuZlw2GcviCZ2BGHBrIaSO9sT5Ig-r_R6gqb4SpLieXCb1c-tDA67E679BW-RoDZFFMzswzXk05pvxesv294e/s2048/The+Bounty+Trail+KSouter.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1dpLrtZDC6ql9tdxpcV69r7NkWHlFXrLseQWo9J3A5bAOWQi-NwRtKPVuZlw2GcviCZ2BGHBrIaSO9sT5Ig-r_R6gqb4SpLieXCb1c-tDA67E679BW-RoDZFFMzswzXk05pvxesv294e/s320/The+Bounty+Trail+KSouter.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Doctor Marcus Quigley is a man of many talents. He’s a qualified dental surgeon, as well as a deadly bounty hunter. And he’s equally capable in both fields.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">For years, he’s been working his way west, always on the move. His reasons for choosing such a lifestyle are deeply personal, and he can’t pursue the kind of life he’d envisioned for himself until he finishes what he’s set out to do.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">A dear personal friend—his benefactress—was murdered years earlier, and he won’t stop until he’s found her killer. With few clues to go on, Marcus is sure he’ll know the man when he finds him—and he looks forward to the day when justice will be met. But in the end, will Marcus get his man? Or will the tables be turned in one last deadly gamble?</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">This collection of short stories follows him on every dangerous step of <b>THE BOUNTY TRAIL…</b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>EXCERPT:</b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Ted Brisby winced as his hand
went to his jaw and he tasted the fresh blood in his mouth. He glared at Doc Quigley
for a moment, then leaned to the side and spat into the spittoon that the dentist
had placed there in readiness just moments before he had relieved Ted of his
left lower back molar.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">“Ugly thing, isn’t it?” Doctor Marcus
Quigley asked rhetorically, holding up the offending tooth remnant between the
jaws of a pair of dental pliers. “No wonder you were in pain. This thing was
rotten to its very roots. Do you want it as a keepsake?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">“The hell I want it, Doc. The
durned thing has been near killing me for two weeks. Do whatever you want with
it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Marcus scrutinized it for a
moment. It was a dark yellow, almost brown at the top from years of tobacco
staining, and black in the center where the decay had eaten right down to the
nerves. There was nothing of the tooth that could be salvaged, so with a shrug
he dropped it in the spittoon.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09BP2L9DW&asins=B09BP2L9DW&linkId=2e041d739301f25290a5b53ca70169c3&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B09C3NFN31&asins=B09C3NFN31&linkId=2090949e2e47f01b09421c52e8d821a7&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><br /></p><b></b><p></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-73856161212749211982021-08-04T01:00:00.003-05:002021-08-04T09:34:07.902-05:00New Release — C.C. Crane: Bounty Distractions by J. L. Guin <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5My8D5FWMw3XjFH8dH3kEOL6sgK9PTkx9ukga0Plq0lvUZM0oAKczJWO-SJ5ciPMlQiA7KbesROu1U_3jEogWwKlc_3y3RNBmNm6VrayX6AxuxQplGPxld5yHvuDqJOyI0C06enHboNhu/s2048/C.C.+Crane+Bounty+Distractions.JGuin.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5My8D5FWMw3XjFH8dH3kEOL6sgK9PTkx9ukga0Plq0lvUZM0oAKczJWO-SJ5ciPMlQiA7KbesROu1U_3jEogWwKlc_3y3RNBmNm6VrayX6AxuxQplGPxld5yHvuDqJOyI0C06enHboNhu/s320/C.C.+Crane+Bounty+Distractions.JGuin.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Hoping for a better life ahead, young C. C. Crane leaves Arkansas and heads west with no particular destination in mind. In Kansas, he lucks into his first job as a deputy sheriff under the seasoned sheriff of Sumner County, E.D. Johns, who shows him the ropes—and how to keep himself alive.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">As their duties take them on a manhunt into Indian Territory, C.C. questions straying so far from their own county. Sheriff Johns is a dedicated lawman who isn’t about to let a border stop him from getting the men he’s after, and C. C. realizes he has the chance to make his own mark as a lawman if he can manage to keep dodging bullets.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">When the sheriff is ousted from his position, C.C. must face a crossroads, as well. He accepts the position as a deputy U.S. marshal under Judge Isaac Parker’s jurisdiction in the most lawless area of the United States—Indian Territory. Then, after three years of dealing with the worst criminals in the nation, C.C. knows he’s ready to use his skills in another area of law enforcement—bounty hunting.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">But C.C.’s decision to strike out after lifelong criminal Rudy Barrett could cut his bounty hunting days short—with a bullet. Barrett has been on the run since he was a teen, and he’s as mean as they come. With a long list of crimes to his credit—the latest a vicious murder—Barrett isn’t afraid of anyone. His reputation as a fast gun should have any lawman running scared…but not C.C. Crane. He’s learned from the best, and it’s time to bring Barrett to justice.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">C.C. Crane is just the man to do it…</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The elder Barrett hollered out,
“Rudy!” as he rode into the yard. Rudy apprehensively stepped out of the barn
as his father slid from his saddle, with a scowl on his face. The man busied
himself removing his belt from his trousers as he spoke.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">“I heard in town you was seen
last night going through the pockets of a fallen-down drunkard, behind The
Three Aces Saloon. Milt Ames told me. He’s the one that seen you do it! You
know better than to steal—been told so time and time and time again, but still,
you sneak around and do it anyway!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Rudy swallowed hard. He had done
it, alright, but was surprised and unaware that anyone had seen him. He had believed
that he would never be caught. Rudy often waited until his father had passed
out from the cheap rot gut whiskey he swigged, seemingly constantly, then stole
into town, sticking to the shadows, watching for any opportunity to sneak food
or anything of value into his pockets. He had become quite good at it, and had
a few dollars stashed away secretly. Now that he’d been observed and his old
man knew, there’d be hell to pay.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B099WJKBX1&asins=B099WJKBX1&linkId=3b435f86eb78a1a9373d6be4b76540c9&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B09BLGJJQ6&asins=B09BLGJJQ6&linkId=b84d70fc43a0e4e29c485e240de5617c&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-30654329273335384152021-06-09T01:00:00.002-05:002021-06-09T14:24:27.043-05:00New Release - RAILROADED (A Will Toal Novel) by J.L. Crafts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQzvKMeXYd7FoJUgzgWJS_-xvonN0AwpVsdmKEck-tGTSFi0Dd2F8Iwrwe6k0QwJxHNZB33tbS85fvMCANWD3Ig8i0bktm-_cspRFuzSuVK_p93-lbgcROJWC_ucbVaerL4WcREMQmfhF/s2048/Railroaded+JCrafts+Final+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQzvKMeXYd7FoJUgzgWJS_-xvonN0AwpVsdmKEck-tGTSFi0Dd2F8Iwrwe6k0QwJxHNZB33tbS85fvMCANWD3Ig8i0bktm-_cspRFuzSuVK_p93-lbgcROJWC_ucbVaerL4WcREMQmfhF/s320/Railroaded+JCrafts+Final+2.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>Will Toal has seen a lot of the world in his twenty-three years, including war, the death of his family, and the loss of everything he owns. The gold his father left him, buried in the family graveyard, provides hope for a new future. He is determined to leave Georgia and the past behind him, and start fresh in Carson Valley, at the base of the mountainous Sierra Nevada bowl cradling Lake Tahoe.</p><p>But here, Will comes up against a Goliath he never expected—Washington’s support of San Franciso capital and influence to finish the transcontinental railroad as soon as possible. Big business is backed by national pride and unbelievable monetary gain, and this means driving the railroad construction through the upper reaches of Carson Valley—no matter whose land stands in their way.</p><p>Untenable right-of-way disputes lead to a deadly gun battle between the railroad’s hired thugs and the Carson Valley ranchers who have homesteaded the Valley, but they are determined to stand their ground—or die on it.</p><p>Will and his fellow ranchers must try to survive the indomitable forces and insurmountable odds against them, fueled by more greed for power and money than they could ever have imagined. Can a compromise be reached in the completion of the grandest engineering effort the country has ever undertaken in its history, or will the ranchers and Will find themselves <b>RAILROADED</b>? </p><p><b>EXCERPT</b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">1868 Late Winter</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><i style="text-indent: 0in;">Toal Ranch near Carson Valley, Nevada</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i>Will Toal had pulled up his
boots and they had just hit the floor when he heard the shot. He stopped and
held absolutely still. He knew the sound from the war—it was from a good
distance. Sharp reverberations could bounce off the mountains for miles, but he
could tell from the sound and direction it was still on his land. He had filed
his homesteaded almost two years ago now. But the land agent in Carson City had
held up the final paperwork. He had a meeting soon to try and finalize its
purchase and get clear title. His ranch covered a full three thousand acres. It
might take the better part of a day to get to the source, but guns going off on
his land rarely signaled a good thing.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">With that one simple sound, his
day’s plans changed. Now, instead of working new horses, he was going to head
out and see what tracks he could find in the dirt. Hopefully, the dry soil
would tell him a story of what had happened; it usually did.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B095RZ32X2&asins=B095RZ32X2&linkId=7ca9400d9d5e9255866552a4cc56ee54&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B096TWBBJR&asins=B096TWBBJR&linkId=11478c381fa49518717b677c87759063&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe></p><p></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-23670652889701331442021-05-26T10:36:00.001-05:002021-05-27T15:28:52.677-05:00New Release — Stagecoach Justice by James Ciccone<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xTEwKH6xY8k02gyfNv8I8jdA1XHEK4DBJogfmJGb2YAN7s2lgmh7bO9_Vm4ImLTRomA1wRIknXkK3Lf0oS7G_KQuW0J2R_fupX-mSbxxGiLjnzcjEGfFhzstFflENt0VQgQ-butQNXZY/s600/Stagecoach+Justice+JCiccone+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xTEwKH6xY8k02gyfNv8I8jdA1XHEK4DBJogfmJGb2YAN7s2lgmh7bO9_Vm4ImLTRomA1wRIknXkK3Lf0oS7G_KQuW0J2R_fupX-mSbxxGiLjnzcjEGfFhzstFflENt0VQgQ-butQNXZY/s320/Stagecoach+Justice+JCiccone+Web.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>My name is Mary Fields. I was born into slavery, but I’m a free woman now—and when I say “free” I mean it in every sense of the word. I do what I want—I smoke cigars, drink whiskey, and fight better than any man in Montana Territory, white or colored. </p><p>Some say I have no rights because I’m colored—an ex-slave. But even white women don’t have the right to follow my habits. Being colored is only a small sliver of it—being a woman is the main part that holds us back. And that is just what I intend to change. They call me a pioneer for women’s rights, but shouldn’t every person have the opportunity to live their life the way they choose…including women? </p><p>I’ve held off wolves, carried the mail, and I love baseball. I’ve helped open and run a mission for young Crow women, and I’ve gotten falling-down drunk. I can hitch a team faster and better than any man alive. I’ve been accused of having “crass behavior” more times than I can count. When they see me coming, they shake their heads and mutter, “One stagecoach, one shotgun, and two hundred pounds of bad attitude.”</p><p>They aren’t wrong. I’m “Stagecoach” Mary Fields, and I’ve lived my life the way I wanted to. All women should be able to do the same. I’m a fighter, and this is my lifelong battle—I will do whatever it takes to bring equality to this old world. This is the story of how I lived and died—and brought my own brand of STAGECOACH JUSTICE to the wild Montana Territory…</p><p><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></p><p>I could brawl, smoke, curse, drink whiskey, hitch a team of horses, fend off wolves, bandits and robbers, shoot a shotgun, draw a pistol, tend to the sick and needy, and do a whole host of other things better than any man, white or colored. Why should anyone be allowed to pretend other-wise? The rancher was only the latest man to see things my way. The nasty disposition had everything to do with the trouble I had come through in life.</p><p>I respected Mr. Lincoln, and I had a habit of cursing and insisting on equal treatment for women in public. I won-dered if any of the ranchers in Cascade were Republicans and felt the same way. I doubted it. They were probably Copperheads. Either way, I was sure they would have no problem respecting a punch in the nose.</p><p>By the age of thirty-two, I was no longer regarded as mere inventory on a slave master’s ledger in Hickman Coun-ty, Tennessee. Mr. Lincoln had seen to that. Having been born into slavery at or near 1832, 1833 or 1834, there was no clear record of my birth other than a journal entry listing me as estate property. So, I could not have said that bad luck began for me at birth, because I had no idea when I was born. And there were no records to help me figure it out ei-ther, no photographs, no certificates, no writings of any kind, nothing. My suspicion, though, was that bad luck had begun for me on the day I was born into slavery.</p><p>I had no experience with any other institution or lifestyle other than the one that had given me bad luck from the start, but I was determined to try to change. Thanks to Mr. Lincoln, I was finally free, free and flat broke.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" height:240px="" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B095L5M1ZF&asins=B095L5M1ZF&linkId=e7a9b3e39f64196d94ceaa1d3740ed50&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" width:120px=""></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B095L5M1ZF&asins=B095L5M1ZF&linkId=e7a9b3e39f64196d94ceaa1d3740ed50&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-41620556491555956602021-05-05T01:00:00.001-05:002021-05-05T01:00:00.229-05:00New Release - Twelve Days in the Territory by J. R. Lindermuth<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAi4umoVlQeYX8rYHYi_nUztytUIGBG-CiuvYYqIJcClTrElfq1GqgMoAQ4ROHIfJ8ybUy0BzFIoFaZWUa6GGEzovd_MxEMEjHA2W0dz4kT3lEOuNO6SAsWZ8SgTDXqf2y1h0yL8m_gYjW/s600/Twelve+Days+in+the+Territory+JRLindermuth+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAi4umoVlQeYX8rYHYi_nUztytUIGBG-CiuvYYqIJcClTrElfq1GqgMoAQ4ROHIfJ8ybUy0BzFIoFaZWUa6GGEzovd_MxEMEjHA2W0dz4kT3lEOuNO6SAsWZ8SgTDXqf2y1h0yL8m_gYjW/s320/Twelve+Days+in+the+Territory+JRLindermuth+Web.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>When Martha Raker is abducted and her father murdered in a robbery, her uncle, the sheriff of the town, heads out in pursuit. The only man who volunteers to help is a greenhorn— the mild-mannered schoolteacher, Will Burrows. </p><p>As the outlaws flee into Indian Territory with their captive, Sheriff Gillette is doubtful of Will’s suitability to be of any real help—but Will is insistent. Though the young man harbors his own doubts about himself—and his fears of what is sure to befall Martha at the outlaws’ hands—he loves her, and he is determined to save her.</p><p>Martha is a strong-willed young woman, and she is confident in the belief she will not be abandoned by the man she loves, or by her uncle. She steadfastly finds ways to outwit the outlaws, but when they are bested by another outlaw gang, she must try to find a way to survive.</p><p>The fight for Martha’s safe return eclipses everything else, even Sheriff Gillette’s own sense of bringing justice to the man who has first abducted her. As the lawmen follow the trail of the renegades who now hold Martha, they are joined by some very unlikely help—men they can’t afford to turn away, but can’t afford to trust.</p><p><b>TWELVE DAYS IN THE TERRITORY</b> can be lifetime… </p><p><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b>:</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><i>Sunday,
September 4, 1887</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">A gunshot broke the silence of an early Sunday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">People still on their way home from church stopped, transfixed in their tracks, staring in the direction from which the sound seemed to come. Women already in their kitchens preparing dinner hurried to the nearest window. Other townspeople opened their doors and peered out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Sheriff Isaac Gillette left the cup of coffee he'd just poured sit on his desk as he stepped out of his office. Striding to the middle of the street, Gillette spied a trio of men who rushed from the general merchandise store owned by his sister's husband. They made for their horses as Martha, the sheriff's niece, struggled with one of them in the middle of the street. Martha screamed for help as the man forced her to mount a waiting horse, then climbed up behind her. His companions sprang onto their saddles and the gang pounded off in the opposite direction, headed out of town.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Shocked by what he witnessed, Gillette drew his pistol and shouted for them to halt. He rushed after them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">They'd left nothing but a cloud of dust behind by the time he reached the hitching post where their horses and a pack mule had been tethered. No longer a young man, Gillette panted, struggling to catch his breath, bent over, hands on his knees. Feet pounded on the ground behind him, accompanied by the shouts and calls of others attracted by the ruckus.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B0929FBTKP&asins=B0929FBTKP&linkId=a96d3d581821a07869535cacfa1aba5d&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B0943ZZ8TP&asins=B0943ZZ8TP&linkId=3136b870316f394cf4a92beaa1b07bb6&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><br /></div><p></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-19023213613090071092021-03-03T01:00:00.001-06:002021-03-03T01:00:05.304-06:00New Release GUNS OF THE WEST (Eight Classic Western Novels) Boxed Set 99 Cents<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmKvejYFx7VJp6IXE8XH9AVqF8N1BluxDk3u5Ly7D6hLyW4kl-tBwj_t9P63pI8LEsP2cCC0ILol3QStx5aw4ZUtWEmJcBDTgA-sVylWxe1me6qrchoMdoRc4QpiHYjLUL4UeT-0Fid-D/s1024/Guns+of+the+West+Box+Set.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="837" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmKvejYFx7VJp6IXE8XH9AVqF8N1BluxDk3u5Ly7D6hLyW4kl-tBwj_t9P63pI8LEsP2cCC0ILol3QStx5aw4ZUtWEmJcBDTgA-sVylWxe1me6qrchoMdoRc4QpiHYjLUL4UeT-0Fid-D/s400/Guns+of+the+West+Box+Set.jpg" /></a><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Are you ready to ride into the old west with EIGHT exciting tales of lawmen, outlaws, army scouts and range detectives? These stories are sure to have you cheering them on from your easy chair! Tracking down murderers, chasing bank robbers, and protecting beautiful women with checkered pasts from ruthless killers all await you in this fast-paced set of book-length stories from eight veteran western authors. Each and every one of these action-packed tales of the west is guaranteed to keep you enthralled and turning pages.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Ready to ride alongside an Arizona Ranger, or help out a Range Detective? Maybe you’d like to do some dangerous investigation of a long-ago fire, protect a friend or a lovely lady, or learn to ply your trade selling river whiskey. Come on along for the journey, where even a bank robber can become an unlikely hero! This hard-hitting action will carry you along to the hot dust of the Mexican border and as far away as the dangerous Dakota trails and Indian uprisings of the past. Put your brand on your own copy of <b>GUNS OF THE WEST</b> for eight solid western adventure you won’t soon forget!</p><h3 style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.24; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">THE SCARRED ONE—Tyler Boone<br />BORROWED GUNS—J.D. McCall<br />BUST OUT—W. M. Shockley<br />BLAKE’S RULE--J. R. Lindermuth<br />RIVER WHISKEY—J.L. Guin<br />LAST RIDE OF SHADOW BRIGGS—Sam Fadala<br />GUNS OF THE PRAIRIE—Kevin Crisp<br />DAKOTA TRAILS—Robert D. McKee</h3><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08XBGWP34&asins=B08XBGWP34&linkId=c03f8319a5e3eb28745169e006ccc43b&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><br /></div></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-29734492471355110402021-01-20T01:00:00.009-06:002021-01-20T01:00:03.782-06:00New Release - Desperate Ride: A Texas Ranger Will Kirkpatrick Novel by James J. Griffin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqSgjpN7xzVR6rw_76unZvAt75IkeYSmgLqvxHkI_g9KHOev7qr7SEqZbETxjBXDY05YPlodln17Tc8oFJ501jd5Ig33M1z_DdHV_pC485RwTNAJV1_86W7WRJBJGOzYXbNJV2tq6Gm0I/s600/DESPERATE+RIDE+James+Griffin+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqSgjpN7xzVR6rw_76unZvAt75IkeYSmgLqvxHkI_g9KHOev7qr7SEqZbETxjBXDY05YPlodln17Tc8oFJ501jd5Ig33M1z_DdHV_pC485RwTNAJV1_86W7WRJBJGOzYXbNJV2tq6Gm0I/s320/DESPERATE+RIDE+James+Griffin+Web.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">If you miss the Golden Age of Western action books and films, you’ll love James J. Griffin’s novel, Desperate Ride. This gun-slinging thriller leaps from the page and gallops headlong into a series of adventures for veteran Texas Ranger, Will Kirkpatrick, and his young Ranger recruit, Jonas Peterson.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Receiving orders to clean up a huge swath of west Texas, the Rangers begin encountering outlaws and renegades before they even reach the heart of the crime-infested range. In saloons, at camp, on steam trains and stage coaches, Will and Jonas face down bandits, fugitives, crooked lawmen and trigger-happy drunks in loads of tough, bloody excitement. Griffin’s meticulous research into Texas Rangers, weapons, geography and historical events lend authenticity to his rollicking style of story-telling. The author writes about rough riding as only an experienced horseman can. Hats off to Desperate Ride!</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26rHvLbhzcjFifSwq2QV_-jIrP3_Je9TQPouNUySR1WEc6MNqnEblpKXnQAJ0XcZFxZlMIuaMC3EcnPytrfqqv-WzlevWS83v7W5zLMSpZ4lFRCFIpfY3z7si-zhnvfhr2MbwcBmy59gw/s2048/DESPERATE+RIDES+James+Griffin.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a><div style="clear: left; display: inline; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; clear: left; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; padding: 1em 0px;">— Mike Blakely, Spur Award Winning Songwriter, Singer, and Author</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="clear: left; display: inline; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div style="clear: left; display: inline; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="clear: left; display: inline; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">Genevieve
was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, pain on her face. One of the other
women was with her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“Genevieve,
I’m sorry I had to do that,” Jonas said. “How bad are you hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“It’s
only a twisted ankle,” Madeleine, the woman with her, answered. “She’ll be just
fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“There
is no need to apologize, Jonas, <i>mon</i> <i>cheri</i>,” Genevieve assured
him. “If you had not shoved me aside, I would be dead. Is Judd—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“He’s
done for,” Jonas answered. “He won’t be bothering you anymore. Nobody else,
neither.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“Good.”
Genevieve spat at Hoover’s body. “He was a loco <i>cochon</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">Rose
had hurried from the front, and was now standing with Will. She was unfazed by
the carnage, worried only about her girls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">“What
started all this, Will?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;">Will
pointed his pistol toward Hoover’s body.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%; text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08RSQMSFB&asins=B08RSQMSFB&linkId=0ea86cae905d2b3cfe70edb1cba9052e&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 110%;"> </span><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08T8L1S36&asins=B08T8L1S36&linkId=1c3aca87f1854840f1a6ead91d0da0fc&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></p></div></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-36824161794047817922020-11-25T01:00:00.001-06:002020-11-25T01:00:01.135-06:00New Release — Killing Blood by Robert D. McKee <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt0D3CtpukYmv5pj7q-86kLUDxSYyahGf5xLMOLqcZrFpq7ytZ8ZU5G_yfgWPugJWcPUI6I0A4vkng59TKCy90j8adRgRg6UvO7eQLQjDdp_BPOhDFFXmrdIzC5fz9vLT6OiadnospW-M/s2048/Killing+Blood+RDMcKee+4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt0D3CtpukYmv5pj7q-86kLUDxSYyahGf5xLMOLqcZrFpq7ytZ8ZU5G_yfgWPugJWcPUI6I0A4vkng59TKCy90j8adRgRg6UvO7eQLQjDdp_BPOhDFFXmrdIzC5fz9vLT6OiadnospW-M/s320/Killing+Blood+RDMcKee+4.jpg" /></a></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">Billy Young boards a train with his brother, Frank, unaware that only one of them will survive the short, hell-bound ride. When a group of brutal outlaws led by a man called Blood begins to methodically shoot the passengers down, Billy finds a way to save himself with the sole purpose of avenging his brother’s death.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;">But as events unfold, in an unlikely twist, Billy discovers the outlaws are working for someone else—someone with much to gain from the deaths of certain people in the community. Frank’s murder sets Billy on the trail of the three men who changed his world forever—and he won’t stop until he finds every last one of them.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">Once he tracks them down, he’ll exact his vengeance—and it will be a pleasure. He’ll follow them to hell and back with one thing on his mind…<b>KILLING BLOOD!</b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><i>EXCERPT:</i></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">“How old are you, boy?” asked
the leader. As he came up from his seat, he folded his knife and dropped it
into his pocket.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The man who held the gun gave
Billy a yellow-toothed grin. His breath reeked of onion, but Billy’s spinning
brain only half logged that fact. “What?” Billy asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“I said, how old are you?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The man with the gun touched the
muzzle to a spot between Billy’s eyebrows. The rest of the passengers sat
silent and watched. At least they all watched except for Frank. Frank was a man
who was quick to sleep, and he had already nodded off.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Billy swallowed hard and said, “Nineteen,
sir.” He called the man “sir” because he figured being polite in this situation
couldn’t hurt. “I was born in seventy-two, and yesterday was my birthday. My
brother and I took this train ride down to Cheyenne to celebrate.” <o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal">The leader of the group lifted
the Colt from the holster on Billy’s hip. “Well, happy birthday, kid. If you
want to live to see another one,” he said, tucking Billy’s gun into his belt, “you
best do as you’re told.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08NYZ63GZ&asins=B08NYZ63GZ&linkId=7061a089f2544fc90632cef298746177&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B08NXYDM8L&asins=B08NXYDM8L&linkId=1467e3dad9f4ea0721cdd59583b0e4d6&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-24069688847239672842020-10-28T01:00:00.001-05:002020-10-28T01:00:03.901-05:00New Release — WESTERN DUO by J. L. Guin<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANId54A89H0vlOuGteTVHMQIWrHXtYyGmdukWXx1YYnnGPk27cDziB7Ufvv_6U0iKyY_fp-iCnLIe5LBNL-b1fsbDkSVrzbkIdObmJNY3loB9tgw0Fm341japJIVsKoAyZ5oHIXuK3f0J/s600/Western+Duo+JLGuin+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANId54A89H0vlOuGteTVHMQIWrHXtYyGmdukWXx1YYnnGPk27cDziB7Ufvv_6U0iKyY_fp-iCnLIe5LBNL-b1fsbDkSVrzbkIdObmJNY3loB9tgw0Fm341japJIVsKoAyZ5oHIXuK3f0J/s320/Western+Duo+JLGuin+Web.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>When “gun-handy” ex-lawman Jack Bonner begins to think about settling down, he’s approached by one last offer he can’t pass up. Three enterprising businessmen present a plan for him to schedule gunfights—with his opponent paying a fee for the privilege of fighting him! Seems like the perfect plan—good for the town businesses, good for publicity, and good for Jack’s pocketbook—if he doesn’t meet someone faster than he is. But as time wears on, there’s a shift in attitudes all around, and Jack begins to yearn for other things that don’t come easy for a <b>CROSSROADS’ FAST GUN…</b></p><p>Two Huntsville Prison inmates, Derrick Mulford and Harlan Cole, are released for “time served” in the hopes that they will lead lawmen to a strongbox filled with stolen gold from a robbery that happened many years before. Did the dying prisoner, Charlie Cruppe, accurately confess to them where the gold was hidden? Derrick begins to wonder if tracking down the fortune will be the death of them when he and Harlan are followed and held at gunpoint—are their lives worth finding the sister of the robber for her help? Only she knows the hiding place her brother described. Are they willing to die for <b>CHARLIE’S MONEY</b>?</p><p><i><b>EXCERPT</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">Joe Snipes set his beer glass
down and moved to take a gun shooter’s stance—legs spread shoulder width and
facing Jack. “I don’t like how you keep staring at me, mister!” he barked,
while pointing a bony finger at Jack.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jack took his own stance and
said, “It seems to me that you’re staring at me just like I’m looking at you.
It may be that we have business to discuss, so we might as well discuss it.
That’s if your name happens to be Joe Snipes.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Joe did not answer. Instead, he
made a move to draw his six-gun. Jack Bonner drew his .45 Colt in a fluid motion
and fired one shot that hit Snipes in the upper chest. Jack would have shot a
second time, but he did not want to kill Joe unless forced to do such—although
the reward offered stated dead or alive. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Joe accommodated by taking a
step back from the impact of the bullet and dropped his six-gun in the move,
then fell forward to lie face down on the floor.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When it appeared that Joe Snipes
was in no condition to further resist, Jack stepped over to the fallen man’s
side then picked up Joe’s six-gun and stuck it in his waistband. He rolled Joe
onto his back to assess the damage that the bullet had done. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jack had purposely shot high so
as not to lung-shoot the man. He would try to keep Joe alive in order to claim
the reward since he was unaware of how far it was to the nearest law office to
claim his prize. If the man died, he might become putrid before Jack could turn
his corpse in. Joe’s eyes remained closed, but he was breathing steadily. “Is
there a doctor in this town?” Jack asked to no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">The bartender came from behind
the bar to stand nearby. “No doctor in Crossroads,” the man replied. “Hell,
mister, you just shot that fella, now you want to save him?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08L89HKMK&asins=B08L89HKMK&linkId=5dee44038283cd08451bf906b0cf4311&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08M1XBXHF&asins=B08M1XBXHF&linkId=1117d57fe28ab2f7df87167785d1acb8&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><br /></p><p><br /></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-49039063649862189402020-09-23T01:00:00.002-05:002020-09-23T15:21:18.103-05:00New Release — DAKOTA TRAILS by Robert D. McKee<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN5Xg8NiY9cBkufd_FzMEHHuw4ygUh6mEgBnt3KeqipbaHJwRgFT8Z8MgT8huFNQpsy5hs37gttQ20_a7yhPx8r8CSVLCU53dmXCnK8p476FJsdB5rWdCBUG2mGc4Yy4Z6vu3Fbc3lQX3/s600/Dakota+Trails+RDMcKee+Web.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN5Xg8NiY9cBkufd_FzMEHHuw4ygUh6mEgBnt3KeqipbaHJwRgFT8Z8MgT8huFNQpsy5hs37gttQ20_a7yhPx8r8CSVLCU53dmXCnK8p476FJsdB5rWdCBUG2mGc4Yy4Z6vu3Fbc3lQX3/s320/Dakota+Trails+RDMcKee+Web.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">When beautiful Katie Burke offers
money to anyone who can best Neil Bancroft in a fight, he’s not sure he’s
hearing right. Neil has never laid eyes on the mystery woman – so why does she
want to see him beaten black and blue?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0in;">When Katie offers him a job—help her
find her husband’s cached gold—his curiosity is piqued even further, and he has
no choice but to follow her into the wilds of the Dakota Territory.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0in;">As they face murderous outlaws,
Indians, and come dangerously close to trading their lives for the treasure,
Neil realizes Katie has entranced him. He’s falling in love with her, and yet,
he doesn’t know who she really is. Her nebulous past is not what she’s led him
to believe it is…so how can he trust her? Yet, after all they’ve been through,
how can he not?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0in;">In a wonderful tale of western
mystery laced with edgy suspense and human longing, Neil and Katie discover
that the gold may not be as important to them as the hope of a beguiling future
together—if they can only survive the deadly danger of the DAKOTA TRAILS…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;">"Robert D. McKee weaves a thrilling
Western that keeps the reader guessing, and the pace drives readers through to
the end before they know it. I’m not personally partial to the Western genre,
but I could not put this book down. Neil and Katie are dynamic and fun
characters, and along the way the people they encounter truly bring the Wild
West alive in a historically accurate way. Dakota Trails is a wonderful blend
of Western, mystery, and romance."</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> <i>
</i></span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><i>— Historical Novel Society</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0in;">“Gold is where you find it. With his
debut Dakota Trails Robert McKee has not only spun gold into a delightful tale,
but beguiles us with his talent as an author. McKee's history is immaculately
researched—from the land, the people and places, McKee knows his business."</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> <i> </i></span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><i>—W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O'Neal Gear,
New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors of People of the Songtrail</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Neil was halfway into his first
beer when the woman from the corrals stepped through the saloon's open doorway.
As she crossed to the bar, Neil noticed she eyed him at the table where he sat.</p><p class="MsoNormal">"Excuse me, sir," she
said to Dick, the bartender. "Could I trouble you for a glass of
water?"</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">"Why—why, sure,
ma'am." Dick's awkward behavior made it obvious that except for the local
whores, he was unaccustomed to a woman coming into his saloon. He reached
beneath the counter, came up with a pitcher of water, and filled a tumbler. She
thanked him with a pretty smile and took a sip.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was still early, and the
place was not yet crowded. No more than a dozen men sat around the dimly lit
barroom, all of them with their mouths agape watching the young woman drink her
water.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal">She blotted her lips with an
index finger when she was finished, and then she turned her back to the bar and
looked out over the room. "Afternoon, gentlemen," she said. Everyone
stiffened, but no one said a word. "My name is Kathleen Burke. Katie
Burke." She patted a small pocketbook she carried. "In my purse, here,
I have a Liberty Double Eagle that I will give to any man who is willing to
knock that cowboy over there unconscious." She lifted her hand and aimed a
finger at Neil Bancroft.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08HX56FNL&asins=B08HX56FNL&linkId=042de948b6f6dbda9ae1e369323cfa38&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon®ion=US&placement=B08JVLBTH9&asins=B08JVLBTH9&linkId=d4503a48e789bdc81cb20bb913e2a3f0&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-2834613451264931982020-08-26T01:00:00.003-05:002020-08-26T01:00:03.663-05:00New Release—A Good Day To Die by James Ciccone<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUksIod6Lkq4OA82Pg1hCVVO1qQfy4Oi07eOBdn9U2JYjhegDFRp1OX7sKfsfrMRPLG58r0IATWK4dE-Lqp3a6stK_VYLuyuTPx6Kah7AexnpPknDk1ydI8Ox3wXEDdOIs0fv7JgUG90-N/s600/A+GOOD+DAY+TO+DIE+JCiccone+Web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUksIod6Lkq4OA82Pg1hCVVO1qQfy4Oi07eOBdn9U2JYjhegDFRp1OX7sKfsfrMRPLG58r0IATWK4dE-Lqp3a6stK_VYLuyuTPx6Kah7AexnpPknDk1ydI8Ox3wXEDdOIs0fv7JgUG90-N/s0/A+GOOD+DAY+TO+DIE+JCiccone+Web.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You don’t want to make me mad. I’ve got a lot of hate in me, and I am not afraid of one blessed thing in this life. I’m Crawford Goldsby—better known as Cherokee Bill—and if you think you’re the one to bring me to justice you’re wrong…dead wrong.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They call me a half-breed, but I killed my first man by the time I was twelve, and I never stopped. Why? Because I like killing—and I’m damn good at it. Indian Territory wouldn’t be the same without me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But this outlaw likes living, too, and when I rob that train carrying millions for a big payoff here in Indian Territory, I’ve got a plan to cut loose and run to South America—along with my fancy woman, Maggie.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Don’t get in my way. Indian Territory is mine. Oklahoma Territory is mine. If you cross me, your life is mine, too. I’m barely eighteen, and I can deliver a kill shot without even looking your way—yes, I’m that good.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Judge Parker can’t wait to get his hands on me over in Fort Smith. If he does, death by hanging will be end of me. Will Parker get his wish? We’ll see…I’ve gotten confident in my own abilities to escape. If he gets his way at last, he won’t see Cherokee Bill running scared.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I’ll look the bastard in the eye and say, “It’s A GOOD DAY TO DIE…”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">Our gang, the Cook gang, was a
ragtag assortment of homicidal maniacs, idiots, desperados, sexual perverts,
gamblers, debtors, horse thieves, and perennial losers. And we all liked
killing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">By the age of twelve, I had
already managed to quit school, drink liquor, hang out with outlaws, shoot and
kill a man, and gain an acquittal on a murder charge in open court. Admittedly,
that was quite an impressive start in life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">In 1894, stories about me
started hitting newspapers from as far away as New York and as close as the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Fort Smith Elevator </i>across the border
in Arkansas. Of course, the reporters didn’t get the stories straight or put my
real name out there, Crawford Goldsby. Instead, they used <i>Cherokee Bill,</i>
and got folks all riled up by putting out that I was an outlaw with no fear, a
robber on a reign of terror, a desperado at the same level of notoriety as Wild
Bill Hitchcock, Billy the Kid, Jesse James, Johnny Ringo, the Calico Cowboy,
and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. However, none of that was exactly true.
It was far worse. The truth was I was a kid of only eighteen, and my “reign of
terror with the law,” as they put it, was just getting started.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08DZT22XC&asins=B08DZT22XC&linkId=d608d8a7ac91617ed52ecf0c75615643&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08GLW8TMC&asins=B08GLW8TMC&linkId=6f7510bf9c27099f576778915af04797&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></div></div></div>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-72138521995726200992020-08-12T01:00:00.003-05:002020-08-12T01:00:02.656-05:00New Release -- RELUCTANT PARTNERS by J. L. Guin<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lX2hhZhfNJTp9P7yt9dJJNmyZC-FX5hCWSa1h3IQHu_WsCQr9CZ1BENLkjIhNTCL2-gxstDsKK9nI1U2FN5E-2UypLj89P5lC3VDk2iYEZua2hmB8oBXYFMJNcMEjujbkPOPpbOuOqSP/s600/Reluctant+Partners+JLGuin+3+Web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lX2hhZhfNJTp9P7yt9dJJNmyZC-FX5hCWSa1h3IQHu_WsCQr9CZ1BENLkjIhNTCL2-gxstDsKK9nI1U2FN5E-2UypLj89P5lC3VDk2iYEZua2hmB8oBXYFMJNcMEjujbkPOPpbOuOqSP/s0/Reluctant+Partners+JLGuin+3+Web.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>Bounty hunter Judd Jacoby has been doing things his own way for many years—up until now. He’s got a reputation for always bringing in the outlaw he’s after—and doing it alone. But when Judd is dealt a serious head injury, he’s reluctantly forced to accept a partnership with Faye McJunkin, a young woman he rescued when pursuing criminal Lonnie Sims.</p><p>When Judd and Faye track two ruthless bank robbers to a cabin, they must confront the men after dark. Faye comes up with a plan to get them in close proximity of the cabin door, but what might happen next is anyone’s guess—and the stakes are all or nothing. </p><p>As time goes by, Faye proves herself time and again, but can Judd accept needing an unwanted partner? If he doesn’t, will he have to give up bounty hunting entirely? There might be an unexpected, surprising solution to the unusual dilemma for both of these RELUCTANT PARTNERS…if they live long enough!</p><p><b><i>EXCERPT</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">It was
three days later when Sturgis paid Perkins a visit. He grinned when he came in
and sat down in a ladderback chair next to the bed where Perkins lay. “You're
looking better, Dan. Your coloring is starting to come back.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">Perkins
blinked his eyes open. “Hurts like hell, but the doctor left a bottle of some
foul-tasting stuff that I sip from time to time. It deadens the pain some but
mostly puts me to sleep again. I think I'd rather drink whiskey.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">Sturgis
laughed. “There will be plenty of time for that after you heal up. Did you
notice my new addition?” He leaned forward and took a hand to pinch up the
badge pinned to his shirtfront.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">Perkins
glared at the badge in astonishment. “What the hell is that?” Perkins knew that
Carl Sturgis was a reckless man, reckless with his own life and reckless with
the law. Together, they had been in enough tight scrapes for him to know that
Sturgis, as well as himself, were anything but honest men.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">“Why,
it's my badge! I'm the new marshal of Stanley, appointed by Mister Avery Belk,
unofficial mayor of the town. The badge and the job are legit, gives me
something to do while waiting for you to heal up enough to ride. Part of the
package he offered includes the care you receive, however long it takes. I get
a hotel room, all my meals, and forty dollars a month. On top of that, I have
free run of the town.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;">This
time, Perkins managed a grin. “Kinda like bringing a fox to watch the
chickens.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="" style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08DV7XLXS&asins=B08DV7XLXS&linkId=1acf89d7d3f530c7f933f42a57c10891&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe> <iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=httpliviajwac-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B08FKSHDPB&asins=B08FKSHDPB&linkId=fd3c8411924736d9bb4e91add1f13f67&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></p>Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-45771314411857539842020-06-10T01:00:00.000-05:002020-06-10T01:00:07.841-05:00New Release — DANGEROUS TRAILS by John D. Nesbitt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwszzE2XRGN0A5tm4-8k15915kad-bZhgrfpxjLeh7ezr9WqdTC_0BGTA3G6KQ0BlF8TIGrGdaS03V8L3xMXQxm6QhU-igf1YDQyELbANWRNKaNKqspI4mVKskHOgO0ezJlA87yXX8913o/s1600/Dangerous+Trails+John+D+Nesbitt+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwszzE2XRGN0A5tm4-8k15915kad-bZhgrfpxjLeh7ezr9WqdTC_0BGTA3G6KQ0BlF8TIGrGdaS03V8L3xMXQxm6QhU-igf1YDQyELbANWRNKaNKqspI4mVKskHOgO0ezJlA87yXX8913o/s320/Dangerous+Trails+John+D+Nesbitt+Web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 1.0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Saddle up and ride along with one of
the greatest western storytellers of our time, John D. Nesbitt, in this
outstanding collection of short stories. If you’re looking for tales of danger,
action, and adventure, these tales deliver—along with plenty of western
justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This anthology is a collection
of stories about men and women, guns and horses, wrongdoing and those who pay
the price—and will keep you wondering what’s around the next bend of these
DANGEROUS TRAILS…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-82559833303312809902020-01-22T08:52:00.000-06:002020-01-22T08:52:05.321-06:00New Release — Bennett’s County by Darrel Sparkman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCP3srWGK7WX5akQTnsaFUAW4dY47yidYPRXhLB2jPhqfstUEuk1wBtS29XF3uBpTBW7SUH1V-KcnuGudTwKvhYfqHCtIQIoTB-LacHbLBQsVdU1dVznL1ANFbIIiJUW5zFoX4xJ7osc-/s1600/Bennett%2527s+County+DSparkman+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCP3srWGK7WX5akQTnsaFUAW4dY47yidYPRXhLB2jPhqfstUEuk1wBtS29XF3uBpTBW7SUH1V-KcnuGudTwKvhYfqHCtIQIoTB-LacHbLBQsVdU1dVznL1ANFbIIiJUW5zFoX4xJ7osc-/s320/Bennett%2527s+County+DSparkman+Web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Sheriff Billy Bennett takes his job seriously—and he’s darn good at it. No one breaks the law in his county. So when he gets a complaint of women dancing naked in the nearby forest, of course he has to investigate. Some say they’re witches, but Sheriff Bennett doesn’t hold with that—he doesn’t allow witches in his county.<br />
<br />
But when a self-proclaimed warlock comes looking for them with plans to steal them away, Billy Bennett has him ushered out of Bennett’s County for good. There are no warlocks…only bad men. And Sheriff Billy Bennett will see the law is obeyed, no matter what—or who—tries to bend the rules.<br />
<br />
Caught in the middle of an odd battle, the sheriff begins to wonder if he’s bitten off more than he can chew in order to keep law and order alive and well in BENNETT’S COUNTY… Is there any way this can end well?<br />
<br />
<b><i>EXCERPT</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
Samuel was
about half the size of his wife, a phenomenon I’d seen before. I always looked
closely for bruises, but never found any on him. I shouldn’t be suspicious. I’m
sure she’s the sweetest thing on earth. <span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
He sure was
jumpy. If you came up behind him and poked him in the ribs, he’d jump about two
feet in the air. Some of the boys had taken to coming up behind him on the
street and setting off firecrackers. Jumpy. I needed to catch those boys,
because the noise was hard on horses. We had a couple run off. One had Arnold
on it.<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
He took his hat
off and worried the brim a little. “Well, Sheriff, Emma thinks that witch is at
it again.”<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
It was a
morning for contemplation. The most wonderous thing is how ideas get
started—good and bad. Most folks hold their opinions to themselves. Seems the
ones we don’t want to hear are always proclaimed the loudest. The dangerous
thing disturbing my contemplation is that these people were serious and that
was disturbing. There’s no amount of trouble that can come from people who
convince themselves in their own stupidity and follow their new-found belief in
righteous indignation. I studied them close as I practiced my reply. My lips
may have moved some. <span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
“Which witch?”<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
Emma gasped. “There’s
more than one?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
In a practiced
move, both turned to the side and spit between their fingers. Hers landed first,
but she’s a lot bigger—more power. <span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned back to me with a triumphant stare.
“I knew it. We have an infestation.” <span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">
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<br />Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-72545612197595567182019-12-23T21:56:00.000-06:002019-12-31T11:08:40.796-06:00Christmas in a Sock by Jodi Lea Stewart<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXeHXpkjLadKnGHgJSyRN7v1eeknkyOExpBSPw_FUdUS_0QNlrZgPZzsdIBa1fBOhbzwsR0Y0Ali-dcNUEAj1wp1BkdabfmRqHx9kKmPYjp67OxCkG93ypivMCCDU3OEaxRBNEpdBa4I/s1600/cold+winter+scene+at+night.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXeHXpkjLadKnGHgJSyRN7v1eeknkyOExpBSPw_FUdUS_0QNlrZgPZzsdIBa1fBOhbzwsR0Y0Ali-dcNUEAj1wp1BkdabfmRqHx9kKmPYjp67OxCkG93ypivMCCDU3OEaxRBNEpdBa4I/s1600/cold+winter+scene+at+night.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">1933. December 24, 7:30
p.m. </span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">If I wanted Doodles to sleep warm as buttered biscuits, I’d have to do
some more quilt tucking.<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
pressed it in good and tight all along her side and under her chin. There. Now
she wouldn’t shiver in her sleep or roll off to the floor. It wouldn’t hurt her
any if she did cause our mattress was only four inches of feathers and cloth
and it was laid right on the floor on top of an old blanket that had a few moth
holes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Doodles
was nine years younger than me and mostly my responsibility. Truth is, I was so
glad to get another girl in this family, I didn’t mind doing anything for that
skinny little baby. I had two older sisters, but they were already married by
the time I got any sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I’d
been stuck with eight brothers and me the only girl for miles around for so
long ... shoot, Doodles was like getting a tiny angel to take care of. Ol'
heaven sure waited a long time to give her to me, though, cause I’m thirteen and almost
growed up now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
put my ear on top of the wood floor and tried like crazy to overhear the soft
talking going on in the room down below me. No matter how hard I tried, I
couldn’t make out the words. Something was scooted here and yonder. Something
big.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Yep.
That’s the right sounds for shore. Same as every year. It meant Mama and Dad
were getting things ready for us kids to have Christmas in the morning. My old
raccoon grin broke out so big on my face, you couldn’t erase it with a mop!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
yelled straight into my squashy pillow until my eyes watered. I did that
sometimes when I was excited and didn’t know what else to do. I got that over
with and flipped on my back. I cracked every one of my fingers one at time. I
learned how to do that from Calvin—one of my brothers. Most of them boys were
good for nothing at all, except learning me how to do things like fistfight and
get in trouble. Only thing I was glad about was how Sam taught me how to spit
across the room and make it land in a can. Now, that was useful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Shush
now</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">,
I told myself. None of that mattered tonight. Not with the magic dust swirling
all around me so hard my stomach felt like a Mason jar full of cow cream right
before it turns into curdled butter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Nothing
no how could ever be as fun as Christmas at the Woodson house, even if it
wasn’t much of any kind of fancy. It had us—this family—in it, didn’t it? That
was enough, even if we were as poor as dirt and too dumb to stop laughing about
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Us
kids had to go to bed extra early on the night before Christmas so special
things could happen. I didn’t know how Mama and Dad did anything special for us
with us having just about no money in the world. I sure loved it when they did,
though. Loved it more than running home barefooted the last day of school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
stared into the dark with my hands folded over each other and whistled for a
little while until those sweet banana pies Mom was making after breakfast
tomorrow just rassled my mind down to the ground. She never made such a thing
as that except on Christmas day. Those pies tasted so dang good, you felt rich
as Solomon when you ate them. She made enough for us kids to have two whole
slices if we cut them kind of skinny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">After
the pies, Mama would stir something else together in her big crockery bowl.
Pretty near the best thing anyone ever made—her Christmas Candy Cake! She’d take
that pretty thing out of the stove with the marain icing sitting up on it like
stiff snow. Shiny patches of melted red, green, and white candies sparkled on
the top. Whooee, us kids about lost our eyeballs right out of their sockets
just looking at it. Wouldn’t have been surprising at all to see our eyes
rolling across that wood floor after Mom whisked her cake over to the griddle
to cool down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Thinking
about it now bout made me throw up since I wanted a piece of it so bad. How
could I ever fall asleep? Dang near stupid to try. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Next
thing I knowed about is when one of those no-good brothers threw a pair of
overalls on my head. I flung it off madder than a bee with three stingers and
couldn’t believe it was light outside. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Morning? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">I leaped off of that mattress
and grabbed Doodles up tight and barreled down those creaky steps two at a
time. I ran quick through the kitchen and into the front room and into Mama and
Dad's tiny bedroom. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Had
it happened? The magic?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">The
glow in my mama’s eyes was as loud as any shouted-out bunch of words. I couldn’t
hardly take my eyes off of hers, they were so bright. I put Doodles down and
shook my hands in the air just to get my nerves settled down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Can
we? Can we look now? Huh?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Mama
counted our heads to see if we were all there. After the last head, her usual
serious face broke out in a smile bigger than the whole of Oklahoma. She
stepped away from the iron-post bed where her and Dad, and sometimes a few
young’uns, slept. I tell you, us kids scampered under that bed like rabbits out
running a pack of slobbery hound dogs. When we came back out, we were holding
on to one of Dad’s long gray and white winter socks. Those socks looked like
they had the mumps, they were so full. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Doodles laughed right out loud at us
holding our fat socks with both hands like someone was gonna steal them away
from us. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">We
clawed them open and dumped everything out in our own special spots. Hazelnuts,
walnuts, Brazil nuts, and pecans poured out first. Then came an apple and an
orange. My mouth went dry to bite into that shiny red apple, so I did and ate
it all up. That was all the winter fruit we’d ever get, so us kids always
gobbled it up quicker than you could say </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13pt;">shut up</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">The
bottom of our socks sagged with ever kind of hard candy. Oh, the colors and
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">shapes just made us crazy happy. Some of the candies were square with dimples
all in them. Other kinds were round with flat ends and little drawings like
Christmas trees and holly painted on them. How someone painted so tiny on so
many pieces, I’ll never know. Best of all were the big hunks of folded over
ribbon candy. That was our mama’s favorite, too.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdAhtGrMYGtjbxJhAigQs26mY_54fYLIlLZ7hY-1H5vuMLIFGTnajrMmSvPHWunOnoBS5dH1zrbWmB58BJCNlLNx37nW7IotE3NBzFo3mu9U0SncKuh2SirG57ooSbDPEy8JeZiKEGHY/s1600/old-fashioned+winter+candy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="640" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdAhtGrMYGtjbxJhAigQs26mY_54fYLIlLZ7hY-1H5vuMLIFGTnajrMmSvPHWunOnoBS5dH1zrbWmB58BJCNlLNx37nW7IotE3NBzFo3mu9U0SncKuh2SirG57ooSbDPEy8JeZiKEGHY/s200/old-fashioned+winter+candy.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
finished eating my orange and was looking for a dishrag to wipe my hands on
when my brother Snipe threw an orange peeling at the side of my face. My hands
turned into fists, but then something kind of strange took me over and dusted
the mad feeling right off me. I just felt like smiling at him instead. I tossed
him a piece of my own candy. He shore did look surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">After
a breakfast of mama’s special red-hot pork sausage, eggs, biscuits,
milk gravy, and sorghum, we started in eating our candy. Only time all
year we’d get any.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Two
of those no-account boys had to help me with all the stacks of breakfast
dishes, and that, all by itself, was a Christmas miracle. I almost never got any
help with those dadgummed dishes. This morning while we worked, we had a
contest to see who could put the most ribbon candy in their mouths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
don’t know who won cause we sucked and slurped on it with our mouths gaped open
and our eyes bugging out just like a dog when you pulled his ears way back.
After a while, we busted out laughing and near choked to death on candy juice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Dad
said, “Hey,” at us in a low, gruff voice from the other room. We knew that
meant stop right now or get your rear ends whooped, so we hid and did it one
more time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">After
making her banana pies, Mama got Dad's hammer and put a big peppermint
stick and a handful of those ribbon candies inside a flour-sack dishtowel. All
us kids gathered around to watch. We made Big Eyes at each other every time she
swung that hammer in the air and brought it down to crush the candy for the top
of the </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">C<a href="http://jodileastewart.com/2016/12/christmas-cake/">hristmas Candy Cake</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">You
know, I can't swear, well, you ain't even supposed to swear, but anyways ... I can't promise if it's true or not, but I got my feelings about it that God
Hisself must have gave that Christmas Candy Cake recipe to our Mama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
mean, why not?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Don't
it stand to reason the Almighty would want a special cake like that for His
son's birthday? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">–
Biddy Woodson, Nowata County, Oklahoma, 1933<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-PBVIKU42mFwSB9NmDRoy2TfC9GCWP645MWxjPK4NRxWlCa8YwxN8wZSi7S_gs992OvekkqWwUaXNmI6GUhCf2R8XgaMAbFXqJobvTN3zK8AWNxTaOr_KldVDvZ2vsxJCJpkopovObU/s1600/WinterWonderland-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-PBVIKU42mFwSB9NmDRoy2TfC9GCWP645MWxjPK4NRxWlCa8YwxN8wZSi7S_gs992OvekkqWwUaXNmI6GUhCf2R8XgaMAbFXqJobvTN3zK8AWNxTaOr_KldVDvZ2vsxJCJpkopovObU/s320/WinterWonderland-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">~~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">For
a complete adventure mystery featuring Biddy, read <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1720423539/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1">Blackberry Road</a> published
by Sundown Press and Available on Amazon in Audible, Print, and eBook. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Click
<a href="http://jodileastewart.com/2016/12/christmas-cake/"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span> </a>for Mama's Christmas Cake Recipe, both the Old-fashioned version & the New-fashioned version.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LuqxKYUkpGFN4KRG2JF6Ak8oBBuaqtwGeEa1q0EgY-_TZOH2Ya03vfZpRz2kcTs6weEpCm0n-03y0aq9WbVJWOfPHGxePiHxW-m6I5G6XG__sVP5rnpn0eRU989oc1iZdDxHLzz6zlo/s1600/Grandmas-Candy-Cake-After-2-400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LuqxKYUkpGFN4KRG2JF6Ak8oBBuaqtwGeEa1q0EgY-_TZOH2Ya03vfZpRz2kcTs6weEpCm0n-03y0aq9WbVJWOfPHGxePiHxW-m6I5G6XG__sVP5rnpn0eRU989oc1iZdDxHLzz6zlo/s320/Grandmas-Candy-Cake-After-2-400x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">What
holiday stories and recipes have been passed down in your family?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I
love to hear from you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Merry Christmas!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiCSEeIvOvVHBZmauWrA0WTh72N4ufX8PC3xgWQPlHuYne_d1as5qk5RxJlUsUcOZCNVNNNI5fmRKg0m-khpbHMSpjDdUtGJHrVjqZYOronbfxbT0qdOnJTT4s9E4qXIWbwxlkSvOtQg/s1600/Blackberry+Road+Extra+Copy+of+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiCSEeIvOvVHBZmauWrA0WTh72N4ufX8PC3xgWQPlHuYne_d1as5qk5RxJlUsUcOZCNVNNNI5fmRKg0m-khpbHMSpjDdUtGJHrVjqZYOronbfxbT0qdOnJTT4s9E4qXIWbwxlkSvOtQg/s320/Blackberry+Road+Extra+Copy+of+Cover.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1720423539/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1">BlackberryRoad</a> is published by Sundown Press and is available on Amazon in Audible,
Print, and eBook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">“Trouble
sneaks in one hot Oklahoma afternoon in 1934 like an oily twister. A beloved neighbor
is murdered, and a single piece of evidence sends the sheriff to arrest a Black
man that a sharecropper’s daughter, Biddy, knows is innocent. Hauntingly
terrifying sounds seeping from the woods lead Biddy into even deeper mysteries
and despair, and finally into the shocking truths of that fateful summer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><b><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6">The Accidental Road</a></span></i></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6">,</a> Fire Star Press.</span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></o:p>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBELEl0GPpMhvt4t4UQja-Mw4twvrHpwXG0YXv-fA7BWzUyIjDnRkgFzcmkdDis_vnkHp8YOUDDOZlAPtE7Z_c781gkzpqCdFRPZa3du7Xzy4CLIadc5yGa3z3UpM2zVPejmbAXLvYnk/s1600/The+Accidental+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBELEl0GPpMhvt4t4UQja-Mw4twvrHpwXG0YXv-fA7BWzUyIjDnRkgFzcmkdDis_vnkHp8YOUDDOZlAPtE7Z_c781gkzpqCdFRPZa3du7Xzy4CLIadc5yGa3z3UpM2zVPejmbAXLvYnk/s320/The+Accidental+Road.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"A teen and her mom escaping an abusive husband tumble into the epicenter of crime peddlers invading Arizona and Nevada in the 1950s. Stranded hundreds of miles from their planned destination of Las Vegas, they land in a dusty town full of ghosts and tales, treachery and corruption. Avoiding disaster is tricky, especially as it leads Kat into a fevered quest for things as simple as home and trust. Danger lurks everywhere, leading her to wonder if she and her mother really did take <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6"><b><i>The Accidental Road</i></b> </a>of life, or if it’s the exact right road to all they ever hoped for."</span><br />
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<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">Jodi Lea Stewart is the author of a contemporary trilogy set in the Navajo Nation featuring a Navajo protagonist, as well as two historical novels, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">Blackberry Road and </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">The Accidental Road. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">She is hard at work on her sixth novel set in old New Orleans and St. Louis. She currently resides in Arizona with her husband, her delightful 90+-year-old mother, a crazy Standard poodle named Jazz, two rescue cats, and numerous gigantic, bossy houseplants.</span></i></h4>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-66053705280915124892019-10-19T17:57:00.003-05:002019-10-22T12:36:11.473-05:00Bu++ Bites Build Gristle by Jodi Lea Stewart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
<span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">It’s like this – the
gander that was flapping my face, back and legs . . .<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">. . . while simultaneously biting
blood blisters on my little three-year-old derriere didn’t know he was
contributing to my future confidence factor.</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Being left alone in trees by older cousins while
they went off to play games assuredly built my self-reliance.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">How did I get all this
country-flavored therapy?</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">By
being reared in a farm atmosphere with a pack of heathens for cousins, that’s
how.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Descending
upon Grandma and Granddad’s farm every summer made my cousins and me wacky.
Throwing our shoes and socks over our shoulders as soon as we arrived, we
screeched with pure summer madness.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">My </span></strong><em><b><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">gristle</span></b></em><strong><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"> got a
good start during those summers</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">I
was the youngest, shortest, and most sensitive of the cousin pack *actually,
they called me bawl-bag*, which swelled in number from six to twenty+
throughout the summer. Why? My mom was one of eleven kids. That makes for lots
of cousins, lol!<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Our
fun was simple in those days - we simply created something from basically
nothing.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Running
wild and barefoot, teasing <em>Heir
Gander</em> (the baddest dude on the farm), and not minding our
elders were outstanding activities.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Of course, not
minding always resulted in a lesson on branch cutting (for switches) and a
character-building session involving our gluteous maximus immediately
thereafter.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Challenging
Grandma's Gander to a mad race across the barnyard was forbidden.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">And
thrilling. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Except for me. My legs wouldn’t get me very far before I was missing
in action. A little wing whipping before being rescued by the cousins was worth
all the grass-rolling hilarity that followed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<strong><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">One day, Gander snapped</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Possessed by
Hitler himself, Gander went for blood, </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">and I was
his victim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Hair-raising
screams brought a rescue unit of five or six bug-eyed adults.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">After <em>Heir Gander</em> was slightly
reconstructed by my hysterical mom, I experienced a grit-building event. My
mom, with multiple pairs of cousin eyes staring, pulled down my shorts to
inspect the gander bites. Snickering, then outright peals of
laughter, echoed through the barnyard.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">That’s when I cried.
Hard.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">My gristle was
building!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Other times, when
my cousins grew tired of babysitting me, they left me in a tall tree and told
me to hold tight and be sure to not fall.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Hanging on for
dear life—I’m afraid of heights to this day—I squalled until they came back.
When they did, I was the center of attention. Merrily swung onto a pair of
shoulders, I was teased and promised games and stories. They even meant it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">I was all giggles
when we returned to the farmhouse. Any notice of my red eyes or purple face was
attributed to the heat and my allergic problems.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Experiences like
these were difficult, but I’m glad I went through them, and so many others later on.
Why? Well, I have a theory:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">A little <em>grit in your craw</em> makes life’s
toughest tidbits easier to swallow, let alone digest.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">You know I love to hear
from you!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">💖💖💖💖</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Just for fun . .
.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"> </span><i>"Hey, Marilyn, did you read Jodi Lea Stewart's newest novel,</i> <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6">The Accidental Road?"</a></span><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<em>"Jane, honey . . . I was her consultant! After all, it's practically written about me."</em><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<h4 style="background: white;">
<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jodi Lea Stewart is the author of a contemporary trilogy set in the Navajo Nation and
featuring a Navajo protagonist, as well as two historical novels. Her current
novel, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">Blackberry Road,</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> is available on Amazon. Her next historical novel, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">The Accidental Road,</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> debuted a few weeks ago. She is hard at work on her sixth
novel set in New Orleans and St. Louis. She currently resides in Arizona with
her husband, her delightful 90+-year-old mother, a crazy Standard poodle named
Jazz, two rescue cats, and numerous gigantic, bossy houseplants.</span></i></h4>
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<o:p><br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><b><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The Accidental Road</span></i></b></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6">, </a>Fire Star Press.</span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></o:p>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">A teen and her mom escaping an abusive husband tumble into the epicenter of crime peddlers invading Arizona and Nevada in the 1950s. Stranded hundreds of miles from their planned destination of Las Vegas, they land in a dusty town full of ghosts and tales, treachery and corruption. Avoiding disaster is tricky, especially as it leads Kat into a fevered quest for things as simple as home and trust. Danger lurks everywhere, leading her to wonder if she and her mother really did take <b><i>The Accidental Road</i></b> of life, or if it’s the exact right road to all they ever hoped for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6"><b><i>Blackberry Road</i></b> </a>is published by Sundown Press and is available on Amazon.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Trouble sneaks in one hot Oklahoma afternoon in 1934 like an oily twister. A beloved neighbor is murdered, and a single piece of evidence sends the sheriff to arrest a Black man that Biddy *a sharecropper’s daughter* knows is innocent. Hauntingly terrifying sounds seeping from the woods lead Biddy into even deeper mysteries and despair, and finally into the shocking truths of that fateful summer.</span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">Jodi Lea Stewart was born in Texas to an "Okie" mom and a Texan dad. Her younger years were spent in Texas and Oklahoma; hence, she knows all about biscuits and gravy, blackberry picking, chiggers, and snipe hunting. At the age of eight, she moved to a vast cattle ranch in the White Mountains of Arizona. As a teen, she left her studies at the University of Arizona in Tucson to move to San Francisco, where she learned about peace, love, and exactly what she DIDN'T want to do with her life. Since then, Jodi graduated </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">summa cum laude </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;">with a BS in Business Management, raised three children, worked as an electro-mechanical drafter, penned humor columns for a college periodical, wrote regional western articles, and served as managing editor of a Fortune 500 corporate newsletter. </span><span style="color: #573100; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 18.5467px;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></h4>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-23738634376054106812019-10-09T06:38:00.000-05:002019-10-09T06:38:16.347-05:00New Release — John D. Nesbitt Western Double: Pearl of Great Price & Leaving the Lariat Trail<br />
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Pearl of Great Price</h3>
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Mr. Thorne, a mysterious traveler posing as a writer, arrives in a small Wyoming town—but why is he really there? When his colleague, Miss Greer, joins him, he discovers that the townsfolk can be downright unfriendly.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The two of them are after the worst kind of criminal—one who deals in artifacts of a grizzly nature—and they intend to stop him, no matter what his position might be. Will their luck hold as they confront him—and discover what he keeps hidden in his basement? </span></div>
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Leaving the Lariat Trail</h3>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">A young cowhand, Charles Landon, wants to go straight and break free from a crooked gang, but it won’t be easy. When his former associates hatch a plan to rustle cattle, Charles decides to move on—and the old gang members don’t believe he can be trusted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">As they begin to come after him one by one, he realizes he’s going to need to carry a gun—it’s the only way he can get out of LEAVING THE LARIAT TRAIL alive!</span></div>
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Livia J Washburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958199886826207363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6351311718404868409.post-53840989057510071682019-09-21T21:10:00.001-05:002019-09-25T12:09:34.551-05:00Grow Your Own Jewelry? by Jodi Lea Stewart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6jsVqIUTuy9oX-9XeIE-XHJGBZye0fBaEWDqjLo4WTjIjLcFekp9UVuPGtqyaYvfP2fF8xlRtZzLO8ZRxwUfXm90N9w8CL-jh56onsrxhXijLsAzn7QDz87kd8dYFyKxGFQc_znIhHM/s1600/jobs+tears+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="425" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6jsVqIUTuy9oX-9XeIE-XHJGBZye0fBaEWDqjLo4WTjIjLcFekp9UVuPGtqyaYvfP2fF8xlRtZzLO8ZRxwUfXm90N9w8CL-jh56onsrxhXijLsAzn7QDz87kd8dYFyKxGFQc_znIhHM/s320/jobs+tears+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;"><i>My childhood as the only girl on an Arizona ranch could get
downright lonesome.</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Television and radio reception were nonexistent, and all the wonderful gadgets of today weren’t yet invented.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Friends were far away, so play dates
and overnighters were as scarce as green grass, which is plenty scarce in the
high deserts of the Southwest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">One day, probably as a result of my
mournful expressions and heavy sighs, my mother – shrouded in mystery –
beckoned me to follow her to the garden. There, between a peach tree and the
rock house that supported our water tank filled with well water, she poured
several tear-shaped seeds about the size of corn kernels into her hand from a
packet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">What were they?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Job’s Tears, she said, and I was
immediately beguiled. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">What a name! I could barely breathe
as I asked her what we were going to do with them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Plant them, was her reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">And we did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">What
exactly are Job’s Tears?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj654PJyPNqeffo-6tzu1pVd0KTEoGKErhb5fawKsOHiQokLqBro_3cwsNMiXIA5Y-hDyfUm35Z3Tk7kGw4hE0llVMCmwW-qVrvu2-0qli3YqYnTHnM7szEWEOipgXKQzWjikVSxwNXKOo/s1600/jobs+tears+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1192" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj654PJyPNqeffo-6tzu1pVd0KTEoGKErhb5fawKsOHiQokLqBro_3cwsNMiXIA5Y-hDyfUm35Z3Tk7kGw4hE0llVMCmwW-qVrvu2-0qli3YqYnTHnM7szEWEOipgXKQzWjikVSxwNXKOo/s320/jobs+tears+6.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><i>For starters, Job’s tears are
nature’s jewelry.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">The plants grow a pre-drilled,
polished bead that can be used to make an endless assortment of necklaces,
bracelets, and other baubles. The male flower grows up through the center of
the bead. When removed, it leaves a hollow core just right for stringing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Lt0jK6wNz2ffrpWKHcUIvhj5FdHAJREqlU8p6IKbcI4r1ylZnBgxoBZICII6QLZBAjo1m3bLNjSxIMca0Q77vnaJ3nseAWCu1V5Xp33Z29CuxqR4At4992xrZdgOZIBYNTU2LPGDhPc/s1600/jobs+tears+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Lt0jK6wNz2ffrpWKHcUIvhj5FdHAJREqlU8p6IKbcI4r1ylZnBgxoBZICII6QLZBAjo1m3bLNjSxIMca0Q77vnaJ3nseAWCu1V5Xp33Z29CuxqR4At4992xrZdgOZIBYNTU2LPGDhPc/s320/jobs+tears+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">People have grown Job’s Tears for
thousands of years. In western India, a bead-making shop circa 2000 B.C. was
uncovered. They found beads made from soapstone (man-made beads) and Job’s
Tears (nature’s beads).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Different cultures have used these beads in creative ways. In Africa, shaker gourds enclosed with a loose net and
covered with hundreds of Job’s tears are said to produce a lovely musical
sound.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Why
are they called 'Tears?'<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">The tear-shaped beads sometimes
refer to job of the Old Testament, a man who endured great suffering. They are
also called David’s Tears, St. Mary’s Tears, Christ’s Tears, and Tear Drops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">So, why are they called <i>tears?</i> Who knows? But it's dramatic and fun to do so.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;">More than a pretty bead</span></b></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Coix
lacryma-jobi – Job’s Tears’ scientific name – is a close relative to corn.
The plants strongly resemble corn but are skinnier. It is considered
one of the earliest domesticated plants.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">The beads have
been used all over the world as a source of food and medicine.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">They can be
ground into meal, or used as a coffee substitute.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">They are common
in products sold in Asia. When supplies of rice were low during the
Vietnam War, Job’s Tears became a staple substitute.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">In Japan, Korea,
China, Taiwan and Vietnam, Job’s Tears are available as flakes or powder.
They are often added to other grains, liquors, candy, bath products,
vinegar, and tea.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Hatomugi, the
Japanese word for Job’s Tears, is used in traditional Japanese Kampo
herbal medicine. The grain is valued as a nutritious food and has long
been used in traditional Chinese medicine to support hair, skin, nails,
and as a digestive aide.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Here’s what
Amazon says about them: This plant’s seeds are used in soups and broths,
and can be used in any way that rice is used. They can also be ground into
flour for making bread. The seeds are popular for making
decorations and have herbal and medicinal uses. <o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: "gabriola"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Growing
Job’s Tears</span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;">Job's
Tears are easy to grow. The plants don’t need a lot of water and are quite
hardy. </span><a href="http://homeguides.sfgate.com/plant-jobs-tears-63604.html" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13pt;"><span style="color: blue;">Here’s a link</span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13pt;"> telling you exactly how to do it,
but I promise, it’s easy!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">Growing
Job’s Tears and stringing the beads into necklaces remains one of my fondest
childhood memories. My mother learned about Job’s Tears from her mother. Why
not make some passed down memories for your special girls and guys?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;">They’ll
never forget it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/TEARS-Junos-Tears-Lacryma-Vegetable/dp/B004ZRG2V0">Amazon has the seeds right now</a></span>. And don’t
forget to come back and tell us about it, okay?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.0pt;"> I
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<o:p><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><b><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692492861/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+accidental+road+by+jodi+lea+stewart&qid=1569364112&s=books&sr=1-1">The Accidental Road</a></span></i></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692492861/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+accidental+road+by+jodi+lea+stewart&qid=1569364112&s=books&sr=1-1">,</a> Fire Star Press, debuts September 2019.</span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></o:p>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">A teen and her mom escaping an abusive husband tumble into the epicenter of crime peddlers invading Arizona and Nevada in the 1950s. Stranded hundreds of miles from their planned destination of Las Vegas, they land in a dusty town full of ghosts and tales, treachery and corruption. Avoiding disaster is tricky, especially as it leads Kat into a fevered quest for things as simple as home and trust. Danger lurks everywhere, leading her to wonder if she and her mother really did take <b><i>The Accidental Road</i></b> of life, or if it’s the exact right road to all they ever hoped for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jodi-Lea-Stewart/e/B0085YFWZ6" style="color: #b56b3b; text-decoration-line: none;">Blackberry Road</a></i></b> is published by Sundown Press and is available on Amazon.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Trouble sneaks in one hot Oklahoma afternoon in 1934 like an oily twister. A beloved neighbor is murdered, and a single piece of evidence sends the sheriff to arrest a Black man that Biddy *a sharecropper’s daughter* knows is innocent. Hauntingly terrifying sounds seeping from the woods lead Biddy into even deeper mysteries and despair, and finally into the shocking truths of that fateful summer.</span></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jodi Lea Stewart</span></b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> was born in Texas to an "Okie" mom and a Texan dad. Her younger years were spent in Texas and Oklahoma; hence, she knows all about biscuits and gravy, blackberry picking, chiggers, and snipe hunting. At the age of eight, she moved to a vast cattle ranch in the White Mountains of Arizona. As a teen, she left her studies at the University of Arizona in Tucson to move to San Francisco, where she learned about peace, love, and exactly what she DIDN'T want to do with her life. Since then, Jodi graduated <i>summa cum laude </i>with a BS in Business Management, raised three children, worked as an electro-mechanical drafter, penned humor columns for a college periodical, wrote regional western articles, and served as managing editor of a Fortune 500 corporate newsletter. </span></h4>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">She is the author of a contemporary trilogy set in the Navajo Nation and featuring a Navajo protagonist, as well as two historical novels. Her current novel, <i>Blackberry Road,</i> is available on Amazon. Her next historical novel, <i>The Accidental Road,</i> debuts in September 2019. She is hard at work on her sixth novel set in New Orleans and St. Louis. She currently resides in Arizona with her husband, her delightful 90+-year-old mother, a crazy Standard poodle named Jazz, two rescue cats, and numerous gigantic, bossy houseplants.</span></h4>
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