Garrett’s Ghost
by Pamela Ackerson
Genre: Time Travel Western
What’s a time traveling Texas Ranger supposed to do?
Garrett Houston is being
harassed by a ghost. Trouble is brewing and her name
is Margarite. She’s an unrelenting force determined to get his
attention. It may be too late for her, but if she could get him to
listen, she may be able to save some lives.
A story of unrequited
love, the power of healing, and the embracing
need to never give up. Unforgettable moments and unforgettable
characters will tug at the heartstrings with a myriad of emotions.
Garrett’s Ghost is a
touching story brimming with down-home Texas charm.
**Free from May 6th to May 10th!!**Goodreads * Amazon
Wife, mother, author, and time traveling adventurer. Born and raised in
Newport, RI where history is a way of life, Pamela Ackerson now lives
on the Space Coast of Florida, a hop, skip, and jump from Orlando,
where imagination and fantasy abounds. With the love of reading, she
graduated to writing non-fiction, historical fiction, time travel,
and children’s preschool/first reader books.
Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads
His Red Eminence
Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu
by Laurel A. Rockefeller
Genre: Historical Fiction
Priest. Lover. Statesman. From the author of the best-selling “Legendary Women of World History” series … Cardinal Armand-Jean du Plessis, duc de Richelieu is one of the most famous — or infamous politicians of all time. Made a villain in the popular Dumas novel, “The Three Musketeers,” the real man was a dedicated public servant loyal to king and country. A man of logic and reason, he transformed how we think about nations and nationality. He secularized wars between countries, patronized the arts for the sake of the public good, founded the first newspaper in France, and created France as the modern country we know today. Filled with period music, dance, and plenty of romance, “His Red Eminence” transports you back to the court of King Louis XIII in all its vibrant and living color. Includes eight period songs, plus prayers, a detailed timeline, and extensive bibliography so you can keep learning. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords
Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA Laurel A. Rockefeller is author of over twenty books published and self-published since August, 2012 and in languages ranging from Welsh to Spanish to Chinese and everything in between. A dedicated scholar and biographical historian, Ms. Rockefeller is passionate about education and improving history literacy worldwide. With her lyrical writing style, Laurel’s books are as beautiful to read as they are informative. In her spare time, Laurel enjoys spending time with her cockatiels, attending living history activities, travelling to historic places in both the United States and United Kingdom, and watching classic motion pictures and classic television series. Facebook * Twitter * Pinterest * YouTube * Amazon * Goodreads
One hour later, the final prayer and the final hymn rang through the main sanctuary.
Rising, Bishop du Plessis turned to Anne, “I want to pray a bit longer. Will you help me to the
side altar? I want to light a candle and ask God to heal me.” Anne rose and offered her hands
and body to him to steady him. Taking small steps to help with the vertigo, she guided him to
where he wanted to go. Armand lit a candle and with her help, knelt down to pray, Anne dutifully
kneeling beside him and beginning her own, silent, protestant prayers, “Salve, Regina, mater
misericordiae: vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae. Ad te
suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle. Eia, ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos
misericordes oculos ad nos converte. Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc
exsilium ostende. O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria. Amen.”
Worried for him, Anne quietly unleashed a bird-like note from her throat, uncertain what
the note meant or exactly why it escaped her.
Armand felt the resonance, “Anne? What are you doing?” Anne closed her eyes. The
note grew stronger. Interlacing their fingers, she met his eyes, a fire flashing across them, a
heat building in her hands. Fear filled Armand’s spirit, “No, Anne! No! You must not, not here!
They will burn you! Mon coeur! Mon trésor! I am not worth it!” Unable to control the rising power
inside her, Anne brought their entwined fingers down onto his head as she released the note
and power resonating through it. Anne fell onto the floor as all the pain in his body, every
lingering discomfort fell away, transferred into first her flesh, through every cell of her body until
it escaped into the cathedral, its walls alive and singing with her from the recent service. “Why?
Why, you fool? I am not worth it! My suffering is nothing! Why did you have to take it from me?”
“’Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,’” quoted
Anne simply. “I did not choose to do this, Armand. God chose it in answer to your prayer!
Remember that when you pray: God doesn’t always answer the way you want or expect. God
does what God wants to do.”
Armand held her against his chest as he closed his eyes in prayer, “Pater noster, qui es
in cælis, sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in
terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos
dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem Sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”
“Take me home to rest, Your Excellency, and, if you would be so kind, perhaps some
water please?”
Ten minutes later, Armand laid Anne down on his bed to rest, his body fully restored and
feeling stronger than it had in many long months. Quietly he instructed his housekeeper to move
Anne’s belongings into his bedroom and to exchange the narrow servant’s bed on the far side of
the room with the much larger and more comfortable bed that Anne was sleeping on in her
guest room.
Ordering luncheon from his head cook, Armand returned his attention to Anne, joyfully
tending to her needs until she gained enough strength to sit at the small table at which the
servants were laying their luncheon. After a few uncertain moments helping her eat and drink,
Armand finally breathed a sigh of relief as some colour returned to her face and her breathing
normalized. Anne opened her eyes, “You are still with me.”
“Where else would I be?”
“In Paris at court.”
“Away from you?”
“I don’t know. That is up to you. I hope you will never banish me from your side, not even
for one day. That is perhaps not realistic though. A public life would be dangerous for me. But I
think a public life is in your future someday, Armand. I think you want a public life, to have the
opportunity to do more than serve this little bishopric hundreds of miles from king and court.”
“Do I really come off as so ambitious?”
“All young men are ambitious, mon coeur. Why should you be different?”
“You make me sound so … average if that’s the right word.”
“At least you are not in constant danger of the pyre like I am. If I could have conducted
that energy in private, I would have. I don’t know how I could even channel it like that. Your
abilities directly impact the physical world, not mine!
“You are suggesting that I wanted to heal myself and this is the way God made it
happen?”
“When was the last time you tried to heal with your touch, Armand?”
“Not since the convent.”
“That might be why. Each of us have talents from God. If we are wise, we listen to God
and embrace the way we were each made, knowing that each of us are special and made
exactly as God wants us to be. God doesn’t make mistakes when he gives us an ability like your
healing touch or my empathy. But so often we curse God when we find we are different from
others rather than thanking him and accepting the ways we are special.”
Armand kissed her, “You are special.”
“How special?” flirted Anne.
“I’ll show you when you are strong enough.”
Anne touched him provocatively, “How about right now?”
Armand picked her up and carried her to his bed, “Now it is!”
Follow the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
When we take a road trip, especially across states, we want to be as prepared as possible. Anything that can save us time getting there, help get us there safely, or find us a bathroom in a hurry is ok in my book.
That’s why I wrote the Top Road Trip Apps article for Reedman Toll. These are apps that’s I’ve found to be helpful for my family of 6. We’ve used them for our 500 mile drives to Top Sail Island, NC and for our 2 our drives to Pittsburgh
What apps did I miss? Do you have a favorite that I didn’t list?
Awakening Cocijo
by Thomas Juarez
Genre: Metaphysical Fiction
Chaotic skies reveal untold prophecies. A storm
rises. Can a boy quell the
fury of a god?Join the Zapotec on a journey through time and across generations.
Referring to themselves as the cloud people, their fierce warriors conquered
and ruled the Oaxaca for centuries. Witness rites, rituals and
incantations aimed at appeasing the divine in an attempt to gain
favor; favor that would grant them greatness. So, where did it all go
wrong? Why would such powerful gods allow their disciples to be
conquered? These answers and more would be offered many centuries
later by their descendants. Descendants of a civilization whose glory
can only be revived by the awakening of the most powerful deity in
Zapotec lore: Cocijo, the god of lightening and rain.
Goodreads * Amazon
Thomas (Tom) Juarez is a retired United States Army soldier with about twenty-one years of active federal service. Hailing from Wetumpka, Alabama, Tom currently enjoys his military retirement with his wife in Sterling, Oklahoma. Tumblr * Facebook * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads
Beedxe’ felt as if his bones were bending. Crushing pain overwhelmed his
jaws where he felt large canines forming in the front of his mouth,
tormented in their need rip and tear flesh. His molars became enlarged,
jagged and sharp. Eyes became fiercely dominant, while whiskers erupted
through his cheeks.
Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel
by Linda Bennett Pennell
Genre: Historical, Contemporary Suspense
Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel
tells
a story of lives unfolding in different centuries, but linked and
irrevocably altered by a series of murders in 1930.
Lake City,
Florida, June, 1930: Al Capone checks in for an unusually long
stay at the Blanche Hotel, a nice enough joint for an insignificant
little whistle stop. The following night, young Jack Blevins
witnesses a body being dumped heralding
the summer of violence to come.
One-by-
one, people controlling county vice activities swing from KKK ropes. No
moonshine distributor, gaming operator, or brothel madam, black or white,
is safe from the Klan’s self-righteous vigilantism. Jack’s older
sister Meg, a waitress at the Blanche, and her fiancé, a sheriff’s
deputy, discover reasons to believe the lynchings are cover for a
much larger ambition than simply ridding the county of vice. Someone,
possibly backed by Capone, has secret plans for filling the voids
created by the killings. But as the body count grows and crosses
burn, they come to realize this knowledge may get all of them killed.
Gainesville, Florida, August, 2011: Liz Reams, an up and coming young
academic
specializing in the history of American crime, impulsively moves
across the continent to follow a man who convinces her of his devotion
yet refuses to say the three simple words “I love you”. Despite
the entreaties of friends and family, she is attracted to edginess
and a certain type of glamour in her men, both living and historical.
Her personal life is an emotional roller coaster, but her career options suddenly
blossom beyond all expectation, creating a very different type of
stress. To deal with it all, Liz loses herself in her professional
passion, original research into the life and times of her favorite
bad boy, Al Capone. What she discovers about 1930’s summer of
violence, and herself in the process, leaves her reeling at first and
then changed forever.
Goodreads * Amazon
Miami Days, Havana Nights
by Linda Bennett Pennell
Genre: Historical, Contemporary Suspense
A follow up to Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel, Miami Days Havana
Nights tells the story
of 1920-1960’s gangsters and the young female history professor
determined to suss out their secrets.
Sometimes our
biggest debts have nothing to do with money.
1926.
When seventeen-year-old Sam Ackerman witnesses a mob hit, he is
hustled out of New York under the protection of Moshe Toblinsky,
A.K.A., the mob’s bookkeeper. Arriving in Miami with no money, no
friends, and no place to hide, Sam’s only choice is to do as the
gangster demands. Forced into bootlegging, Sam’s misery is
compounded when he falls in love. Amazingly, the beautiful, devout
Rebecca wants only him, but he cannot give her the life she deserves.
When Prohibition ends, Sam begs the mobster to set him free. The
price? A debt, as Toblinsky puts it, of friendship. A debt that will
one day come due.
Present Day.
History of American Crime professor Liz Reams has it all—early
success, a tantalizing lead on new info about Moshe Toblinsky, and a
wonderful man to love. Life is perfect. So what’s keeping her from
accepting her guy’s marriage proposals? Confronting a long-standing
personal debt sets her on a journey of self-discovery. While she
delves ever deeper into Sam’s and Toblinsky’s relationship, her
understanding of her own relationships increases as well, but the
revelations come at a price. The emotional and physical dangers of
her dual journeys may prove too big to handle.
Goodreads *
Amazon
I have been in love with the past for as long as I can remember.
Anything with a history, whether shabby or majestic, recent or
ancient, instantly draws me in. I suppose it comes from being part of
a large extended family that spanned several generations. Long summer
afternoons on my grandmother’s porch or winter evenings gathered
around her fireplace were filled with stories both entertaining and
poignant. Of course being set in the American South, those stories
were also peopled by some very interesting characters, some of whom
have found their way into my work.
As for my venture in writing, it has allowed me
to reinvent myself. We
humans are truly multifaceted creatures, but unfortunately we tend to
sort and categorize each other into neat, easily understood packages
that rarely reveal the whole person. Perhaps you, too, want to step
out of the box in which you find yourself. I encourage you to look at
the possibilities and imagine. Be filled with childlike wonder in
your mental wanderings. Envision what might be, not simply what is.
Let us never forget, all good fiction begins when someone says to her
or himself, “Let’s pretend.”
I reside in the Houston area with one sweet husband and one adorable
German Shorthaired Pointer who is quite certain she’s a little girl.
“History is filled with the sound of silken
slippers going downstairs and
wooden shoes coming up.” Voltaire Website * Blog * Newsletter * Facebook * Twitter Pinterest * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday
June 14, 1930
O’Leno, Florida
Jack jammed a finger into each ear and swallowed hard.
Any other time, he wouldn’t even notice the stupid sound.
The river always sorta slurped just before it pulled stuff
underground.
His stomach heaved again. Maybe he shouldn’t look
either, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the
circling current. When the head slipped under the water,
the toe end lifted up. Slowly the tarpaulin wrapped body,
at least that’s what it sure looked like, went completely
vertical. It bobbed around a few times and finally gurgled
its way down the sinkhole. Then everything went quiet . . .
peaceful . . . crazily normal. Crickets sawed away again.
An ole granddaddy bullfrog croaked his lonesomeness into
the sultry midnight air.
Crouched in the shelter of a large palmetto clump,
Jack’s muscles quivered and sweat rolled into his eyes, but
he remained stock-still. His heart hammered like he had
just finished the fifty yard dash, but that was nothing to
what Zeke was probably feeling. He was still just a little
kid in lots of ways.
When creeping damp warmed the soles of Jack’s bare
feet, he grimaced and glanced sideways. Zeke looked back
with eyes the size of saucers and mouthed the words I’m
sorry. Jack shook his head then wrinkled his nose as the
odor of ammonia and damp earth drifted up. He’d always
heard that fear produced its own peculiar odor, but nobody
ever said how close you had to be to actually smell it. He
prayed you had to be real close; otherwise, he and Zeke
were in big trouble.
The stranger standing on the riverbank stared out over
the water for so long Jack wondered if the man thought the
body might suddenly come flying up out of the sinkhole and
float back upriver against the current. Funny, the things
that popped into your head when you were scared witless.
The man removed a rag from his pocket and mopped his
face. He paused, looked upstream, then turned and stared
into the surrounding forest. As his gaze swept over their
hiding place, Jack held his breath and prayed, but he could
feel Zeke’s chest rising and falling in ragged jerks so he
slipped his hand onto Zeke’s arm. Under the gentle pressure
of Jack’s fingers, Zeke’s muscles trembled and jumped
beneath his soft ebony skin. When Zeke licked his lips and
parted them like he was about to yell out, Jack clapped a
hand over the open mouth and wrapped his other arm around
Zeke’s upper body, pulling him close and holding him tight.
Zeke’s heart pounded against the bib of his overalls like
it might jump clean out of his chest.
With one final look ‘round at the river and forest,
the stranger strode to the hand crank of a Model T. The
engine caught momentarily, then spluttered and died. A
stream of profanity split the quiet night. The crank handle
jerked from its shaft and slammed back into place. More
grinding and more swearing followed until the thing finally
coughed to life for good and a car door slammed. Only then
did Jack relax his hold on Zeke.
“I want outta here. I wanna go home,” Zeke whispered
hoarsely.
Lucky Zeke. Before Meg left home to move into town,
Jack would have felt the same way. Now he didn’t care if he
ever went home.
Jack cocked an ear in the Ford’s direction. “Hush so I
can listen. I think he’s gone, but we’re gonna belly crawl
in the opposite direction just to be sure we ain’t seen.”
“Through that briar patch? I ain’t got on no shoes or
shirt.”
“Me neither. Come on. Don’t be such a baby.”
“I ain’t no baby,” Zeke hissed as he scrambled after
Jack.
When the pine forest thinned out, Jack raised up on
his knees for a look around. Without a word, Zeke jumped to
his feet and started toward the road. Jack grabbed a strap
on Zeke’s overalls and snatched him back onto his bottom.
“You taken complete leave of your senses?” Wiping
sweat out of his eyes, Jack pushed his shaggy blonde hair
to one side. “Check it out before you go bustin’ into the
open.”
“Why you so bossy all the time? I ain’t stupid, ya
know. Just cause you turned twelve don’t make you all
growed up.”
Zeke’s lower lip stuck out, trembling a little.
Whether it was from fear or anger, Jack wasn’t sure.
Probably both. Peering into the night, he strained for the
flash of headlights. Nothing but bright moonlight
illuminated the road’s deep white sand. Finally confident
that no vehicles were abroad, he grabbed Zeke’s hand and
pulled him to his feet. With one final glance left, then
right, they leapt onto the single lane track and ran like
the devil was on their tails.
