ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT by Ericka Scott

ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT by Ericka Scott

Patrick Shea may be driving a hack now, but he is also chasing the story of a lifetime in hopes of garnering a journalist position with a local newspaper. At the home of René Molyneaux, he catches sight of his quarry, a Haitian Voodoo Practitioner called King Louis, but also sees someone totally unexpected - his wife, Barbara, who disappeared two years ago. She’s working as Molyneaux’s parlor maid. The problem? He finally works up the courage to confront her for the sake of their two-year-old daughter, Emily, when Barbara disappears yet again. While looking for clues to her whereabouts, Patrick finds himself falling in love with her replacement, Mary Reynolds.

Mary Reynolds walks like a lady, talks like a book, and is as pretty and polished as any lady in 1849 Baltimore Society. And so she should, up until ten years ago she was the beloved daughter of a Baltimore mover and shaker. Then, upon her mother’s death, Mary was discovered to be illegitimate and her life crashed down around her. She lost everything: her mother, her home, and her status. Due to the kindness of her mother’s friends, she went into service; however, she’s never given up on her dream of regaining her place in society. When she least expects it, Fate steps in and reveals a clue to her true identity and her birth name, Lenore. With the help of Patrick and his landlady, Mrs. Pym, Lenore begins to rebuild her life. Among her many shocking encounters, her biggest discovery is the one she makes about herself.

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Excerpt:


“Dispose of it,” Henry Herring commanded.

“Sir?”

“You heard me.” With those words, Henry foisted the tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle into Billy’s hands. He shut the door to the bedroom and strode toward the front staircase.

The demand startled Billy. When his mistress, Eliza, had gone into labor in the early hours of the morning, he’d been sent to fetch not the midwife, but a doctor friend of Mr. Herring. An odd task, but Billy was used to the peculiar demands of the master. Besides, he knew his place as a slave in the Herring household. Asking questions would only result in a beating.

Several hours after the summons had been delivered, the doctor arrived. To Billy’s surprise, he hadn’t even gone up the stairs to see to the laboring woman. Instead, he joined Mr. Herring in the study.

Concerned, Billy sneaked into his mistress’s chambers. At first light, the entire paid staff, including Mrs. Herring’s personal maid, had been given the day off. Only a few slaves remained on duty.

Eliza Herring lay in the middle of the bed, moaning. Her knees drawn up to her engorged abdomen, sweat poured down her face. Her lovely golden hair spread across her damp pillow in wild disarray. Pain had made her eyes wild.

As he drew nearer, she grabbed his hand, clutching so tightly the feeling left his fingers. Just when he thought he could bear the pain no longer, her grip relaxed. To his horror, a wave of crimson flooded the sheets. Then, the baby slid from between her legs.

“Should I get the midwife?” he asked when he could tear his gaze away from the sight.

“Too late,” she replied. Her head lolled to the side and she closed her eyes.

“Mistress?” he whispered urgently, but she didn’t answer. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. What should he do? As a slave, he was not permitted in the mistress’s room alone with her. Mr. Herring had a heavy hand and just last year he’d beaten a housemaid near to death. Yet, Billy had to do something.

He slipped back out into the hallway and leaned against the door. At that moment, he heard a loud click. Startled, his heart seemed to leap up into his throat. However, instead of retribution, the Herring’s little daughter, Elizabeth, skipped down the corridor toward him. The nursemaid, Petunia, hurried after her.

“Miss Elizabeth, it’s time for your nap.”

“I want to see my mama.” The pretty little girl wore a stubborn expression.

“You’re mama is…” Petunia looked at Billy. Something in his face must have betrayed his predicament.

“Mama likes me to visit her.”

“Why don’t you stay here with Billy while I go check on your Mama? With the baby comin’, she needs her sleep too.”

To his relief, pretty Petunia opened the door and sidled into the mistress’s bedroom.

Elizabeth huffed out a sigh but gazed up at Billy with expectant eyes. He pulled a small sack of peppermint sticks out of his pocket and held it out to the little girl. She reached for the colorful candy but froze when a scream rent the air.

Within minutes, chaos filled the house. The mistress was dead.

Billy fought back tears. He’d been with the Herring family all his life, but had a soft spot for the beautiful woman his stern master had married. Even ill, Mrs. Herring’s courtesy and soft voice stood in stark contrast to her husband’s harsh treatment of the servants. Which made the last few months all the more puzzling.

When Mrs. Herring had been pregnant with Elizabeth, the household had been joyfully expectant. However, with this latest pregnancy, a shadow had fallen over everyone. Especially Mr. Herring.

That’s when the rumor filtered through the staff saying Mr. Herring had been cuckolded. As soon as she began to show, Mrs. Herring was confined to her room and friends and family turned away. All of them were told Mrs. Herring was ill, delirious, and eventually, insane.

Now she was dead.

Billy carried the small bundle down the stairs. It seemed a sacrilege to throw the tiny body away instead of burying the child with its mother. But he daren’t disobey Mr. Herring’s order. He reached the bottom of the stairs and shifted the oh-so-light package to one hand in order to open the hall door. It wiggled and his heart stood still.

Could it be?

Feeling more movement under his shaking fingers, he unwrapped the blanket to reveal a small, scrunched up face. The mouth opened in a yawn.

That’s when the horror of what he’d been asked to do sank in. Mr. Herring had known the baby was alive. Yet he’d demanded that it be thrown away like trash. A spark of rebellion filled Billy’s chest. He shot a look over his shoulder. The doctor and the mortician were still up with Mrs. Herring’s body. Mr. Herring had gone back to his study. There was no one to observe his movements.

Still, indecision fought within him. He’d only disobeyed an order once. The punishment had been severe, leaving his back and chest marked with puckered scars. The penalty would be worse if Mr. Herring were to ever find out.

A hissing noise caught his attention. Petunia stood in the doorway to his right. She beckoned him. With a last backward glance, he followed her twitching skirts as she led the way to the kitchen. Once behind the green baize door, she turned to him.

“What were you going to do with tha’ chil’?” she demanded.

“I—” The scent of the yeast rolls Cook had left on a tray for sandwiches made his mouth water. He swallowed his words and his spit. Mr. Herring’s mind hadn’t been on food, and with one thing or another, Billy hadn’t eaten. He swallowed, hard. “Mr. Herring instructed me to get rid of it.”

“Tha’ there baby is a chil’ of God, same as you and me.”

That was the answer. The church. “I’ll take the child to First Presby, then.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You give that little ’un to me.” Petunia held out her arms.

Billy hesitated. Minutes ago, he’d have been thrilled to have someone take this burden from him. Now, he didn’t want to give it over to someone else. But Petunia was the nursemaid; she would know better what to do with a baby than a single man who’d never married. The thought of his chores hung over him. With most of the house staff gone, he’d be responsible for hanging black cloths over all the windows and mirrors and making sure the house’s appearance befitted one of mourning. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “What will you do with it?”

“With her. The baby is a girl.” Petunia’s dark hands closed around the bundle and took it gently from his arms. Her expression softened as she gazed down into the infant’s face. “I know just where to take this little ’un, but I have to hurry. Miss Elizabeth is napping, but with all the commotion in the house, she won’t sleep long.”

“What will I tell Mr. Herring if he asks?”

Petunia’s dark eyes bore into his. “I don’t think he will, but if’n he does, tell ’im you drowned it like a kitten or burnt it up in the kitchen stove. That should please the devil.”

Billy’s stomach growled, and he cast a longing look toward the counter where cook had left a mound of butter and some sliced ham and cheese beside the rolls.

Petunia snatched a shawl off a hook and wrapped herself and the child in it. She gave him an impatient look. “Well, go on before he misses you.”

Without waiting to see if he left the kitchen, she slipped out the door. It closed behind her with a soft snick. Billy reached for a roll.

“Billy!” Mr. Herring bellowed.

Billy started and jerked his hand back. The man sounded as if he were standing right outside the door. What if he had heard the whispered exchange with Petunia? What if he’d changed his mind about the baby? What if—

His duties shouldn’t have taken him to the kitchen, but thinking fast, he snatched up the tray of sandwich makings. Billy hefted it and pushed through the door, nearly colliding with Mr. Herring’s bulk as he stood, his face red with drink and temper, in the parlor doorway.

Heat crept from Billy’s collar to his cheeks, but for once, he thanked the Lord for his black skin. Mr. Herring would never notice his blush. “Sandwiches, sir?”

Mr. Herring’s narrowed gaze dropped to Billy’s hands. Seeing the innocuous tray in them seemed to allay any of his suspicions. “Ah, yes.”

Billy followed Mr. Herring to the over warm study, where the doctor snoozed in a drunken haze by the fire. To Billy’s relief, Mr. Herring never did ask about the baby, nor did he seem to notice a roll and a couple of slices of ham were missing from the tray.

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WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

Two reality-show ghost-busting teams versus one haunted house.

The first team to successfully exorcise the spirits wins the renewal of their television contract. It sounds like a pretty straight-forward competition, but something or someone at Harrington House has another agenda.

Over the course of a weekend, the two teams with their respective technical advisers, a supposedly impartial network executive, and the beautiful owner of Harrington House find it isn’t just the ghosts who are running amok.

A killer is on the loose and if they don’t work together, they could all become permanent residents.

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Excerpt:


It was just a house.

From the outside, the residence looked like any of the other recently built tract homes in the development. The only difference was the bright blue trim. Inside, tasteful furnishings decorated the rooms and attractive artwork hung on the walls. Everything smelled new, the chemical scents of the rug and paint vied in the air. By appearance, the house was typical; however, something set this house apart from the others on the block. Their job was to find out what.

Malcolm McFee felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. In reality, it had only been two long years of standing in Ben Yamamoto’s shadow on the set of Happily Ever Afterlife. Oh, Malcolm had his fair share of fame, people knew his face, greeted him by name in the grocery store. But, and this was a big one, if he proved capable of running an entire investigation by himself, he wouldn’t just be consulting for the show anymore. Ben had promised him a regular spot, which would give him what he’d always wanted, legitimacy and recognition as a true medium.

Upstairs, a baby wailed.

Malcolm’s gaze shot over to the home owner, Fiona Sinclair. Pretty and petite with a bulging midsection, she had to be at least eight months pregnant. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question aimed at no one in particular. He hadn’t been told details of the haunting. His twin sister, Monica, the co-hostess of Happily Ever Afterlife, had done the intake form and all of the preliminary research. Her carefully schooled expression told him nothing.

He glanced over at Fiona again. Her baby hadn’t been born yet. Was there an older child in the home? He studied her face and demeanor. She wore a frightened expression, however, her body language spoke not of fear, but of watchfulness. He didn’t sense the energy force of a spirit, yet something about her raised his suspicion. From her posture, he deduced she was watching and waiting for something. Not unexpected, as subjects experiencing a haunting often wore anticipation like a second skin.

Monica offered a chair to Fiona. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No. I want you to make it stop,” Fiona whispered. “I mean, that’s what you do. You make ghosts go into the light or something, right?”

Unwilling to give her any assurances before he knew the true circumstances of the case, Malcolm didn’t answer Fiona’s question, but instead, hazarded a guess. “Did the phenomenon start when you got pregnant?” In many cases, hearing a baby crying started the minute the pregnancy was discovered and continued to feed off maternal doubts and worries until the baby was born.

“No, all the odd occurrences began about a month ago,” Fiona replied. To Malcolm’s dismay, she looked straight up into the lens and smiled.

Even as Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Ramon take his finger off the record button. Man, for an old geezer, he was quick on the uptake. He’d anticipated her interaction with the camera, known the footage would have to be edited out, and had stopped the recording instinctively. Although Ramon seldom spoke during any of the investigations and most people didn’t even notice him, he was an important part of the team. He documented eyewitness interviews and the walk-through of haunted areas and was also responsible for shooting still photos of each room, and setting up and taking down the sound equipment they used to document EVP, electronic voice phenomena.

Fighting a feeling of frustration, Malcolm tried to be ¬pleasant and failed. “Please don’t speak to the camera.”

When Fiona’s smile faltered, he added, “If you do, don’t worry. We’ll edit that section out for the show.”

“Oh, okay.” Fiona twisted her hands in her lap.

“So, this started one month ago.” Monica shot an irritated glance over at Malcolm. The smile she bestowed on Fiona was a sympathetic one. “Have you made any structural changes to the house?”

“No, but that’s when we decorated the baby’s room.”

“Is the furniture new or antique?” Monica asked. Her dark brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it back with an impatient movement before scribbling notes onto a yellow legal pad.

“Everything’s new.” Fiona craned her neck to see what Monica was writing in her notebook.

Good luck. Monica’s script, combined with the use of a modified version of shorthand, defied interpretation by even the most efficient secretary. He should know; they’d gone through four harried women since the show debuted two years ago. Now, as they prepared to start filming for the third season, Monica had been told she’d have to type up her own transcripts or risk the wrath of the network owner, Mr. Patterson. Malcolm wasn’t sure if the threat would induce her to write more legibly or not.

“So you correlate the phenomena with decorating the nursery?” Monica asked.

“Yes.” The words were affirmative, but Malcolm sensed Fiona was lying. Why?

Malcolm endeavored to read the atmosphere of the house. Perhaps something traumatic had occurred and the negative energy imprinted the events. Like a recording, the activity would play over and over again. The entities involved in a residual haunting activity were unaware of their actions, and did not react to the environment. Much like tire tracks on a dirt road, the imprints faded with time. He inhaled the clean scent of sawdust. Then, he got a whiff of fresh paint along with the assertion that something tragic had happened during the construction of the house.

He screwed up his face in concentration. Deaths sometimes occurred on job sites, but none of those potential occurrences explained the crying baby. Speaking of babies…

Malcolm found himself staring at Fiona. His psychic abilities were limited to interactions with the dead, although he occasionally got intuitive flashes. In his experience, spirits congregated around pregnant women. Mothers or other women who had been important in the expectant woman’s life gathered to support and celebrate the birth. There was no trace of any spiritual energy clinging to Fiona. Interesting…

“I’m going to start walking around and see what I can pick up,” Monica said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Good idea.” While he watched, Monica laid aside her pen and opened her capacious black shoulder bag. The first piece of equipment she extracted was an EMF meter. A popular ghost hunting tool used to detect unexplained electromagnetic fields often indicative of the presence of ghosts and spirits. With the meter in her hand, his sister began walking around the foyer. As she approached the staircase, he heard her gasp.

Surprised his usually unemotional sister would be taken aback by anything, Malcolm shot a glance at Monica as she studied the readout. She paced the perimeter of the room, approaching the same spot from different aspects as a dubious expression marred her pretty face. “I’m getting a huge EMF spike here at the bottom of the stairs. Malcolm, do you detect any spirits? Perhaps someone who might have had an accident or fallen here.”

He didn’t, but the absence of any visual confirmation didn’t mean no spirit lurked out of sight. The dead were often shy and only seen as flitting shadows. He’d not detected anyone so far, but refused to draw any conclusions from that. While Ramon snapped several photos of the area with a digital camera, Malcolm approached the staircase. If there had been a death here, the photos might pick up orbs, a vortex apparition, or some other anomaly indicative of a ghost or spirit.

The hair on his neck and arms stood on end. Feelings of dread washed over him. Such a strong physical reaction typically indicated a spirit’s presence.

Fiona’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Monica and then back. She scrambled to her feet, hand over her heart and chest heaving. “Did someone die at the bottom of the stairs?”

Malcolm hoped she wouldn’t run screaming out of the front door. He’d only had that happen once or twice before.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone died,” Monica said.

What?

Monica had a fixed smile on her face. She’d picked up on something he had missed. Dismay and disappointment vied inside him, and he tamped down a surge of anger. Damn it all. Why now? Why when he had so much riding on this. All he needed was one legitimate haunting to use for substantive proof of his abilities.

“May I examine the closet?” Monica asked.

“Why?” Fiona’s voice sounded sharp with suspicion. “There’s nothing in there but coats and some old equipment.”

“Equipment?” Before Fiona could protest further, Monica strode to the door and jerked it open.

Malcolm followed his sister and peered in over her shoulder.

Surprise, surprise. Inside sat an electrostatic generator. Malcolm wasn’t sure what use it performed on a construction site. Typically used in classrooms to demonstrate the effects of static electricity—cold chills, hair standing on end, and even the feeling of being touched—the machine had often been used by fake spiritualists to imitate a spirit’s presence.

“The contractor must have left that awful machine behind,” Fiona informed him. “My husband called the company yesterday. They said they would pick it up sometime today or tomorrow.”

“Did you know the generator was operating?” Malcolm inquired.

“No. Do you think the ghost switched it on?” Fiona’s eyes widened.

What poor acting. Malcolm coughed to avoid the derisive words threatening to spill out.

“This accounts for the EMF spike.” Malcolm reached around his sister and turned off the switch. “What sort of reading do you get now, Monica?”

“Nothing, only baseline.”

Shit, the haunting was a hoax. Yet, perhaps the crying child upstairs had nothing to do with this machine.

Visibly shaking and moaning about hating this house and its ghosts, Fiona sank back into the chair. Her brown eyes welled up, and a single tear flowed down her cheek, leaving a trail of mascara through her makeup.

Faker. Other men might be swayed by crying women, but he had a twin sister who’d only just recently graduated from her drama queen phase. It would take a lot more than a few crocodile tears to influence him.

Together, he and the team moved through the rest of the downstairs rooms. Monica waved her damn EMF meter around but detected no further abnormal readings.

They mounted the stairs. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms occupied the second story. The master suite was the first room at the top of the stairs. A bed, two dressers, and a large walk-in closet comprised the furnishing. A Jacuzzi tub dominated the attached bathroom. Malcolm, unable to surrender hope of this being a legitimate haunting, theorized if the fixtures had been recycled from another home, perhaps the haunting had been transferred to a new location. He ran his finger over the tap and was rewarded with the scene of a candlelit bubble-filled bath. He’d been right; the fittings weren’t new. However, what he’d sensed was an imprint. Shit. His hopes dimmed.

As one, the team moved on to the guest bedroom, furnished as a home gym. Malcolm took a deep breath. No scent of sweat lingered in the air, and the polished metal of the weights wasn’t marred by a single fingerprint. Why would someone have exercise equipment installed for show? Or, as he suspected, did no one actually live here?

He sighed and followed Monica down the hall. As soon as they approached the last room on the left, things began to happen. The baby’s cries, which had been silent for a full ten minutes or so while they’d been in the other rooms, started up with renewed vigor.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm reached out to try to connect with the distraught infant. For a room festively decorated with balloons and stuffed animals, the atmosphere felt detached. Try as he might, he detected no child’s spirit. His heart sank as he drew his final conclusion. Despite the desperate wails, no ghost child haunted this house.

Monica led the way into the room. As she crossed the threshold, the infant’s crying shut off like a switch. Monica shot him a look, one that signified she knew the ‘haunting’ was a hoax.

With a sigh of regret, he joined Monica in her search for the source of the child’s cries. While she examined the windowsills, he ran his hands along the trim of the door. Within a few seconds, his sensitive fingertips located the small light sensor buried in the wood.

He waved to attract Monica’s attention and then moved on to find the source of the sound. An unobtrusive baby monitor sat on the dresser, but even for these hoaxers, that seemed too obvious.

His sister, Monica, was more thorough in her investigation. She, too, might have suspected it would be the easy solution, but she examined the equipment anyway. While he watched, she picked up the monitor, switched it on and off, and even popped the batteries out of the back.

A shadow flitted along the wall. Startled, Malcolm spun around. Ramon stood in the doorway, recording their every move.

While Monica was occupied taking the baby monitor apart, Malcolm studied the rest of the room. It appeared to be ready for the baby’s arrival. Teddy bears decorated the diaper pail, bed, and mobile. A row of stuffed bruins sat at attention on the top of the dresser and an enormous Teddy sat in the glider rocking chair. A tinkling sound interrupted the silence. The mobile over the crib began to whirl of its own accord, playing a tinny ¬rendition of a popular lullaby. Hell, he even caught a whiff of the scent of baby powder in the room. Whoever had set this hoax up had covered all the bases.

Too bad no tortured soul lingered here, no baby in distress. However, proving the haunting was faked wouldn’t be easy. In the past, once the controlling wires were found, they could be followed back to their origin to debunk a ghostly presence. With the enormous popularity of wireless equipment, determining real ghosts from electronic ones had become more challenging. He spotted the speaker by chance. Cuddled in amongst all the assorted teddy bears was a brilliant green frog. He picked it up and hefted it, realizing the stuffed animal was too heavy to be filled with nothing but cotton batting or small plastic beads. His fingers found a heavy square item about the size of a cigarette pack buried in the animal’s fat midsection. No dissection would be needed to convince him that he held a small but powerful wireless speaker.

He smiled and waved the frog at Monica and then at Ramon. “Perhaps we’ll hear something if we go down the hall a bit. Are you picking up any other readings?”

Monica had replaced her trusty EMF meter with another popular piece of ghost-hunting equipment. This one was used to pick up radio transmissions. With long graceful movements, she swept the probe around the room searching for listening devices. Malcolm wasn’t surprised when she paused to examine the base of the lamp. The fixture emitted radio waves.

With a sense of regret, Malcolm left the room to stand in the hallway. Monica replaced her equipment back into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder before giving him a brisk nod. As soon as they were both a few feet from the doorway, the crying started up again. Malcolm led the way downstairs, and Ramon followed them at a trot.

Fiona met them at the bottom of the stairs. “So, can you get rid of the ghost?”

Malcolm tossed her the frog. “You’ll be hearing from the network,” he stated dispassionately.

“What? What do you mean?” Fiona’s eyes were wide with pretend astonishment.

Refusing to answer, Malcolm helped Ramon pack up all of his equipment while Fiona wrung her hands and demanded to know what they’d discovered.

As they gathered at the front door to leave, Monica faced Fiona. “We investigate ghosts, and by that I don’t mean the electronic, Disneyland versions. So if you ever encounter a real haunting, don’t hesitate to contact someone else. Have a good day.”

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DREAMSPELL STEAMPUNK VOLUME 1

DREAMSPELL STEAMPUNK VOLUME 1

Enjoy four Steampunk stories in this one anthology.

Steam Time by Pauline B Jones

The man formerly known as Tobias Smith hadn’t planned to ride along with Dr. Everly and his Medicine Show. Grifters gave him a pain their elixirs couldn’t heal. But he was headed to Marfa, too. And Everly’s son turned out to be a really a fine looking damsel—one in distress when the ghost lights of Marfa bump them into an alternate reality complete with an automaton gang and airships. Could he be the good guy? Be the hero, save the day and get the girl?

The Prometheus Engine by Chris Samson

When an airship is shot down over the desolate Kashmir landscape, seven survivors of disparate backgrounds must band together to escape. As a swarm of marauders approaches, the survivors’ only hope lies in the untested Prometheus Engine.

Steambot Rampage by Heather Massey

On the eve of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, a no-nonsense secretary and an intrepid reporter join forces to battle a bizarre automaton on a rampage.

Angelina by Linda Houle

Valerie is fascinated with an antique ruby and diamond pendant. Where did it come from and why was it hidden in a makeshift wall safe? An old log cabin on her new husband’s ranch holds the answers and a lot more, but once Val goes through a secret door will she ever find her way back home?

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Excerpt: Steam Time by Pauline B Jones

Ani called him stranger inside her head, because he sure wasn't a "Joe." To his face she didn't call him anything cause she couldn't call him what he wasn't. Hadn't said much of anything to him, not since he'd ridden over the rise three days ago and Pa invited him to ride along with them. He was headed to Marfa, too, though that was all he'd shared about himself of a personal nature. He didn't talk much, which suited Pa, since he talked enough for all of them, and a few more besides.

Wary for reasons she hadn't figured out yet, she'd watched him through her lashes, mostly at night around the campfire, though her gaze might accidentally stray his direction now and again in daylight. She took care not to meet that hard-as-a-drill gaze, since she was supposed to be a boy and she didn't feel like one when she looked at him. And if he looked too close he'd know she wasn't that young. Good thing she took after her blessed Ma, who had looked young until the day she went to her reward.

Ani'd exchanged skirts for pants when they took to the road selling the elixir from the rear of the wagon. Like her Pa, their wagon walked a fine line between serious and spectacle, as did his English accent. He claimed to be gentry, a younger son who'd eloped with the under housemaid and been shipped off to the colonies to remove the stain of his disgrace from the family name. Sometimes she believed it was true. She could talk gentry like him when the situation called for it, which it didn't that much. Mostly she looked peaked and moaned so her Pa could heal her. Her gaze skittered the stranger's way again. Not sure she could do either in front of him.

A lot of men had passed by--or even stopped to buy--since that day they took to the road, but none as interesting as the stranger. Big and likely looking, with a huge helping of tough in him, he had a cool gaze that saw things, though he was also a gentleman--or as much a one as her Pa. She saw it in the way her Pa reacted to him, how much it pleased Pa when the stranger called him "Dr. Everly" with just enough respect so as not to be obvious, heard it in the way he spoke, too.

Pa didn't seem to see the danger that lurked below the stranger's surface though he should. Danger clung like his clothes, fit him as well as they did, mingled with his scent that the night breeze sent her way every now and again. And lurking behind the danger she sensed a deep well of sad.

Unlike her Pa, Ani saw it all. One of them had to. Not everyone liked finding out you couldn't buy a miracle for a dollar. That's why they'd had to avoid Paisano settlement this year. No, what surprised her was how it felt to see those things in him. Made her feel all strange and sad, too, made her want to do something about it, despite the danger. Didn't think the stranger would let her do anything for him though and a good thing that was. Wanting to do something about a man had caught her Ma in the tangle of Pa's life. Ma had loved him to the end, but she saw him clear and told Ani to see him clear, too.

"Illusions are for magic shows," she'd said more than once, "not for living."

Pa, well, he preferred illusions and more than a few delusions. Heaven knew his amazing elixir was mostly both. The stranger? If he'd ever had illusions, she had a feeling he'd lost them long ago.

So Ani kept her head bent over her book, though she peered through her lashes, trying to see the stranger clear, to see past the odd stirring in her chest at the sight of the long limbs stretched toward the fire, and the broad shoulders settled against the wagon wheel. Tried not to note that the shadows on his face weren't all from the need to shave or the low hanging moon. He looked relaxed, well, as much as he could when he looked like he could whip his weight in wildcats.

"Jules Verne?"

It took her a few seconds--and her Pa clearing his throat--to realize the question was for her. She lifted her lashes, taking as long as she could before she had to meet his gaze. Felt a bit of a jolt when she did, a strange mix of cold and hot shivering through her. She nodded her answer, cause her voice caught in her throat and she wasn't sure it would come out low enough for the boy she was supposed to be. Another cough from her Pa got her to hold the book out for the stranger's inspection. He took it, keeping her gaze captive during the exchange, his hand brushing hers long enough to send another round of shivers through her. A relief when the gaze shifted from her to the book, though not enough to unclog her throat.

"The Steam House. Interesting choice."

What did he mean by that? It was sure the right choice for the boy she was supposed to be. Lucky she liked everything Verne wrote, wanted to write something like it, but with a griffin. Pa thought it made her look more like a boy to have a book in hand, boosted her peakedness, too.

The gaze lifted, slow like, and grabbed hers again. Made her want to run, though she couldn't say if it was away or--he couldn't know, could he? The high desert night was chilly, but Ani felt heat storm her cheeks and was glad for the darkness that hid most of the blush. Boys didn't blush, did they? Truth was, she didn't know as much as she should about boys or girls. When they hit a town she had to go into her act. Even after the healing folks tended to keep their distance, just in case.

Beyond the stranger, the first ghost light appeared, down toward the Chinati's. Didn't take it long to split into two, then into four. Showing some color this year. Felt the stranger's gaze pulling at her own, so she pointed at them to distract him, or maybe she needed it. The way he looked at her, made her feel odd, kind of discontented with how things were, how they had to be. How they'd always be? Sad mingled with discontented at that thought.

By the time he looked, there were twelve in the sky. The stranger's brows arched just a bit. "The Marfa lights. So that's what they look like."

Almost seemed he spoke to himself, but Pa grabbed the opening anyway, did some expounding on the differences they'd observed their last three years in the area, on how they didn't always show up in the same place. Her Pa did like spectacle, and so it seemed, did the ghost lights, as they began to scoot around. They didn't always, and this was her first time to see color, though the locals had told them it could happen.

The stranger rose, moved away from the fire, taking her book with him. Ani bit her lip, fighting the urge to go get it, when she knew she should keep her distance from the stranger. I want to finish the chapter is what she told herself when she scrambled to her feet, fighting--for the first time in a long time--to keep the girl from her walk as she eased in beside him.

Be a good thing when they reached Marfa and parted company. A good thing, she repeated, not sure why she felt the need.

This was the first time she'd stood this close, could compare his height with hers. Didn't know why the ways they were different felt kinda right, kinda nice even. He was a border ruffian and dangerous to boot. But she'd lived safe for so long, it felt like life had passed her by. Been put on the shelf before she had a chance to be off it--

"Have you ever followed them to their source?" The stranger shifted to look at Pa, the movement putting a bit more distance between them, though Ani caught a glancing blow as his gaze passed her on its way to Pa's.

Pa rose and came to stand next to her. "Some have tried."

Ani heard the change in his voice, half amused at the notion of chasing lights, half tinged with a bit of longing to try it.

"As a man of science, I would, of course, be able to unravel the mystery, if I didn't have responsibilities to those unfortunate sick who need the healing that I bring to this blighted region."

Translation: he was tired, the night was cold, and the fire helped a mite to ease the ache in his bones from the wagon's jolting.

Pa moved further from the circle of light cast by their fire, as if the ghost lights drew him. Before she could stop it, Ani sent a huffed look the stranger's way. If they started chasing the ghost lights, they'd most likely come in at the little end of the horn this winter. Though, she half glanced at the lights, they did kind of seem to beckon. Almost teasing-like.

"I think I might just take a ride that way," the stranger said, though it sounded like he was talking to himself again.

She felt a pain in her chest at the thought of him leaving. And a good thing, she reminded herself, rubbing the pain spot.

His gaze slanted her way, catching her at it. "Want to ride along?"

Shock, longing, and a desire to hide widened her eyes and muted her voice again.

"Boy would like that." Pa's words didn't help her speaking problem any. "You wouldn't mind a little adventure on this fine night, would you? See the elephant so to speak?"

He wanted her to go with the stranger? Then she figured it out. Didn't want the stranger finding out anything Pa couldn't. If they discovered something, he could take credit later. She half sighed as that odd feeling welled up in her chest again. She had seen the elephant more than she liked with Pa, but--and this was the odd part--seeing it seemed a mite appealing with the stranger at her side. Or maybe she was just weary with being safe. Be better if the elephant turned out to be a griffin though.

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VALLEY OF OBSESSIONS by Betty Gordon

VALLEY OF OBSESSIONS by Betty Gordon

Desiree's passion for ancient Egyptian culture leads her on a dangerous trip down the Nile.

Can Desiree Roberts leave her law career in Texas and become a 1980's Egyptian?

Will the country that has captivated her since childhood embrace her, or will it lead her down dangerous paths fraught with deception and betrayal?

As Desiree follows her dreams and treks through shifting sands, she enters portals of pharaohs long since entombed. Her obsessions lure her into alien territory filled with suspicious characters - where someone wants to end her fantasies.

How far will he go?

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Excerpt:

Desiree’s dreams climaxed as she stood in front of her love, in spite of unnatural fears that played along her spine. Tension gripped her as she felt his hands cradling and caressing her head, threading his fingers through her hair. Gentle sensations drifted down her arms that she met with quick agility. She backed away, waving her hands in fan-like motions before rushing into open air.


In minutes, Sandy was by her side. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind, Desiree Roberts? What’s wrong with you?”

She whispered a weak apology, touching her palm to her heart. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, and maybe I am, but he touched me. He actually caressed me.”

“You’re certifiable. That’s absolutely impossible. Understand? Impossible. Now, relax a few minutes if you can in this horrendous heat—then we’re going back.”

“Don’t think so.”

“You may not think so, but you’ve waited a long time to see this man. Pull yourself together—we’re going back.”

Desiree felt Sandy squeeze her arm. She jerked free, watching tourists plod through the sand, exploring tombs in one of the most visited valleys in the world—the Valley of the Kings. In less than five minutes, she sensed Sandy pushing her toward the dark passageway, nudging her forward. The narrow path forced them to walk single file, but Sandy’s hand remained on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to hold me. I’m not going to run away.”

“Making sure. Go on—right behind you.”

When they were halfway down the tunnel, the women paused, laboring to breathe alien air. In minutes they once again faced the magnificence of Tutankhamen. Desiree’s eyes locked onto his black ones that promised nothing yet everything, eyes rimmed in cobalt, laid to rest in gold. Desiree whispered, “I can’t believe I’m finally looking into your face. You’re no longer just in my dreams.”

Her mother’s words echoed in her ears, “I swear, if I believed in other lives, which I don’t, you had to be an Egyptian princess.” Oh, mother, she thought, if I didn’t believe in other lives before, I would now.

She stole a glance at her friend. Sandy, who had agreed to come on this trip after a promise of her first and last child as well as anything else she wanted. When they were seven, they swore to be together forever and never refuse each other anything. Unfortunately, Sandy didn’t share her fondness for anything and everything Egyptian—in fact, quite the opposite. Desiree smiled, wondering how someone like Sandy, who thought mummies were spooky, felt now in the presence of this young king. If her friend were honest, as she stood looking at the sarcophagus, the magnificent sarcophagus of King Tutankhamen before her, she couldn’t deny the mysticism surrounding them. Even so, Desiree decided to handle her friend carefully. She knew she had experienced something supernatural, but she didn’t need to put this on her—at least not now.

Desiree whispered, “Thanks for making me come back, or maybe I should say forcing me to come back. I’m glad you did. It means so much that you’re sharing this dream with me. You know better than anyone how long I’ve fantasized about all this.”

“C’mon, don’t get sappy. Besides, you don’t have to thank me because this is one of the most inspiring sights I’ve ever seen.”

Des beamed, “I knew you’d come around.” Excitement quickened her voice. “Loosen up and think about how much time has passed since Tut died in, what was it? 1352 BC, I believe, yet this pharaoh continues to capture people’s imagination all over the world. Think how many make this journey to the Valley of the Kings every year to look at his golden image as we’re doing now. I don’t think the thirst for anything and everything new about his life will ever stop.”

Not waiting for a comment, Des continued. “I know you have to be impressed by the wall paintings. They are magnificent. Say, maybe you could paint something like that when we get home.”

Sandy chuckled. “That’s the spunky monkey I know and love. As for painting something like we’re looking at, I’m just a Sunday painter—you know that. It’s remarkable though these pigments have endured, or at least partially endured, for centuries.” Taking a breath, she went on, “I may not know a lot about all this, but it makes me mad as hell that people touch the tomb walls and leave their brands of destruction—not so different from the grave robbers if you ask me.” Not getting a response, she glanced at Desiree.

“Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox now.” Her comments went unanswered.

“What I’d give to see the tomb as Howard Carter saw it in 1922. Can you imagine his exhilaration?” Sandy started to reply, but Des held up her hand, “I know, I know. We can see the treasures in the Cairo Museum, but it’s not the same as actually seeing them in the original tomb.”

Sandy released a sigh. “What I was going to say, if you’d give me a chance, there’s something eerie about the dead confronting the living like this, or suppose you could say the living confronting the dead.”

“In a way, but if you had read more about the Egyptians’ beliefs before we came…”

“So I should have read more—too late now.”

Des finally managed to tear her eyes from the glorious vision before her and noticed she and Sandy were alone.

“Hey, we’re by our lonesome. How about that?”

“Didn’t notice—too caught up in this.”

They smiled, enjoying a special moment. Des whispered, “Absolutely wondrous! This is by far the most glorious sight I’ve ever seen.”

Sandy didn’t answer but rubbed her arm reassuringly. “Hey, your arm is cold as ice and you’re trembling. It’s hot as H-E-double L in here. What’s going on?”

Des returned her question with her own. “I don’t know. How could I be cold in a hundred plus degrees?” Her knuckles turned white from gripping the metal fence separating her from the regal coffin before a razor-like sharpness invaded her head.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but I have to get out of here.”

“Out? You want out? Not again.” Sandy’s words echoed in the burial chamber. “We’ve only been back a few minutes. You’ve waited all your life to get here, not to mention that we had to pay extra bucks to get in this tomb, little princess. The tour bus will leave before we get another chance. Calm down and look a little more.”

Des’ face paled. “I mean it. I have to leave.”

They rushed into open air once again.

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STEAMROLLED by Pauline Baird Jones

STEAMROLLED by Pauline Baird Jones

With all of time at risk, it's a bad time to fall in love...unless it's the only time...

Robert Clementyne is going on a transmogrification machine hunt. He fears finding the machine will be as difficult as pronouncing the name. How can the steam-powered device perform as advertised, and how useful can any information be, coming from a steampunk themed bowling alley/museum?

It's pretty crazy, but he's been there, done that, and thinks he can handle it. And then he meets the proprietor/curator...Emily Babcock.

Emily grew up in crazy, still lives in it - hey, it's her freaking zip code. So no worries when Robert and his team walk into her bowling alley. The first visitors ever to her museum.

But neither of them is prepared for what happens when they open the door to the past...and the future. With a side trip through Roswell...and a face-to-face meeting with an evil genius/wannabe - who is on his way to becoming evil overlord-of-everything...

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Excerpt:

Time is persistent.

And often cranky.

Ashe had learned these immutable truths during her relatively short stint in the Time Service—okay so almost everything was relative in the Service—but inside the stream, with sparks striking off her protective gear, cranky felt like an understatement. Lurch kept her stomach in place through the turbulent spots—one of the benefits of hosting a nanite—but she was glad they were closing on the base. She slowed, preparing for reintegration into base time, then gave a kick that would land her just off square.

Didn’t like arriving where expected.

She sensed Lurch’s mental sigh over her sideslip. He preferred precision to surprise, though he wouldn’t admit it—or concede the wisdom in retaining a small measure of paranoia.

She softened her knees for the coming jolt against terra firma, but nothing prepared her for a landing on terra that wasn’t firma. She skidded a few feet, even managed to stay upright for several of those feet, before tumbling to a stop against a large tree.

While she deployed a random selection of the billion or so swear words she’d learned from Lurch, he sent repair nanites into areas of her body impacted by the messy landing. When she’d caught her breath, she crawled out from under the tree—not easy with multiple tremors wrenching the terra in several directions at once—and stared up at the multiple, explosive impacts slamming into the protective shields. That explained the tremors, but not the reason for the impacts.

The outpost is under attack.

Really? I hadn’t noticed. When he failed to respond to her completely justified sarcasm, she started to clear her mental throat for round two—outpost? The island on the Kikk Ocean hadn’t been called “outpost” in two, maybe three hundred years. Are you having a senior moment? He was passing his five hundredth Earth year. He didn’t like it when she started adding his age up in Garradian seasons, so she only added those up when he’d seriously annoyed her. And she felt like doing the math, which wasn’t that often, since he declined to assist in that particular process.

We aren’t on the base.

Guess he didn’t like the “senior moment” dig. Well, she didn’t like the implication she’d landed in the wrong time, though she had to concede it was the wrong place. This wasn’t the landing square, or even its close cousin. But, other than the under-attack part, this looked like the base and smelled like the base. I did not miss the mark by several hundred years.

I suspect the mark missed you.

Not helping. No matter what one called it, this island was a fixed point on the planet of Kikk. It’s not like the base had changed that much since its rediscovery—or the many seasons of Garradian time that had passed. It had been timeless before it became the Time Service base. It had even recovered from the battle damage incurred during the conflict with the Dusan five hundred Earth years ago.

Take a closer look.

Overhead, red and gold highlighted the area the shields protected—she frowned, as her brain processed the visual recording. Only the center section of the island appeared to be under attack, which should not be possible.

Ashe started—and quickly stalled—on what to ask. Lurch’s pause was both over long and unusual. In her experience he tended to provide answers before she could think the questions. It wasn’t easy sharing her brain with the venerable nanite and she had to assume it wasn’t easy being in her less-than-venerable head, though he’d never thought it where she could hear it. He’d acquired a lot of tact in the years since he’d achieved sentience. While she didn’t know exactly when it was, she did know it was a tiny fraction of the time behind her, and that she had a ways to go with tact development—and some other stuff.

He tapped into the base’s resources. She felt the connection through him and saw what he saw as he spiked into the tracking screens in the command center—in what had been the command center long before her time. It was a bit like watching a very old news vid, seeing the old style uniforms—the Earth uniforms. Neither the arrangement of ships, nor did their appearance, matched her data-memory of any battle from that time.

They are from Keltinar.

There weren’t any battles with Keltinar. Keltinar was an ally, well sort of, had been for the passing of many seasons. They’d threatened and postured a few times—a stereotypical patriarchal society back then—but in the end made peace. They’d come to this galaxy to solve a resource problem, she recalled, pulling the specifics out of her data memory bank, a female shortage issue because all the guys wanted boy babies. They’d almost taken too long to figure out they required girls to get guys. Time and a trading agreement with an Earth entity called mailorderbrides.com, created just to fill the need, had improved the ratio, then tipped it the other way. Now their world was heavily matriarchal.

They’d found out what the Garradians knew all too well: Earth girls weren’t that easy. She paused, surprised when Lurch failed to follow up on the opening.

The battle is bleeding through a tear in time.

Again, did not know what to ask. It should be impossible, shouldn’t it? Staring at it didn’t help it feel possible when it looked so wrong, but since she was staring at it, it must be possible. She felt Lurch wince. Kind of echoed that wince.

This battle took place a long time ago. In an alternate time line.

He tacked this last on with such obvious reluctance, it suggested he thought she needed to know about a battle that hadn’t happened, but wasn’t happy telling her about it. She could ask him what else he knew, but he already hadn’t told her, so he probably wouldn’t share any more.

You need to move ten meters up island to clear the breach.

No, did not plan to share more. Easy to say she should move, not that easy to do. She longed to jump back into the stream, but what if she got stuck in the alternate time line? Was that possible? No surprise time felt off, the stream out of synch once she got the shock and awe under control enough to notice.

I’m going to have to run for it.

First she’d have to get up off her knees, also easier thought than done. Lurch flowed drones into her muscles and boosted her adrenal function. He also heightened visual acuity, helping her map the best route. She managed upright, found her balance and darted forward.

Are you sure we can pass through the edge of the breach? It was something she should have asked before committing to the run. Lurch’s lack of answer was an answer of sorts. Great.
The edge of the breach shimmered a bit, as if lit by flares of the weapons from the bombardment. Lurch sent another surge through her muscles—trying to increase her physical capabilities as a warning blasted through her mind. She raced toward what could be a wall, while the display inside her head showed a section of the upper shields giving way—the part just above her.

It’s going to be close.

A whistle of something incoming lent wings to her final effort. They were both fully committed as she launched herself at the edge of the breach…and passed through it. Felt the explosion hit against it, but for whatever reason, the wall contained the blast, even though it failed to contain her.

Possibly because the battle belongs in that reality and we don’t.

Ashe rolled several times, bumping against a pair of legs.

Not that much better than a tree.

“Cadet.” The word sounded more sigh than anything.

Council Head Carig had resisted letting her into the service, despite indications women had been wardens at some point ¬either in the past or the future—another one of those relative effects one had to wrap one’s brain around in the Time Service. Not that she wanted to wrap her brain around him. He was a fossil in looks and attitude. And he had a serious hate for her family, even though he was supposed to have left it behind when he became a member of the governing Council.

Of course, she shouldn’t know his name—no one wanted those traversing time to know who they were or when they were—but Lurch never forgot a face or a name.

She scrambled up, grateful to Lurch for erasing the aches and pains yet again. Her protective headgear retracted automatically as she came to attention. A pity he couldn’t remove the signs of the various impacts from her outer person. Carig’s gaze found and paused to note each violation of the uniform code. It didn’t help to know her uniform was silver, shiny, fitted—like some perverse, centuries old Earth science fiction movie creature. It would have horrified the Council had any of them bothered to watch one of those old vids though possibly not enough to alter the uniform design. No surprise that change was slower than time in the Time Service.

“Do I want to know the reason for that rookie arrival?” He sneered down his nose at her, even though they were almost the same height. If he was looking at her chest, he had to be disappointed. Her uniform flattened her chest to just shy of concave.

She opened her mouth, a tart response about the breach making it to the tip of her tongue, before Lurch yanked it back. A good move, since tart could get her kicked out. She might not like the cut of her uniform, but she was proud to have earned the right to wear it. She tried to frame a less tart response about the tear. Lurch yanked that back, too.

He doesn’t know about the tear. He can’t see it.

Actually, she couldn’t see it anymore either. That left her nothing but a pseudo-respectful silence.

“You’re late.”

She wasn’t—and how could she be late when they were out of time’s flow—but one didn’t argue with the Head of the Time Council. Besides, they had worse problems than a tardy cadet. Now that she was back in base time tremors—not weapon’s fire—slammed into the time shields that hid them from the larger universe and protected them from changes. In theory, the shields also enabled them to ensure time’s continued integrity. Ashe hoped they held better than the shields in the time tear.

Do you know what’s happening?

Rather than answer the question, Lurch began to feed her data he could access now that they were free of the breach. She didn’t know everything Lurch could do—a successful hosting was only possible if both sides respected the other’s privacy—but she knew that if he wanted to know something, there was no one within the Council hierarchy who could stop him from finding it out. The data was interesting and disturbing, and it boiled down to one simple conclusion: time was seriously out of whack.

Just in case she hadn’t noticed.

Look at this. Lurch brought the tracker log to her attention.

That can’t be right. No way that many trackers would be overdue all at the same time.
It sounds less threatening than “missing.” Lurch sounded as if he were still searching through data streams. The missing are all top-tier trackers. Some mid-level, too. There are some not yet overdue but if they show, I’ll be surprised.

Lurch, as she well knew, was rarely surprised.

Ashe had only recently left rookie status, so no one knew how good she was at tracking—in large part thanks to Lurch—so it wasn’t a shock she hadn’t been targeted. It’s always better to be underestimated was another family axiom.

It’s not all me, he told her, a touch dryly. You’re a natural.

The rare compliment left her mentally speechless.

Could you try to focus?

Lurch felt about as not happy as Ashe had ever felt him feel before. It was a lot of unhappy. She felt another shock wave hit the perimeter, harder than the last one, but Carig seemed unaware of it. Unclear if he was oblivious or bluffing.

He can’t see or feel time. In all my existence, I’ve never been hosted by someone who processes time the way you do. Who sees time the way you do. Still the base sensors should be detecting something.

She didn’t ask the obvious question, because if he knew he’d tell her unless he didn’t want to tell her, which he wasn’t or couldn’t.

Sometimes you make my circuits hurt.

Sorry.

“Report to the Chamber immediately.” Carig barked the command. Since barking was his usual tone, it was hard to tell if he was worried.

She left Carig, with a half-hearted attempt to hide her relief, turning toward the main building. It was inside what had been the breach, but whatever had caused the problem seemed resolved. She crossed the boundary with no problems. The sky above stayed clear and calm. No more shooting-at-them-ships.

Any ideas? Theories? Wild guesses?

That Lurch hesitated yet again was troubling. Based on known theory, this level of turbulence can have two causes. Someone is messing with time.

The missing trackers appeared to support that thesis. And the other?

Time could be repairing itself. It is…persistent.

I had heard that. Only three million or so times since she entered the Service, but who was counting.

I have experienced time repairing itself. It was…challenging.

Challenging?

And nearly life extinguishing.

Which could also explain the missing trackers, she realized. Ashe knew a lot of ways to express worry verbally, thanks to Lurch, but only one Earth word seemed right for the moment.

Crap.

Indeed.

THE LONESOME LAWMEN TRILOGY by Pauline Baird Jones

LONESOME LAWMEN TRILOGY by Pauline Bard Jones

Three great romantic suspense novels and a bonus short story in one ebook!

The Last Enemy 

A lawman rescues a romance writer, but can she rescue his heart?

Two men need her. One needs her dead. Author Dani Gwynne must plot her own survival, working against time, terror and her fear of heights. Deputy US Marshal Matthew Kirby is the lawman in charge of finding Dani - before she's killed by elusive killer who has never missed his mark...until now. With the clock ticking down on their macabre game of hide and seek, Dani must defeat a killer who won't stop until he gets what he wants. Or he destroys them all trying…

Byte Me 
A lawman meets his perfect match. Too bad she’s a high tech thief…

Deputy US Marshal Jake Kirby is a top tracker, who always gets his fugitive. Now he's hot on the trail of a gang of cyberthieves with an unusual agenda. That trail takes him to Colorado and a country and western bar managed by the sexy, mysterious Phoebe Mentel. Instant attraction quickly complicates this high tech chess game between two people who don't know how to lose and are afraid to fall in love.

Missing You 
A lonely lawman finds love again. If only she could remember her name…

Denver Homicide detective Luke Kirby is looking for some peace and quiet when he heads up to the family cabin in the mountains. Instead he finds trouble. A beautiful and mysterious woman has taken refuge in his cabin as a storm moves in. She's lost her memory but not the trouble on her trail. While Luke tries to help her figure out who she is, his brothers arrive in town, needing his help with a murder and a missing secret military project. Now the brothers Kirby must join forces when she disappears…

Lonesome Mama
Debra Kirby's boys aren't lonesome anymore, and now the long time widow finds herself pining for a bit of adventure and romance in her life. When Donovan Kincaid offers a plane ride to a friend's wedding, neither of them expect trouble, but that's just what they get. Now the "lonesome mama" is having her own adventure and her own romance - if she can survive.

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Byte Me

 By

Pauline B. Jones

 

Prologue

 

Overhead, tiny pinpoints of light gave depth to the moonless night sky, while thirty stories down, miniature streetlights made a path for the occasional car to follow. The silence was so deep, Phoebe Mentel heard her own breath whispering in and out of her lungs. She leaned on the parapet and studied the tower across from her and her companion, taking the moment to find her focus and quiet her mind. 

 "You ready?" he asked. She turned as he dropped his bundle of equipment at her feet and knelt to extract the rocket launcher. He was dressed to steal in deepest black. Only his eyes gleamed out of the dark, eyes far too blue to be true.

            Lucky for her, she didn't need true. She needed there. 

"I was born ready." She spoke softly, but her voice, lightly laced with her mother's Southern charm, sounded loud in her ears. Also dressed to blend with the night, she'd covered her chin length hair with a black stocking cap and smeared her face with blacking until only her brown eyes were visible.  

His smile came fast and white, cutting into his dark silhouette like a lost Cheshire cat before fading back into the night. He readied the launcher, then used the parapet to steady his arms as he sighted in on the shadowy outline of the tower opposite.

A pop. A hiss. A double strand of rope snaked across the gap between the two buildings in a gleaming, silver arc. A muffled clunk found its way back to their ears. 

He tugged on the rope until the grappling hook resisted. He tested it for give. There was none. He leaned back, using his full weight to tug again. It still held. He secured their end with brisk, practiced economy, then bent to check his climbing harness. When he’d shouldered his pack and was securely anchored to the rope, he looked at her.

Phoebe adjusted her earpiece. "You receiving?"

He nodded. "You?"

"Soft and clear."

"Catch you on the flip side." He gave her a cheeky salute and vaulted over the parapet into space. The double rope sagged but held as he disappeared into the night. After a time the tension on the rope eased.

"It's a go." His voice in her ear confirmed what her eyes saw. Her turn to step up and do or die.

In a perfect mimicry of his actions, Phoebe took her place at the parapet. A confident vault, her body kept angled against a gravity more imagined than felt, then the slide into darkness. Moving slowly at first, she quickly picked up speed. The side of the building formed out of shadow. She curled her legs and thrust out with her feet, using the resulting bounce to swing up and hook the edge of the roof. Her partner, programmed to be gallant, reached down and pulled her up beside him.

Phoebe shed her pack and knelt by the grill over the building’s airshaft and quickly removed it, while he got out their equipment, all of it the latest in high-tech gadgetry. When she'd exposed the alarm wires bypassed them, they roped up again and started down the shaft, following a route laid out in her head. It was a gift, a talent, an instinct that was as much a part of her physiology as her eyes and hair and what she'd heard was her father's nose. If there was a way to get to something, a path to follow, she could find it.

Deep in the building's bowels, cutting-edge technology opened the wall they needed to access as easy as a whore spread her legs, giving them the prize they sought. They lost two minutes when a guard broke routine, but made up the time on the trip back to their starting point. Phoebe released the rope and drew it in with a sigh of relief. 

"I think that was our best time yet," her companion said, the English accent giving the words more importance than they deserved.  

Phoebe frowned. "If we could shave off another sixty seconds¾“

The muffled shrill of her telephone, followed by the harsh whine of two computers attempting communication, cut across her words with a warning that her virtual reality game was about to be invaded.

Phoebe looked around, wondering where, from which direction, the invasion would come, but when Phagan spoke, his voice, disembodied and synthesized, came at her from the star studded night "sky."

"Playing with Steele again, Pathphinder?"

"Phagan." Phoebe touched a button on her headset, deleting the virtual Remington Steele she'd used as her partner-in-crime. She crossed virtual arms. "Coming down? Or are we playing God tonight?"

It was his favorite role, in virtual or real reality.

The darkness to her right rippled, and a figure stepped out from behind a ventilation stack. On Phagan's cue, not Phoebe's, the moon rose to light his entrance as Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerrard from “The Fugitive.”

She grinned inside her headset. Trust him to crash her B&E game with a lawman. The boy had always had a dark and wicked sense of humor.

"My enemies, and some of my friends, say I can only play Lucifer," he drawled, his voice only slightly less disembodied now that he was "earthbound.”

"I'll pretend to disagree if you've cast me decently this time." Phoebe trusted Phagan with her life but not her dignity. Never with her dignity.

He walked a circle around her, his purloined visage showing a wicked appreciation for the female form. "I'm feeling benign tonight, with a taste for Meg Ryan."

"I look like Meg Ryan?"

He arched "Sam's" brows. "Do you mind?"

"Why should I? She's cute and her thighs are smaller than mine."

Phagan laughed, throwing "Sam's" head back. The faint, artificial light was kind to the craggy face and dark tumble of stolen hair. Sam seemed amazingly real—as long as Phagan kept his mouth shut. When he didn't, he sounded like the android from hell. Phagan never used his own voice. Like God, he preferred a mouthpiece.

She'd been playing his games for seven years and still couldn't put an actual face or a voice to him. Sometimes, in her real world, she'd study the faces around her, wondering if one of them belonged to him. There were things he’d said, things he did that told her he'd seen her more than once.

"You do it?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the building across the way.

"Despite you wanting the timing tighter than Meg Ryan's thighs."

"You needed a challenge. The last one was too easy."

"Not my fault," Phoebe said. "You're the wizard of virtual world."  

He straddled a ventilation pipe, sat and flashed his stolen grin. 

She smiled back, but absently. She had to tell him, but she didn't want to. She wanted to keep the past at bay, but she couldn't. It nicked her present like paper cutting skin, welling scarlet from the breach, burning like acid. 

"What?"

Instead of speaking, Phoebe produced a couple of virtual cigars, handing one to him and "lighting" hers. Virtual smoke was no threat to her lungs and it gave her something to do with her hands. A wise precaution, since even in virtual world Phagan could read them like a Gypsy.

With a purloined brow cocked, he took his and lit up, blowing smoke out in a stream before asking, "We celebrating something?"

Phoebe looked at Phagan but "Sam's" cool dark stare deflected her ability to read him, even as she felt his X-ray scrutiny rake her from top to toe. She blew a series of perfect smoke circles, with a little help from the computer program, before saying as flatly as she could, "I found him."

Phagan stood up, took a drag of the cigar, then rolled the brown cylinder between his fingers as he considered her words. "You sure?"

Phoebe lowered her cigar, her hands a work of rock-steady art.  "I'm sure."

Phagan turned his virtual high beams on her, waiting for more. With a vaguely frustrated sigh, she gave it to him. "He's had some work done on his face. But I'd know his eyes if he'd turned himself into a woman."

"Sam" looked thoughtful. He sent some smoke rings out to ambush hers, before asking as if it didn't matter, "Where?"

She looked at him, feeling a brief moment of real amusement take the edge off her angst. "Denver."

Phagan had Sam do surprise. "No shit? How'd we miss him?"

"He's been playing Howard Hughes recluse."

Phagan crushed out the cigar. "So how'd you spot him?"

"Apparently he's decided to come out. Caught his mug in the newspaper. It seems--" Phoebe couldn't stop the quiver in her hands from playing out in front of Phagan, "he's almost got himself engaged to a prominent widow."

"Sam's" gaze got sharper. "Kids?"

"Two." Phoebe licked her dry lips inside the VR helmet. "Girls."

He nodded slowly. "Right. I'll contact Ollie. Make sure he's ready to move when you are."

"I'm ready." Inside the headset where he couldn't see, Phoebe's mouth curved in a smile seared by her acid past. "He made me ready."

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TANGLED IN TIME by Pauline Baird Jones

TANGLED IN TIME by Pauline Baird Jones

Colonel Carey (from The Key and Girl Gone Nova) takes a test "flight" through the Garradian time-space portal, but an unexpected impact lands him somewhere and some when. As he attempts to get to Area 51, he crosses paths with Miss Olivia Carstairs, who could be Mary Poppins' twin sister. Or maybe her cousin. Olivia's got a transmogrification machine powered by steam and a mouth he'd like to kiss like it was his job. Can he convince her to join forces before she shoots him with her derringer?

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Excerpt:

Braedon Carey, Col. USAF, was used to waking up in strange places.

He wasn't used to waking up nose-to-beak with a buzzard.

He stared at the buzzard. The buzzard stared at him.

It dawned on him he had a buzzard on his chest.

He yelled. He may have waved his arms at it as he scrambled to his feet. With an air of offended dignity, it retreated to a chunk of rock. Carey retreated, too, and did an SA--situational awareness--assessment. It didn't take long.

He knew where he was supposed to be and this wasn't it.

He'd flown over, driven through, and trained in and around, Area 51. He knew it as well as he knew his Dauntless. This is what he got for playing test pilot without a ship. No surprise it had turned into a Charlie Foxtrot right off the launch pad--or in this case, right out of the Garradian portal. At least the pucker factor was low with that buzzard gone from his chest. He'd been fine when he left the Kikk Outpost, but now his ribs hurt, a sign he'd bent them on something inside the wormhole. Was that possible? He shifted gingerly. His ribs said it was. His brain was neutral on any subject that involved physics--not that he knew this was a physics problem. His skill set involved pointing, shooting and blowing things up. Until this moment, he'd also have said he was good at getting from point A to point B, but he hadn't been driving. The doc and her geek team had been on the stick for this trip.

He picked up his cap and slapped it against his leg before settling it on his head. He pulled out his GPS, but it couldn't get a signal. If the GPS wasn't working, then the SAT phone probably wouldn't either, but he tried it anyway. He gave it a shake and tried it again. Something was gooned up. Had he bent his tech the same time he bent his ribs? The tech didn't look bent. He shook both. Didn't sound bent. He tried them again, just to be sure. Still no joy.

He extracted his compass next. It found a pole, but it had found a pole on Kikk. Some tech had no loyalty to their home planet. He eased the bill of his cap up some and did a slow circle, taking care not to make eye contact with the buzzard. Could the doc have dropped him on the wrong planet? She'd seemed to know what she was doing, while admitting she might not, he recalled now. Kind of like those drug commercials. This will work great unless something goes wrong, which it might. Could the misfire goon up his retrieval? The doc had been confident while managing to not be confident about that part, too.

He caught the buzzard looking at him like he was a buffet opening soon. It took flight, rising in a series of slow circles that kept him at the center, so Carey wouldn't get to thinking he'd lost interest. With that red noggin and turkey-like build, it could be a turkey vulture. If he recognized the buzzard, maybe he'd recognize something else. There'd been a few years in there, until Carey got too cool to go tripping with his old man, where they'd visited every national and state park within driving distance. He'd seen a serious chunk of the USA on those road trips. Could this be one of those chunks? He gave the chunk his undivided attention.

Looked like he'd landed in a long valley, a cut between two offset peaks. The incline was brutal going up and down. Toward what could be the west, was a long desert plain, and rising from it, a set of peaks that looked familiar. Was it hopeful thinking? Two peaks. Two ears...mule ears? They looked kinda like mule ears. Mule Ears Peak. He'd seen them before, but where? He needed to get higher. Couldn't see crap in this valley. Up always improved SA. His ribs grumbled dissent.

He could make his ribs happy, sit tight until his extraction--if it came. Not the place he'd have picked, but he had water and energy bars for a few days. The buzzard's shadow passed over him. On the other hand, maybe he ought to keep moving. Ribs didn't feel broken--he'd know--so they could man up. Bad idea to give a buzzard false hope.

Sun rode low in the east. A bit of a chill in the air. Based on the ground cover, he'd guess it was early spring. He was supposed to have arrived in late fall and in another state--not that he was complaining, because who would he complain to? The buzzard that wanted to eat him?

He started up, using the scrub as handholds to keep from taking an involuntary down turn, while his ribs groused at him. He'd spent too much time in space, he decided. He shouldn't be puffing this hard. Couldn't even blame it on the altitude. This mountain wasn't any higher than Area 51. About one hundred yards shy of the peak, he topped a slight rise and the ground leveled out enough to let him catch his breath. He didn't sink to his knees. He had his pride--and that buzzard was still stalking him. With his eyes on the ridge line, he almost didn't notice the bogey.

When he did--he blinked--it couldn't be for real. He rubbed his eyes--it had to be a mirage--but it didn't go away. It didn't waver around the edges either. He looked both directions, half expecting a camera crew to pop out from behind a rock, but that was even crazier than the big ass bogey. He eased in for a closer look. Kind of oblong in shape and metallic in appearance, it sat close to the mountain wall on the only bit of semi-flat real estate around. It looked like a mutation of a car and an upside down train, with a little rocket thrown in just for fun. An inverted fan of dark metal covered the area where a view port or window shield should be. Or eyes. It kind of looked like it should have eyes.

The wheels on the mongrel machine were as whacked as the whole of it. Looked like old stage coach wheels, but metal and black. There was no road for it to drive up, even if the wheels touched the ground, which they didn't. Whoever built this bad boy had a great sense of humor or his elevator didn't go all the way to the top.

He approached with caution, half expecting it to dissolve when he touched it, but it didn't. It felt cooler to the touch than he'd expected, though he wasn't sure why he expected anything. Up close, the surface was black and appeared to be made from sheets of metal fastened together with rivets. In addition to the wheels it had a series of fins along the side and front. He touched one and it moved, like they retracted and extended. He tugged one until it stopped. They extended pretty far, but fifty of them couldn't put this hunk of junk in the air. Might improve the aerodynamics, but that was another physics problem. Still didn't do those. No sign of windows or openings down the left side, though he did find something that could be vents. On the right side of the bogey, an open hatch door had three fancy looking steps hanging off the edge.

It looked like--a cartoon version of a Jules Verne space ship or submarine, which seemed to support the mirage theory. Only it refused to fade like a good, big mirage.

It hadn't crashed here. There were no impact indicators. Could've been built there, he supposed, but how had it been built in a place with no roads or signs of human intrusion? And why? Besides, the metal wasn't corroded or aged and there was very little grit on the surface. It didn't look dug in, more like it had recently arrived. Only thing breaking ground around it was his footprints.

And someone else's

It shouldn't be a shock. He had noted the opening in the side. But it still gave him a jolt to see them. Instinct had him reaching for his side arm, but the sound of a gun cocking off to his right changed his mind. He raised both arms, taking it non-threatening slow, and turned toward the sound. His jaw dropped.

It was Mary Poppins' twin sister, holding an umbrella and a gun.

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