Daughter of Lore by Eileen Dreyer – Spotlight and Giveaway

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He doesn’t believe…

Zeke Kendall doesn’t believe in fairies. He’s a scientist; an anthropologist who has spent the last ten years digging in the harsh deserts of the American Southwest. But things look a lot different in the soft green shadows of Ireland. There it is easier to believe that magic exists, especially when Zeke tumbles off a fairy mound and ends up in the arms of the beautiful Nuala, who seems to know everything about him. When she tells him she is a fairy, he actually wants to believe it, even as he knows better.

She can’t believe…

Nuala is daughter of Mab, Queen of Fairies. She has grown up in the twilightland of the fae, fiercely loyal and loving to her people. But she has also been in love with Zeke Kendall ever since she first saw him in her scrying water as a child. To now have him so close is both joy and torture.

For she is the heir to the great crown of the Tuatha de Danann fairy clan. She has no place in Zeke’s world. And he, a man drawn in the sharp edges of his deserts, has no place in hers. Even as passion rises and the love she’d only dreamed of blossoms into reality, Nuala knows that a future for them is impossible. And yet, she can’t find a way to send him back to his own world.

Note: This title was previously published as Dark Seduction

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Zeke Kendall did not believe in fairies. Not merely a serious scientist but a man of the millennium, he held no truck with ghosties or ghoulies or things that went bump in the night. It didn’t matter that he was standing hip-deep in what was purported to be a fairy glen in the middle of Ireland, where generations had seen, consorted with and recovered from fairies. Even standing in the middle of fairy central, Zeke could say with perfect conviction that he did not believe in the species.

Which was why the sudden sight of the delicate, sloe-eyed woman sent him reeling.

He caught her out of the corner of his eye, the way you would in a dream. Creamy skin that all but glowed in the soft, watery light. Thick, curling auburn hair that seemed oddly dry in the rain. Big eyes. Wide eyes. Clear, laughing green eyes that sparkled at him and then turned away. Eyes he would swear on his grave he recognized from somewhere.

Before he realized what he was doing, Zeke was following her. Splashing in puddles up to his ankles, he shoved aside ferns and fuchsia and oak branches in his haste to catch up with her.

She was in a dress. A floaty kind of silky thing in the most iridescent shade of peacock he’d ever seen. Tantalizing over breast and hip and thigh. Compelling a man who had never had the need to be compelled.

Zeke was no monk. He’d had his share of relationships. He’d been told by people other than his family that he was handsome. Rugged, according to his latest friend, Tina. Wide-shouldered and tall and healthy. He hadn’t needed to beg women to stop for him, nor had he ever particularly felt the gut-wrenching desire to do so.

But suddenly, after the swift, stunning sight of a woman who had laughed at him, luscious strawberry lips parted over perfect white teeth and a toss of perfect copper hair, he was running as if his life depended on it.

And somehow, on a single path to a single stream in the middle of nowhere, he lost her.

Zeke got to the very bottom of the path, all but breathless from hopping boulders, sliding through mud, and ducking under foliage, and stopped. Looked around. Stared hard at nothing.

He was sure he’d seen her. He could almost still hear her windchime-light laugh as she spun away. He swore he smelled cloves. Hell, he could almost feel that silk dress against his fingers.

Where the hell was she?

Who the hell was she?

About the Author:

New York Times bestselling author and RWA Hall of Fame member Eileen Dreyer and her evil twin Kathleen Korbel have published over forty novels and novellas, and ten short stories in genres ranging from medical suspense to paranormal to romance. She is thrilled to have joined Oliver Heber Books to continue her Drake’s Rakes series about Regency aristocrats who are willing to sacrifice everything to keep their country safe, of which Ill Met by Moonlight is a near relative.

A former trauma nurse, Eileen lives in St. Louis with her husband, children and large and noisy Irish family, of which she is the reluctant matriarch. A seasoned conference speaker, Dreyer travels to research, and uses research as an excuse to travel. Oh, who’s she kidding? She doesn’t need an excuse. She has the Irish wanderlust and satisfies it as often as she can to the point that she has sung traditional Irish music on four continents. She also had the incredible chance to research Drake’s Rakes by attending the 200th anniversary of not only the Battle of Waterloo, but the Duchess of Richmond ball (in period attire). She has animals, but refuses to subject them to the limelight.

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The Hardest Part About Writing by Patricia S. Gibbons – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Patricia S. Gibbons will be awarding a $15 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

The hardest part about writing is:

Perseverance, just sitting down at the computer and following on from where you last left off.
Generally, I am on a roll, and when I finish up after following the ideas in my mind, I need to just get back into the flow again. I guess that is the hardest part, but when the ideas come again and the fingers start their typing, it is a great feeling.

Sometimes it is a matter of continuing on from where I left off the story, but other times, it requires a new perspective, an outcross from the story line, or even a new avenue to drive my thoughts through.

It is the hardest part of writing, but also so challenging and exciting when a story line changes course and becomes another story line of its own.

Occassionally I need a new character in the story, and I need to go back through my work to decide where and when the new character should appear. That also becomes difficult to make that all work together and end up in my mind as I saw it.

After all, that is writing. Creating characters who fit into a story line that needs telling, and one that readers can relate to and follow without too much effort.

Sometimes it is hard, and you do need perseverance, but most times it is so enjoyable and fills you with pride when the book is completed and you get good reviews.


Penelope, aged 9, and her family emigrate from the UK to Australia. This book covers her journey onboard the ship and her family’s friendship with a Greek family. This friendship continues in Australia throughout their life’s journey.

The book includes the life effects of being interfered with as a child, and the ups and downs of adopting children. Along the way there is mystery, murder, love and disappointment.

Patricia Gibbons keeps you intrigued and in wonder of what is to come.

An exciting read!

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September 19th, 1951, was my ninth birthday. The P&O Liner Ranchi pulled away from Tilbury Docks in the United Kingdom, bound for an unknown future in Australia, its engines roaring through the water, drowning out the singing from our friends and family gathered at the dock to bid us farewell. I could hear them singing and attempting to harmonise their favourite Vera Lynn war tune, ‘We’ll meet again’ as well as ‘Good night, Irene.’ The sights and sounds will stay in my memory forever.

My name is Penelope (the family calls me Penny), and the immigration of the family to Australia was a sad day for me, but a day of excitement and wonder for my mother Ada and my two sisters, Shirley, who was sixteen, Kate, fourteen, and my elder brother John, who was eighteen.

Dad had made the journey to Australia two years before, and mum longed to see him again on our arrival in Melbourne, Victoria. It was not long before this when Dad returned to the United Kingdom from the war. The family had been evacuated from our house in London when the Germans bombed it. We had so many unpleasant memories of the bombings in London, the air raid shelters, the Germans bombing our school, and finally having to evacuate to the country. After the war, when Dad arrived home, he decided there was a better life for us all in Australia.

Being in the Royal Air Force, it was not a difficult thing for Dad to ask for a transfer to The Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) and make the trip to Australia to set up house for us all in this new land. Dad had met several Australians while fighting in the war, and he grew to like their sense of fun and their outlook on life. They painted a picture of Australia in Dad’s mind as a land of opportunity, a great place to start a new life. As a number of his mates were stationed at the Point Cook Air Force base in Melbourne, he applied to be posted there, and it was granted. So on September 19th, 1951, we were on our way.

The trip to Australia took six weeks. We travelled through the Suez Canal, and it was an adventure for all the family. The giant liner was a huge playground for us. There were immigrants from the United Kingdom, Greece, Italy, and other countries on board, and one of the Greek families – The Papadopoulos family – became good friends with us all. They had three sons and a daughter. The boys were Sebastian, ten, who became my first boyfriend; Alex, who was just the right age at eighteen to be a friend for John; Theo, a good looking dark haired typical Greek boy of seventeen years, who was to become Shirley’s onboard romance, and last but not least, was a fifteen-year-old girl called Mia who was the right age as a friend for Kate who was very outspoken, Mia was quite shy and Kate bossed her around. It seemed to work out fine between them, and they became inseparable.

About the Author: Patricia writes under the fictitious name of Patricia Gibbons. She has lived a busy life and some of her adventures are in her new novel, Life’s Journey, but not all:

In her teenage years singing and dancing were also one of Patricia’s loves and she appeared in a number of stage performances.

Patricia successfully bred Rottweilers for 42 years, and wrote her first book The Rottweiler In Australia about the first 20 years. She published this book back in the mid-1980’s. After becoming an All Breeds Dog Judge, Patricia judged Championship Dog Shows all over Australia, and she travelled overseas to judge in the UK, USA, New Zealand, Malaya, the Philippines and China.

Patricia has a Diploma in Classical Homeopathy and Bach Flower Remedies.

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Critique Groups by Terry Korth Fischer – Guest Blog and Giveaway

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Critique Groups

A good critique is invaluable. While practice may be the best way to improve your writing skills, you don’t know whether you’re doing it right and what you’re doing wrong unless you get feedback. Likewise, the right critique partner or group will help make you a better writer.

I joined my first critique group as an act of self-defense. After writing for years, but only sharing those words with family members, I signed up to attend a writers conference that included three professional critiques. I panicked. What if I wasn’t any good? Family and friends are kind, encouraging but in no way qualified to evaluate my skill. I sought outside help.

My local library had a writing group. I went to my first meeting without taking anything to read. The second time, I read a 500 word piece. I joined a dozen writers, some accomplished, others not so much, but all with a genuine love for writing and a willingness to help each other. They turned into better friends than mentors. I admit it took a while, but what I gained in that critique group was the confidence to stand before my peers and offer a piece of myself without feeling vulnerable.

Over the years, I have belonged to in-person, online exchanges, and Zoom critique groups. Each has its unique benefits. Today, I actively belong to two groups—the first consists of four fiction writers who write in differing genres. We meet twice a month via the internet. We post chapters, read aloud, follow along, and receive verbal feedback. Rather than single bodies of work, we often post bits from various works in progress. The second group consists of three author friends; we also meet online. However, we meet ad hoc, usually when one of us has a finished or near the finished project and desires immediate feedback. I’m afraid Covid-19 has curtailed social critique meetings. And I miss that.

Some things to consider when choosing a critique group to join.

• What are the demographics? Ideally, a good critique group is a mix of skill levels. You can always benefit from the advice of someone with more experience than you, and there will be opportunities for you to help someone with less experience.

• Is the group limited to a specific genre or open to all genres? If you write genre fiction, you may want a group specializing in writing that genre. Each genre has certain conventions that are unfamiliar to those writing in another. On the other hand, good writing is good writing. And the craft of good storytelling is universal. I find exposure to multiple genres a plus—reading in a variety of genres, a bonus.

• How does the group operate? Depending on the group, you may find a heavy workload preparing critiques in return for little feedback of your work, and only every once in a while. You may also find the schedule too frequent for you to keep up. The frequency for both critiques and submissions ranges widely from group to group. I suggest you check out the group before joining.

When I look back at my early writing attempts, I realize “I like it” was never a constructive critique, no matter how well-intentioned my mother’s encouragement was offered. On the other hand, belonging to critique groups has made me a better writer. I benefited from opinions pointing out good and bad elements in my stories. And I also had the opportunity to recognize mistakes made by others, which helped me identify the same errors in my work. I wish I would have sought quality feed-back when my writing journey began.

Do you have a particular writing partner or unique critique group? I’d love to hear about it.

Small-town detective, Rory Naysmith, thought he’d seen it all, but a young woman’s brutal murder is especially hard to stomach. Doubly so, when he recognizes the murder’s MO is identical to that of Tobias Snearl—the killer he put behind bars a decade before. His frustration grows after a series of senseless accidents plague those dearest to him, and a second woman dies—this one too close to home. Searching for answers, Rory races against time, plunging deep into the murder investigations, drawing ever closer to becoming a casualty of the dark, angry deeds himself, until he finds no one is who they pretend to be—and none are beyond evil’s reach.

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In the distance, the railroad bridge stretched from Nebraska over the Missouri River and touched the Iowa shore. Someone had mounded boulders farther down. Perhaps they’d been removed from the grounds and left there for a retaining wall. More likely, they were hidden from view, too heavy to move elsewhere. They were an eyesore, starting at the tree line, topping three feet, and spreading down to the water’s edge. Rory scrambled up the stack, intent on gaining the elevated advantage, the moss-covered boulders felt slippery under the smooth leather soles of his shoes.

When he reached the top, he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke—or was it marijuana?

He pivoted quickly and lost purchase. To break the fall, he instinctively put out his hands, and his foot slid into a crevice between two large stones. His forearms smashed against the hard surface. The force of his body slam moved the boulders which then interlocked around his foot.

From behind, he heard someone run off through the trees. He cursed, pushed up, ignored the complaints from his knees, and hand-walked his upper body back to his feet. With one foot captive, and kneeling over the other, he awkwardly righted himself. Then gave a tug. The vise-grip held tight. His palms felt razor-scraped. He reached for the phone, but it wasn’t there.

It took a moment to spot his lifeline, five feet away and out of reach.

About the Author:Terry Korth Fischer writes mystery and memoir. Her memoir, Omaha to Ogallala, was released in 2019. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies in print and online. Terry is a member of Sisters in Crime, Pennwriters, Inc, and Clear Lake Area Writers. Transplanted from the Midwest, Terry lives in Houston with her husband and their two guard cats. She enjoys a good mystery, heat and humidity, and long summer days.

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What Kind of Writer Are You? by Vito Altavilla – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Vito Altavilla will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

WHAT KIND OF WRITER ARE YOU?

I’m a writer that is now an old man and as a consequence have had many experiences in life. Fortunately, I still have an excellent memory hitch is the source for my writing. Mysteries are snippets of different times in my life.

I’m not a creative writer but rather a chronicler of real past events. I guess the most accurate description of me would be non-fiction narrative writer.

Joey has a fork stuck in his side! I’ll never use that pail and shovel ever again. I didn’t know an ashtray could hold so much… What do you mean she doesn’t have a penis? The great meatball Controversy of 1952, courtesy of ‘Fat Mama’ An industrial research chemist who participated in several technological breakthroughs and has a number of national and international patents in concert with his business partner to his credit has a much lighter side to his life. During the course of his life time he was often the cause or in the middle of a number of humorous and unique events that he focused this book on. I am sure that the reader will often smile and sometimes laugh out loud at his very original and unique stories. When was the last time you read a book that made you laugh or at the very least smile? This book will definitely do that. Read and enjoy.

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The stories are of a more innocent time where neighbors helping neighbors was the norm and payment was a handshake and a smile. This was the environment in the late nineteen forties and sixties where “SONNY” grew up in.

The following event occurred when SONNY was nine years old and the only difference between boys and girls that a nine-year-old noy knew was that boys had short hair and wore pants and girls had long hair and worker dresses. There was no other thought to a nine-year-old boy in 1949 that girls were really not that different until that day when he was with his mom when she visited her girlfriend.

His mom had just knocked on her friend’s screen door and was told her to come on in as she was just toweling off her daughter after her bath. SONNY being curios moved in front of his mom just as her friend dropped the bath towel.

SONNY looked at the young girl. A terrified look on his ashen face. “Mom! Mom! He yelled she has no pe pe! How is she going to pee! is she going to die?”

Calm down. She is not going to die. I’ll explain it to you later when we’re home.

On the way home SONNY pesters his mom to please tell him now.

“Okay Sonny, girls don’t have a pee pee, and the real name is penis. Girls have a vagina and that’s what they use. You will learn more when you older.”

SONNY gets home and sees his friend MATTY outside, goes out, yells, “Hey MATTY, you’ll never guess what I saw today.”

MATTY
“What?”

SONNY
“I saw a vagina.”

MATTY
“What the heck is a vagina?”

SONNY
“It’s what girls have to pee with.”

MATTY
“That’s weird. Look let’s play catch, I gotta get my glove, but I’m gonna ask my mom if she knows what a vagina is.”

“Hey Sonny, my mom looked at me and wanted to know where did I hear that word then told me that girls have that instead of a penis and that I’ll know when get older. I’m confused. Let’s play catch. Anyway, I’m glad I have a penis, it’s easy, just pull it out and pee ta da and you’re done.”

About the AuthorVito Altavilla has extensive experience as an industrial researcher and has participated in many technological breakthroughs. He also has his own podcast called, “The Year Was: A Podcast About Life, Love, And The Pursuit Of A Good Time.” Now retired, he lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. In addition to all of that he is currently finishing a screenplay based on the novel, as well.

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Midnight Highlander by Anya Summers – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Anya Summers will be awarding a $25 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Xavier Campbell needs a miracle. If he doesn’t want to lose the life he’s worked so hard to build, he must get married, and quickly. Trouble is, there is no woman in his life. Not even a friend with benefits. As a regular Dom at Eternal Eros, he gets what he needs and goes home. And a wife? Hell, no. This Highlander is single for a reason. So when his entire existence threatens to come crashing down, he realizes he might have to make some adjustments…or a bargain with the she-devil who beguiles him, body and mind, from the first moment he touches her.

Emma Morton wants a man. To play with. Watch television with. Cuddle with. And yes, God help her, she wants him hard, naked, and in her bed. More than once. What she doesn’t want is complications. Expectations. She is dedicated to her work, to building her business. She’s worked too long and too hard to change her plans for something as fleeting as love. No matter how much she wishes otherwise, life has repeatedly proven that romance is a myth. Pure fairytale.

But passion? Yes. She could definitely go for a ‘Single’s Night’ of play—and release—at the infamous Eternal Eros.

After one scorching night of pleasure, a reckless bargain is made. Marriage with an expiration date. A business arrangement. Nothing more.

But what starts as a farce becomes a bit too real and Xavier realizes this is no game. Telling Emma the truth would be dangerous…especially when he realizes he is playing for keeps.

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On her trek to the bar, she smiled demurely at Cooper, the hotshot, daredevil firefighter. He was sitting at one of the booths with Dr. Levi Mitchell, Gage Walker, and his business partner, Henry Sinclair. By the time she reached the bar, she was certain tonight would be exactly what she needed as a reprieve from the impending financial doom of her business.

Not even a short sale on the building would help get her out of this mess.

Every hair on her form stood at attention as the bartender’s frosty ice blue gaze landed on her. She didn’t know what it was about Xavier Campbell, but the sexy hulking brute always rubbed her the wrong way. Most of the Doms here, she could charm with a sweet smile and by exposing some skin.

This one, not so much.

He prowled her way, dressed for the event tonight in Scottish tartan, shit-kicker boots, and a bad attitude. For such a large man, he moved with lionlike grace. Emma was tall for a woman, clocking in at five nine. Yet Xavier towered over her, even in her four-inch stilettos. And he wore his control around him like barbed wire, liable to rip a body to shreds if they got too close.

“What’ll you have?” His voice, thick with Scots burr, seemed to caress her skin as he raked his scowling gaze over her body.

For tonight’s pagan-themed event, she had dressed as a Pagan Warrior Queen, which, at the costume store, had turned out to be a miniscule black dress that shimmered with glossy fabric made to look like leather, and a faux chainmail panel down the front. She even had a fake plastic sword attached to the belt around her waist. “Macallan. Make it a double. Neat.”

A thick inky brow rose at her drink order. “You sure you can handle that, lass?”

The way his voice rolled over the word lass turned her insides to melted butter. If he could do that with a simple word, he would be lethal if he touched her. Thank god she would never let that happen. Even if the man was the most sinfully handsome man she had ever had the good fortune to meet, he had danger written all over him. She even thought his long, dark chestnut hair with braids descending from each temple was sexy as hell. Most often, he wore it pulled into a ponytail at his nape. Seeing the wealth of his thick hair had her fingers itching to find out if it was as soft as it looked.

And his naked chest on display made her want to fan her face to diffuse the flames. The guy was ripped. Every muscle was defined, exuding just how powerful the guy was, with a light dusting of dark hair over his bulging pectorals, which arrowed down into a single happy trail over his muscly abs.

But his insinuation that she couldn’t handle her liquor pissed her off. “Why, because I’ve got tits?”

His expression turned to stone. “It’s a valid question. If I were you, I would drop the attitude, lass. Not a single Dom here wants to take a viper to their bed.”

“It’s a good thing then, that I’m not in your bed. Nor will I ever be.”

“I’d rather take a poisonous snake to bed than to have to deal with your sharp tongue. Just be careful, lass, because you’re walking a fine line with your disrespectful tone. If you cross it, I won’t hesitate to punish you. And I can guarantee that you won’t like it.”

She rolled her eyes at his brutish attitude. “And you’ve not earned my submission… Sir.”

She was in no mood to trade barbs with the beast.

About the Author:

Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Anya grew up listening to Cardinals baseball and reading anything she could get her hands on. She remembers her mother saying if only she would read the right type of books instead binging her way through the romance aisles at the bookstore, she’d have been a doctor. While Anya never did get that doctorate, she graduated cum laude from the University of Missouri-St. Louis with an M.A. in History.

Anya is a bestselling and award-winning author published in multiple fiction genres. She also writes urban fantasy, paranormal romance, and contemporary romance under the name Maggie Mae Gallagher. A total geek at her core, when she is not writing, she adores attending the latest comic con or spending time with her family. She currently lives in the Midwest with her two furry felines.

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The Royal Fifth by James Peyton – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. James Peyton will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

The Royal Fifth: The amount of stolen treasure Conquistadors were supposed to give to the Spanish Crown.

In a world corrupted by its past, what could turn a sensitive artist into a killer?

Young Santa Fe artist, Martín Cortés, is devastated by the deaths of family members and the loss of a huge emerald that once belonged to Hernán Cortés.

Colin Glendaring, a disgraced archeologist with an insatiable passion for pre-Columbian artifacts, is responsible. Martín learns that another family descended from the Spanish Conqueror lives in Oaxaca. Rather than kill Glendaring, he heads south. He discovers an unconventional household that includes Ilhui, a beautiful young woman with a dangerous political agenda.

Martín is stunned when he learns how the family manages to live so well…then alarmed when he discovers that Glendaring is on his way to Oaxaca. Martín and Ilhui are soon accused of murder. On the run, they are betrayed, and Ilhui is kidnapped by a guerilla leader known for recreating grisly Aztec rituals.

With time running out, Martín makes a pact with a ruthless army officer and a crooked federal policeman. Will it be a deal with the devil, or can he do what has to be done to save his new family and love?

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EL PASO, PRESENT TIME

Martín Cortés stood on the pedestrian approach to the international bridge that would take him into Mexico. Through the pollution that daily turned the high-desert air of Ciudad Juárez into a toxic haze, he focused on the nearby vehicle traffic. The U.S.-bound lanes were choked with line after line of barely moving cars and trucks. Turning to the southbound lanes, he watched the sparse traffic moving fast and free.

He looked back at the new-old skyline of downtown El Paso and dwelled for a moment on the tragic events of the last few months. He knew what had happened. Why they’d happened still eluded him. The inner voice that brought him to this place told him all would soon be revealed. And then he wondered: Is that destiny or some karmic trickster? He shook his head. Only time would tell.

Turning again, he raised his eyes to the smog-shrouded sprawl beyond the border where his trip would begin. He had no idea where it would end. He took a deep breath, fished in his pocket for the bridge toll, and resumed his southbound journey.

About the Author: Award-winning Author James Peyton infuses his novels with stranger-than-fiction encounters and true-to-life characters based on his extensive travel and research. Realism in his plots and action comes from that background and his experience in martial arts and tactical firearms.
The Royal Fifth is based loosely on historical events surrounding the Conqueror, Hernán Cortés, brought into the present time. It will be followed by a mystery-thriller series featuring federal policeman, Artemas Salcido. Artemas is the illegitimate son of a Mexican governor and his Yaqui servant. Following his mother’s suspicious death, he was sent to be raised by the village priest. He attended Harvard on a scholarship and returned to Mexico vowing to fight corruption—only to receive his real education, where the grade is often life or death.

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Blight of Denominationalism by John J. Wipf – Exclusive Excerpt and Giveaway

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What purpose do all religions serve?

There are only two destinies after we die.

Do you feel like there is something missing in life?

Is Jesus Christ more than what is portrayed by status quo Christianity?

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“Denominationalism” in this book refers to groups of people who mostly stick to their name or doctrines and are not interested in most other groups. If you don’t fit their mold you will be brought to heel by peer pressure, or you’ll be broken in some other way. If that doesn’t work, you will be cast out as soon as the occasion presents itself. I am happy to say that we survived denominational breaking and are freed from the chain of manmade organization.

The blight (disfigurement, disease, stain, scar, blot, affliction) of denominationalism has been brought on by Christian leaders who do not die to self, and do not give up all for Christ. It comes in large part from the pride that a pastor or leader gets from thinking he is something if he is a leader in his denominational church.

Philippians 2:3 Let nothing be done
through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness
of mind let each esteem other better than
themselves [emphasis mine].

Church leaders or laymen should not think that they are important just because a church’s leadership, which they think so highly of, has placed some confidence in them and put them in a respectable position. It’s an abomination to Jesus Christ the way pastors are operating, lifting up one another and protecting themselves, no matter if it goes against the Word of God or not. Denominationalism is one of the great downfalls of Christianity.

About the Author: John Wipf was part of the Hutterite religion for 18 years and was a member, college student, and a part time missionary in the Baptist denomination for 10 years. Other points of interest include:

● Five years of theological studies (Baptist)
● Mission work in Canada, Costa Rica, Panama, and Sri Lanka (Baptist)
● Independent mission work in west central Manitoba, Canada (present)
● Founder/CEO of a company that installs fertilizer and grain handling equipment in the prairies of Canada (present)
● Husband and father of 2 boys and 2 girls, and 1 taken to heaven before birth, and 1 on the way.

John Wipf married Faith in June 2013. Our goal is to start a cattle ranch (as a retreat) to help people with their relationship with Jesus Christ and to tell people about the gospel of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Faith Wipf was born and bred a Baptist for 32 years. She then left with her “Honey Bear” John to begin their independent ministry. She is currently very busy raising four crazy, wonderful children and looking forward to waddling during the next few months. Homeschooling and the “dreaded” housework fill her days.

In the Blight of Denominationalism we cover part of our journey from religious bondage to true and free freedom in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Also covered in this book there are summaries of my study on some of the world’s renowned religions.

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Ella by Nancy Fraser – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Nancy Fraser will be awarding a $20 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

To get away from her late husband’s questionable deeds, Ella Winslow takes her three children and heads west to the unsettled Washington Territory to claim land she believes she’s inherited from her father.

Tucker McAlister was fired from his position as deputy marshal for arresting the mayor’s brother-in-law for spousal abuse. His mentor has found him another job, first escorting the wagon train going west, and then as the new marshal in the growing town of Tacoma, Washington Territory.

The trail is long and hard, yet Ella is more than up to the task. Still, Tuck feels the need to watch over her and her children, whether she wants him to or not. It isn’t until they arrive in Washington that he realizes his protection will now need to extend even further than the wagon train itself.

Will Ella’s faith allow her to trust again and make a safe home for her family, while welcoming Tuck into her heart?

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Whispering Willows Farm
Maryvale, Missouri
April 16, 1870

Ella Winslow turned toward the kitchen door, the loud crash of wood on wood causing her to startle. Raising her head, she met her brother’s angry glare.

“What the devil are you thinking, Sis?” Connor Miller asked. “You can’t just up and take off with your children. And crossing the country in father’s prized possession, no less? Have you lost your senses?”

“I’ve never understood why everyone claims it’s women who are moody, hysterical even. We can’t hold a candle to a flustered man.” Narrowing her gaze, she gave Connor the same no-nonsense look she often used on her daughter and two sons. “It’s my decision to make. With my husband dead and buried, there’s nothing holding me here. As a matter of fact, given the legacy Peter Winslow left behind, I’d say taking my children away from this town is the right thing to do.”

“So, I’m nothing, am I?” Connor asked angrily.

The hurt she could see in his eyes caused her a small niggle of pain, a moment’s pause.

“Of course, you mean the world to me. You’re my brother, the only family I have left, other than my precious children.”

“Then, why are you leaving?”

Her shoulders heaved on a deep sigh. “You know why. I’m tired of having the good people of Maryvale stare at me with pity, while gossiping about me behind my back. Not to mention the way the children have been teased in the schoolyard.”

“This whole mess will blow over soon enough.”

“I’d like to believe you… that the people I’ve known my entire life will come to their senses and realize I had nothing to do with Peter’s abhorrent business dealings. And, his…” Her voice lowered before trailing off. She couldn’t bear thinking about all the secrets her late husband had harbored. All the evil deeds he’d done.

“He was a liar, a cheat, and—assuming the reports from the marshal’s office are accurate—a cold blooded killer. His actions were his own. You had nothing to do with them.”

“Tell that to the townsfolk who treat me, and my children, like steamy piles of horse dung.”

“Now who’s being hysterical?” Connor teased, his familiar grin firmly back in place.

“Not hysterical, just fed up with being treated so poorly.” She dipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and produced a piece of paper, waving it in the air. “The farm, the last of father’s workshop projects, and this… it’s all that’s left of any value.”

Connor snatched the deed from her grasp and unfolded it, scanning the page for what was likely the hundredth time.

“You don’t even know if this paper is valid. Didn’t you say the land office never responded to your letters?”

“No matter,” she insisted, swishing her hand in the most dismissive way she could manage given her own doubts. “The solicitor who handled the sale of the house and the disposition of claims against Peter’s estate said it’s a legal document. And, thankfully, never part of Peter’s holdings so it couldn’t be used to cover his debts.”

Connor’s voice softened. “You and the children are welcome to stay here with me and Millie.”

Ella reached up and cradled his cheek in the palm of her hand. The threat of tears warmed her eyes. “You’re sweet to offer, but you and your new wife don’t need us hanging around when you’re just starting out. The children and I will be fine.”

Connor shook his head, pulling away from her caress, and dislodging his thick dark curls until they fell across his forehead. “It’s not safe, setting out in a wagon train all alone. Four months—maybe more—on a dusty trail is no way for a lady to travel.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have my children, and at least seven other wagons.”

“What if they’re not all going as far as you are? You may be the only wagon on the Naches Pass Trail. You should wait for a year or two, until the railroad is finished. They plan to reach Olympia and Tacoma by 1872.”

“They haven’t met their previous expectations, what’s to say they’ll make this one?” Ella asked. “I don’t want to risk losing out on my claim once the population starts growing.”

“You can’t live in a wagon.”

“According to our father’s notes, he… they… built a small cabin on the property.”

“I wouldn’t be putting any faith in the jabbering of that old fool.”

She gave Connor’s cheek another pat. “Sometimes, dear brother, faith is all we’ve got. I trust the Lord will protect us on our journey.”

About the Author:

Nancy Fraser is a best-selling and award-winning author who happily jumps across multiple romance genres with gleeful abandon.

She’s also the granddaughter of a Methodist minister known for his fire-and-brimstone approach to his faith. Nancy has brought some of his spirit into her Christian romances. And, her own off-beat sense of humor to her clean & wholesome books.

When not writing (which is almost never), Nancy dotes on her five wonderful grandchildren and looks forward to traveling and reading when time permits. Nancy lives in Atlantic Canada where she enjoys the relaxed pace and colorful people.

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Theological Systems in Fantasy by N.K. Carlson – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. N. K. Carlson will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Theological Systems in Fantasy

Only the youngest of readers can miss the significance of Aslan in Narnia. He is the Christ figure, the Lion, the one who lays down his life and rises from the dead. C. S. Lewis’ theological approach to his fantasy world is heavy handed.

On the other hand, J. R. R. Tolkien is notoriously light handed with the theological system of Middle Earth in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, though he does expand upon his theological structure to his world in The Silmarillion. Fleming Rutledge actually makes the point that the God figure of Middle Earth is present in a hidden way on nearly every page in her work, The Battle for Middle Earth.

All fantasy authors, whether religious themselves or not, face the issues of theology in their fictional worlds. As most fantasy works, particularly high fantasy with elves and dwarves, take place in pre-industrial society, the writer must grapple with the fact that most pre-industrial human cultures have religious beliefs regarding various gods, goddesses, and higher powers.
When I sat down to write Shadow and Sword, I knew I would have to include religion. In my day job, I am a youth minister. I went to seminary and graduated with a Master of Divinity. I am pursuing ordination within my denomination. But how heavy handed to be?

As a Christian, I believe that Jesus is the Son of God, who died and rose from the dead. But I specifically decided against having an incarnate God within my story, like an Aslan. Theologically, it’s too complicated to create a God inside a world of my own creation modeled after that God I believe created me.

So, I shifted my focus from the God of Terrasohnen to the beings analogous to angels and demons. Without giving too much away, angels and demons, though not known by that name in Terrasohnen, are key players in my story.

As you read, you will join Reith as he travels and encounters various religious centers around Terrasohnen. Some of my favorite parts of the story are the conversations Reith has with priests and lore masters. I hope you enjoy them too.

The word was just below a whisper, yet in sixteen-year-old Reith’s ears, it rang louder than he could have ever imagined. Reith had his life in order: apprentice under his mentor, Master Chronicler Vereinen, and follow in his footsteps. Until a shadowy figure appeared in his village, burning everything to the ground, including Reith’s future. Now Reith’s mentor is missing and Reith is on the run from the mysterious Shadow.

Reith adventures through magical forests, ancient ruins, and the lands of prejudiced elves to find his mentor, learn the secret of his sword, and unravel the mystery of the Shadow. Will Reith discover the truth of will the Shadow continue to fall over all of Terrashonen?

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“Run,” the word was almost a whisper, yet it rang out, louder than Reith could have thought possible. It beat against his ear drum as if someone had rung a bell by his ear. “Run. If you look back, we will shoot over your head. The next arrow will be right behind it, aimed true at your back. If you come back, we will kill you. I am a man of my word. If you come back, I will give you a name we can mark on your tomb.”

Reith hesitated for just a moment, but then the Gray Man screamed, “RUN!”

The word hung in the air like the smoke from the smoldering town and Reith bolted. He pushed past the archers and rushed out of town, running in a headlong sprint, running for his life.

At the town’s edge, just before he reached the forest, he chanced a look back and an arrow whizzed past his head, sending a short breeze across his face. He jumped behind a tree and heard the thud of an arrow hit the other side of the trunk.
Reith fled from the horror behind him, running faster than he ever thought he was capable of running. The Gray Man yelled after him, “If you see Vereinen, tell him I’m looking for him! Run!”

About the Author:N. K. Carlson is an author living in Texas. Originally from the Chicago area, he graduated from the University of Illinois before studying at Logsdon Seminary, where he graduated with a master of divinity degree. He has published two books.

The Things that Charm Us and the Smelly Gospel (which was co-written with Drew Doss) both came out in 2020.

His love of writing began in elementary school when each student was given a blank white book to fill with a story. In college, he took an interest in blogging and writing novels.

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About the Book by G.S. Boarman – Guest Post and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. G.S. Boarman will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

*****

I would, firstly, like to point out the coincidence of April 1870 (the time in which the book takes place) and April 2022 being exactly the same: they both begin on a Friday, Easter is the 17th in each year, and there is only one day’s (or night’s) difference in the full moon. One April After the War: Louisville to Cumberland is structured so that each chapter corresponds with one day in April. In this way, and in this year in particular (2022), the reader can read a chapter a day and follow the characters in “real” time across the month of April. I have appended a copy of a calendar designed specifically to reflect both the coincidence of April 1870 and 2022 and the chapter-a-day structure. If this interests you, have a copy in hand on April 1.

Speaking of April, the title reflects several influences. First, it is a nod to Irene Hunt’s Across Five Aprils (1964), a novel that was an assignment for my 8th grade history class. April, of course, marked both the beginning and the end of the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln died on April 14, 1865, and this is significant for my novel because of the last thing he did before going to Ford’s Theatre that night: he signed a piece of legislation authorizing the organization of a new federal detective agency, the Secret Service. The two primary male characters in One April, Merritt and Argent, are operatives of this division of the Revenue Department. There is one other historical fact that occurred in April, but that is not revealed until the third book, though it is revealed obliquely in the second book, One April After the War: Cumberland to Washington.

The work of the Secret Service is prominent in the books. The Secret Service’s original mission was to combat counterfeiting, a constant problem all through the history of the United States, but once the federal government decided to print national currency, counterfeiting became the federal government’s personal problem. Before a national currency was established (during the Civil War), people relied on hard currency (gold and silver) or bank notes, issued by individual banks. These bank notes were not universally accepted as legal tender; it could simply be denied by anyone for payment of any kind. It was the phrase ‘legal tender’ that finalized April as the month for the first two books. Originally, I had imagined the book opening on a glorious late March day, but during research, I found that the steamer Legal Tender left Cincinnati (where Merritt and Argent were wrapping up a counterfeit case) on April 1. Being Secret Service men charged with protecting the legal tender of the nation, I thought it was a sign that these men were ordained to travel on this steamer, to leave Cincinnati on April 1. I had already decided that Merritt and Argent would make an assumption about Mary Warner that would set the tone for their relationship. That they would take Legal Tender to Louisville and meet Mary Warner under a confused assumption on April 1 seemed too good to pass up: Merritt and Argent would be the embodiment of April fools on April Fools Day. So, the book would begin on April 1, and I then determined that it would end on April 30 (except for a kind of epilogue covering a few days in May).

One April After the War: Louisville to Cumberland is the first novel in the M. Warner Annals (Books II and III are already written; Book II will be available on March 15; Book III will be available in late summer or early fall). M. Warner is the protagonist, a young woman from Louisville summoned to Washington. Her name is Mary, a name she shares with all her sisters and her mother; only her mother was known as Mary, all the daughters were called by their middle names. M. Warner was therefore known as Lally, a diminutive of Eulalia, her middle name. I came across both this name and the family policy of naming several, if not all, daughters Mary and referring to them by their middle name in a family ancestry book. I immediately knew, years before I wrote the books, that Mary Eulalia would be the name of any female protagonist I might create. I named our only female dog Lally. There were four boys in her pack, and we referred to them as Lally and the Boys. (We just said goodbye to Lally a few weeks ago, after 15 years; Jack and Fry preceded her by two years and 6 months, respectively; only Morty remains. Jack and Morty are M’s pet dogs in the books, and in later books, play important parts.)

Another female character name has an interesting history. Miss Carrie was named for a woman I had never met, but about whom I had heard occasional comments from older brothers, many years ago; I never learned her last name. I only knew that Miss Carrie was somehow connected to my grandmother’s farm near Bardstown, KY and that she “put up” all kinds of fruits and vegetables. I particularly remember the phrase “Miss Carrie’s pickles.” In preparation for this blog, I asked my oldest brother about the mysterious Miss Carrie. I was astounded to lean that she had been the daughter of a slave (she was in her 80s, my brother thought, in the mid 1950s when he knew her). She had lived on the farm not very far from the farmhouse in a much smaller ramshackle house. This house was in serious disrepair and was torn down in the early 60s. I have no memory of this house, but very well remember the root cellar near where the house is said to have sat. I was very afraid of that root cellar. I regret that I never thought to ask my mother, before she died, about Miss Carrie. My mother was reportedly very fond of Miss Carrie’s pickles.

When Mary Warner is requested to attend a meeting with her estranged godfather, President Ulysses S. Grant, she quickly finds that an invitation from the office of the President is an offer she can’t refuse.

Fresh from concluding a counterfeiting sting in Cincinnati, Secret Service agents Merritt and Argent are tasked by the President to convince Miss Warner to return with them to Washington, D. C. For the two Treasury agents, this simple assignment to escort the socially awkward and willful young woman on an 800-mile railroad journey from Louisville, Kentucky to the White House proves far more interesting and difficult than the men could have ever thought possible. And, in the face of danger, it may just turn out that Mary is more of an asset than a problem for the two agents.

For Mary Warner, the trip begins to take on a sinister meaning as she finds herself virtual prisoner to Merritt and Argent. Madness, morality, and murder all swirl in a strange April storm at midnight turning this odd odyssey into something so much more than a mere trip between cities.

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She was always slow to realize the magnitude or importance or sacrifice of any kindness or gesture, and now she realized, years too late, that in the middle of a war, with sons dying and stretched between the demands of both the farm and his duty to the Union, her father had stopped for a moment to collect this picture for her. More and more, with each year added to her age, she was beginning to see herself as perhaps others had always seen her – selfish and ungrateful and incapable of natural feelings.

About the Author:After the death of G. S. Boarman, a great niece cleaned out the old Kentucky family farmhouse and in the attic, amid the rusting coffee mill, the rickety outdated furniture that was still awaiting repairs, and the stacks of vermin-eaten Harper’s Weekly’s and Police Gazette’s, she found a curious box marked simply “M”.

On the kitchen floor, the metal hasps were flipped back and the top pried off. Lying on the top of a very neat and orderly collection of things was a scrapbook and lying loose inside the scrap book was a note that said simply, “Please finish the story.” The scrapbook itself contained a rough outline of a narrative with sometimes undecipherable glosses and cryptic references to mysterious sources.

From letters and notebooks, ledgers and calendars, train schedules and stockholders’ reports, the story was slowly extracted and pieced together, and the small treasures, carefully wrapped and preserved in the box, took their place in the narrative.

Boarman’s will had already been read, probated, and executed, but the niece, as executrix, felt obligated to fulfill Boarman’s last wish — to breathe life into the long-ago story of a woman who held some importance to Boarman.

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