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WIN A DOWNLOAD OF In Sarah's Shadow, An American Historical Romance!
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What's the new book about? Well, take a look below!
Mother Nature plays matchmaker...
Frostbitten Roberta Shallcross is a woman in need of a hero. David Henderson is far from that. He's a drunk who can't get past the murder of his wife, Sarah.
When David grudgingly saves Bobbie's life from the
How about a little excerpt?
His eyes flew open at the shrill, panicky sound that the wind offered. It almost sounded human. He pulled off his woolen cap and raked his fingers through his matted hair. He stared at the now empty flask. What had Henry put into the brew? Whatever it was had him hearing things.
"Please, help me!"
An ungodly chill raced through his body. Had Sarah come to take him with her? He welcomed death, for living had become unbearable. Rising from his chair, he waited, straining to hear the call, the call that would lead him home. If he heard it again, he would stumble out into the cold and lie down atop the snowy earth.
At the sound of banging upon the wooden door, he leapt forward and pulled it open, ready to see her, to welcome her.
The sight before him had him recoiling. There she was, dressed in rags, frozen blood leaching through a yellow scarf. Her hair hung in icicle laden strands. She lifted her eyes and his heart sank. It wasn't a snow angel, but a human.
Gray, bloodshot eyes, not loving brown eyes, pleaded with him. "Let me in…p-please. I'm dying."
He stared at the creature, his disappointment giving way to his duty. Pulling her inside, she fell into his body, leaning hard against him. She was alive and yet he'd never felt a live being that was so cold. Not one bit of warmth rose from her snow covered essence. He shoved the door shut, fighting the wind that pressed and fought to be allowed entrance.
She shivered against him, her arms remained at her side, and yet she clung to him without moving a muscle.
He knew he should say something, but no words came. How long had it been since he had spoken to anyone but himself? Yes, he saw Henry from time to time, but he drank and Henry spoke.
"I-I'm scared to die. Please don't let me die." Again the gray eyes searched his face for answers. He had none. Death was something that came whether or not you were scared.
Pulling her further into the room, he brought her nearer the fire. Taking action, he grabbed the blanket from the bed, shaking out the dust before wrapping it around her narrow shoulders.
She stood stock still, her face cast forward, her eyes suddenly unmoving. She would go into shock if he weren't careful. Grabbing up his now lukewarm cup of coffee, he refreshed it from the pot that warmed by the fire and laced it with whiskey before offering it to her. She didn't move, but looked at him.
"My hands. They don't work. Nothing works."
He set the cup down on the rugged makeshift mantle and slowly unwound the scarf from her face. He expected to see fiery red frostbite and feared she would lose her nose. To his surprise, a split lip seemed to be the worst damage done. In fact, his heart clenched at the youthful beauty before him. The large, honest eyes were but only part of the gloriousness that God had bestowed upon her. Her cheeks rosy with the cold, her nose pert and upturned, her lips…well once healed would be very suitable for kissing.
He stepped back. He hadn't seen a woman in the five years since Sarah's death. That was what attracted him. She could have been polecat ugly and his body would yearn for hers despite the fact that he would never be unfaithful to his wife.
He growled and took up the cup, bringing it to her. Her jaw trembled as she opened her mouth and allowed him to pour the liquid past her frozen lips. He carefully measured his pour and when she pulled back, she sputtered and coughed.
"What's in that? Is there whiskey in there?"
He ignored her protests. "Drink it. It will warm you."
"I-I've never had the drink."
"It won't hurt you in this minuscule amount." He brought the cup up again and despite the uncertainty in her eyes, she did as directed and gingerly took in more of the coffee.
A visible shiver raced across her body and he took the cup away. He cleared his throat. "You'll need to get out of those wet things." He pushed the blanket from her shoulders and reached for the top button of her ragged and tattered coat.
What the hell was she doing on the mountain, dressed for late spring? But he didn't ask, for he knew the answer. People never took the warnings seriously. Never believed how unbelievably fast a blizzard could rise up and whiten the world. Yes, it was only October, but sometimes winter came early. You always had to be ready because when it came, it overstayed its welcome.
He unfastened the top button and then another and she still just stood there, her eyes cast forward. She was a trusting soul, one that could be easily taken advantage of. Lucky for her she had found the only mountain man in
who wouldn't ravage her, iced over or not. Colorado
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