Monday, March 30, 2026

Book Blitz: The Guilt of Others by Sara Burrell


The Guilt of Others
by
Sara Burrell

Mystery
Publisher: Seacoast Press
Publication Date: February 25, 2026
Page count: 332 pages


SYNOPSIS

The Guilt of Others opens with the sound of a gunshot in an overcrowded office. But who was shot—and who pulled the trigger—remains a mystery. Told through the intertwined perspectives of multiple characters, each harboring secrets and scars from past and present, the story slowly unravels the emotional and psychological web of trauma, secrets, and buried motives binding them together. With nine suspects, three possible weapons, and a detective whose instincts are starting to betray her, the search for the truth unearths secrets no one was prepared to face.

CLICK TO PURCHASE!

 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Sara Burrell grew up in Mableton, Georgia. She is a graduate of Young Harris College and The University of Georgia. Sara is in her twentieth year of teaching and is currently a teacher at an elementary school in Georgia where she is the gifted program coordinator for third, fourth, and fifth grade students. Her husband of 18 years, 2 children, 2 hound dogs, and 2 cats provide plenty of adventure and excitement to her already-busy days. Through all that, she also writes books. The Guilt of Others is her second novel. Her first, Newsworthy, released in 2023, was praised for its suspenseful plot and surprising twists.


RABT Book Tours & PR

Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: The Kate Preacher Thriller Series by Michael Maloof

The Kate Preacher Thriller Series by Michael Maloof Banner

THE KATE PREACHER THRILLER SERIES

by Michael Maloof

March 30 - June 5, 2026 Virtual Book Tour


RELENTLESS

Kate Preacher thought she had left the CIA—and that life—behind.
She was wrong.

When a devastating terrorist attack rips through Paris, Kate is pulled back into a deadly game she never agreed to play. The attack makes international headlines. Someone wants the truth buried. And the closer Kate gets to it, the clearer one thing becomes:
She is no longer just investigating the conspiracy.
She is part of it.

As powerful enemies close in, Kate becomes the target—hunted by forces that know how to erase anyone who asks the wrong questions. Every answer tightens the noose. Every move brings the cost closer to home.

And stopping what’s coming may demand more than she can survive.

Relentless is a ripped-from-the-headlines thriller and the explosive first book in the Kate Preacher Thriller Series. Featuring a fiercely intelligent female lead, white-knuckle action, and emotional stakes that linger long after the final page.

If you like smart, fast-paced thrillers with heart, danger, and a heroine who refuses to break, this is your next late night.

Praise for RELENTLESS:

"I was on edge reading this book. I cried reading this book. I can’t get the characters out of my mind." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

"What a Debut! As one who devours books in this genre, I am thrilled to say this one seems more like a bestseller by one of your favorite authors." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

"Taut and energetic, Relentless lives up to its name in action and suspense. An engrossing first-rate thriller."
~ DIRK CUSSLER, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

"Michael Maloof’s RELENTLESS is a heart-pounding thriller that grabs you from the very first page and doesn’t let go until the explosive conclusion."
~ Ryan Steck, The Real Book Spy and author of OUT FOR BLOOD

UNSTOPPABLE

Betrayal in Paris. Survival in Africa. The world’s deadliest game has a new player.

Former CIA analyst Kate Preacher returns to Paris searching for answers to the terrorist attack that shattered her world—only to find herself in the crosshairs of a sniper who is always one step ahead. Every move she makes is anticipated. Every escape feels temporary. And the deeper she digs, the clearer it becomes that the conspiracy she uncovered is far larger—and closer—than she ever imagined.

When a trusted ally is ambushed and left for dead, Kate realizes she is no longer chasing the enemy.

She is the target.

Her pursuit of the elusive sniper draws her across borders and into Africa’s most dangerous battlegrounds, where warlords, mercenaries, and corrupt powers collide over the fate of a fragile nation. Loyalties shift. Truths fracture. And survival depends on knowing who is lying—before it is too late.

Every enemy hides a secret.
Every ally has an agenda.
Every move Kate makes risks igniting a firestorm that could topple an emerging democracy.

With seconds to spare and a sniper locked on target, Kate faces an impossible choice—risk everything to stop what’s coming or walk away and let a nation fall.

Unstoppable is the pulse-pounding sequel to Relentless—a globe-spanning thriller of betrayal, survival, and high-stakes deception.

This is where Kate learns how far her enemies will go.
And how much it will cost to stop them.

Praise for UNSTOPPABLE:

"Wow, what a sequel to Relentless! Non-stop action and plenty of unexpected plot twists." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

"This thrilling and intricate follow-up to the series debut will keep readers glued to their seats and begging for more!" ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

"The plot is fast-paced as the story hits the ground running, and the action and intrigue are unrelenting and non-stop. Dangerous secrets, hints of unknown agendas, and shocking plot twists kept me on the edge of my seat as Kate got ever closer to her goal, and those working against her tried to stop her or, at a minimum, manage her discoveries and limit the consequences."
~ Karen Siddall, for Reedsy Discovery

"The Kate Preacher Thriller Series has everything fans of this genre expect: genuinely compelling characters, a solid fast-paced storyline, unexpected twists, bad politicians, and some seriously high stakes. There may even be a touch of the paranormal, as a Maasai named Nuru and a prowling lion leave their marks."
~ Reviewed by Terri Stepek for Reader Views

DEFIANT

A Funeral in Paris. A Reckoning in Russia. An Endgame in Davos.

Former CIA analyst Kate Preacher has tracked the cabal that shattered her world across continents—but only now does she glimpse the true enemy behind the curtain. A new leader has stepped from the shadows to seize control of the Coalition—and a weapon that could reshape the balance of power forever.

“Sometimes,” Jake warned her, “the only way to win is to sacrifice everything.”

Kate’s hunt races from the rain-soaked boulevards of Paris to Beslan, a Russian city haunted by unanswered questions—where memories she buried long ago surface with deadly force.

In New York, a trusted ally is killed. Another vanishes.

High in the Swiss Alps, Kate undertakes her most dangerous mission yet— infiltrating the labyrinth beneath Davos—before world leaders walk blindly into a trap from which there may be no escape.

A bioweapon counts down to catastrophe. Her team is scattered and fighting to survive. And Kate is one move away from exposing the conspiracy that took everything from her—if she is willing to pay the ultimate price.

Defiant is the explosive finale to the Kate Preacher Origin Trilogy—a globe-spanning, high-stakes thriller for fans of Jack Carr, Gregg Hurwitz, and Mark Greaney.

This is where Kate’s story comes full circle.
And where the final move changes everything.

Praise for DEFIANT:

"Your heart will pound… your eyes will mist"

"You’ve created a compelling world for the Preacher, Trident, Bella, and Ronin characters."

"Jack Reacher used to be my favorite hero. Now it’s Kate Preacher."

"DEFIANT by Michael Maloof delivers exactly what its title promises, a heroine who refuses to back down... It’s a satisfying, adrenaline-fueled conclusion that will resonate with readers who enjoy intelligent, character-driven suspense."
~ IndieReader

Details:

Genre: Action-Adventure, Thriller, Terrorism Thrillers, Conspiracy Theory, and Global/International Crime
Published by: Golden Oak Writer's Guild, LLC
Series: Kate Preacher Thriller Series | Amazon & Goodreads

Read an excerpt from Relentless:

FRIDAY, APRIL 17, THE PRESENT
6:15 AM EDT
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

Nomad flexed his right wrist, and with the palm of his hand, eased the joystick forward. The motor on his wheelchair hummed, and he maneuvered toward the center of the workstation. This environment was his creation. The height set to accommodate his chair with room beneath to manipulate the joystick. With subtle right or left pressure on the stick, he could navigate the full semicircle desk and jump between clients and projects.

There were traditional keyboards and mice, but the layer of fine dust revealed little use. Nomad’s world was one of proprietary speech recognition technology and the pressure-sensitive controls he designed and added to his chair. His forearms, wrists, fingers, head and voice all served as system navigation and command-and-control interfaces.

A matrix of monitors, stacked three high and eight across, spanned the arc of the desk and formed his window on the outside world. As a C6 quadriplegic, what he lost in physical mobility he regained in the virtual world. He chose the name Nomad for the irony, and believed his world offered freedom, control, and safety.

Nomad scanned the monitors. His building’s security cameras, global news feeds, random engineering musings of a few MIT grads on Slack. Another monitor was hammering away on a client’s file with one of his decryption algorithms. No challengers yet on any of his virtual chess boards, and that brought him to the Frenchman, his favorite opponent.

The central monitor was a live, split-screen camera feed from the Frenchman’s Paris apartment. One feed came from the Frenchman’s laptop, and the other from the camera embedded in the smart TV. It was Nomad’s practice to plant malware on the systems of anyone in his inner circle. What began as a safety protocol became something more, and he watched and lived vicariously through his contact’s living rooms and their digital and social media lives.

Nomad glanced at the camera feed’s system clock. Twelve-fifteen. It was almost time. He hoped the apartment would be empty, but saw Francois scurrying about, preparing for the meeting. Nomad knew it was pointless, but he had to try one more time.

Francois’s laptop rang with Nomad’s encrypted call request. He watched the Frenchman approach the laptop and press cancel. Nomad tried again, and this time he watched Francois accept the call.

“I admire your determination,” Francois began, “but there’s nothing left to discuss.”

“Look, I know how it sounds, but I’m begging you to trust me,” Nomad said. “You need to leave.”

“You ask for trust, but hide in the shadows.”

“Who I am is not important. All you need to know is that your life is in danger.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “For one thing, I know who you are, but rest assured, your secret is safe with me. Why you’ve chosen this life, I will never understand, but that is your business and now you must leave me to mine.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, no, my friend. You misunderstand,” Francois said. “This is just a promise that I will keep you out of the discussion, but Moore Industries needs to know what you found. They believe the device is impenetrable, exceeding even the capabilities of quantum computing, and with millions relying on this technology, I have no choice. There is no room for debate.”

“You’re missing the point,” Nomad said. “Tens of millions of customers is exactly why Moore will do anything to protect the NanoVault’s reputation.”

“Again with the conspiracy theories,” Francois said. “You watch too much American TV. I am a respected academic meeting with a representative of a major corporation, not the KGB.”

“I pray I’m wrong,” Nomad said.

“Au revoir, my friend.”

“Wait,” Nomad said. “Before you hang up, what makes you think you know who I am?”

“I understand some hackers have a signature, patterns of behavior, code or techniques they use, that help identify the author.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So do chess players.”

Nomad heard the knock at the Frenchman’s door. Francois called out to his visitor, and the call ended.

* * *

FRIDAY, APRIL 17
12:17 PM CEST (Central European Summer Time)
PARIS, FRANCE

Francois LeGrande imagined his meeting with the Moore Industries representative. They’ll want to see my research and review my findings. A lucrative offer for my work would be nice, but it would be an honor to receive one of Moore’s Distinguished Fellowships.

Francois rushed to answer the door. He never saw what the masked man pressed into his side, but the effect was immediate. His body convulsed, knees buckled, and his head struck the floor. Next came the duct tape over his mouth and around his wrists and ankles. He lay on the floor of his apartment, dazed and in pain, only half-aware of the large black boot that passed over his face.

Adrenaline surged. His heart raced. He fought to focus his thoughts. Blinked and squinted to clear his vision. He squirmed and wrestled against the restraints. Tried to call out, to scream. Nothing worked. In the futile struggle to free himself, his breathing was rapid and shallow. His vision blurred, and the room spun. Don’t pass out, he thought. Just breathe. Slow down. Listen.

From the hallway, it was difficult to know what the stranger was doing. Was Nomad right? No. Can’t be. If he was here to kill me, I’d be dead already. Then what? What does he want? His head throbbed as he thought back to the fleeting image of opening the door and looking up at the face. There was no face. Just a blur of gray and white rectangles. The man’s ball cap and hoodie obscured any chance of street cameras catching his approach to the building, and the camouflage mask stretched tight from his forehead to his neck prevented facial recognition.

Francois tried to follow the sound of the stranger’s steps. The attic apartment, converted from an 18th-century mansion, was elegant but small. While it suited the Frenchman, it took only moments to explore. He heard the wheels of the office chair as they rolled across the hardwood floor.

He’s in the bedroom.

The bedroom served as his home office. Stacks of books and papers shared his bed, and most of the floor. He pictured the stranger seated at his laptop and cursed his decision to close the connection with Nomad. If he knew, if he saw, he would call the police.

There was an odd sound. An electronic chirp beeping slowly at first, then faster and louder, then slow again. Finally, a solid tone for a moment, then silence.

Francois heard the tones of a cell phone. Too many digits, he thought. Not a local number.

“I have it,” the man said. “No, it has to be tonight. And count yourself lucky I could make this work on short notice.” There was another brief pause and then the call wrapped up. “Yes. Yes. I’ll keep it safe. Now, send me the drop site.”

American, Francois thought, and at that moment, all hope vanished. The businessman he thought might still arrive, might somehow intervene. The man he was expecting was already here. Despair wrapped him in an ice-cold blanket and he trembled. He stopped fighting back the tears and sobbed.

The American dragged Francois down the hallway and into the living room, and the tears gave way to terror when he surveyed the room. A chair from the small kitchen table was in the center. A rope stretched over the ancient oak beam that framed the ridge-line of the apartment’s ceiling, and a noose hung above the chair.

The duct tape muffled his attempts to cry out, and the masked man had little trouble setting the slight Frenchman on the chair. He slipped the noose over Francois’s head and pulled on the rope. Francois stiffened his back, lifted his chin, and gasped for air. The man kept one hand on the rope and the other drew a knife. With a flick and click, the blade locked into place, and in one sudden move he cut the tape binding Francois’s feet. He pulled the slack from the rope and Francois’s only escape from suffocation was to climb up on the chair.

The American tied the rope to the radiator, then stood directly in front of Francois and stared. The mask was disorienting, and Francois found it difficult to focus. He saw a black leather jacket and a gray hoodie. He saw dark blue jeans, and the boots. Large black boots. He could be anyone on the streets of Paris, even one of my students. What is he waiting for? What does he want?

“Let’s talk.”

The words startled him and Francois wobbled atop the wooden kitchen chair. The noose made it difficult to breathe, much less answer questions. When he raised up on the balls of his feet, he could almost take a full breath, but the old chair flexed and creaked when he moved. He knew at any moment it might collapse and he would hang.

“I’m going to remove the duct tape,” the masked man said. “I suggest you remain still. And quiet,” and he gave the rope a slight tug. “Understand?”

Francois nodded, and the stranger ripped the duct tape off the old man’s face. The Frenchman scrunched his eyes, gritted his teeth, and wrinkled his nose. Tears and snot seeped into his mustache. The American balled up the tape and noticed the collection of gray hair.

“Trust me,” he said. “Faster is better.” And then he reached into his jacket, fished out the shiny black device, and held it out for the Frenchman to see.

“Did you crack it?”

Laying in the palm of his glove was a Moore Industries NanoVault. The polished black onyx device, about the size of a woman’s lipstick, was ringed with seven combination dials that controlled access to the device’s unique properties. For the first time since the masked man crashed through his door, Francois thought he understood what was happening. He thinks I’m after the bounty. He thinks I’ve cracked the encryption.

The offer of a bounty, paid in anonymous, untraceable, and tax-free Bitcoins, intrigued cryptographic researchers and enticed the hacker denizens in every corner of the Darknet. Crack the encryption on a Quantum NanoVault, known affectionately as a portable Swiss Bank account, and you’d learn the location of 1,000 Bitcoins. What started as a clever promotional stunt became a worldwide phenomenon when Bitcoin values rose exponentially, and the bounty, still unclaimed, grew to tens of millions of dollars.

“No. No, Monsieur. I assure you, this device is worthless.”

“My client insisted I retrieve this specific device,” he said. “And paid handsomely to recover it immediately. I’d like to know why. What makes this device so valuable?”

“Please. Just take it and go.”

Francois imagined his ordeal might soon be over. He has what he came for. He can just leave.

The American slipped the device back into his pocket and glanced at his watch.

“What’s the combination?”

“It’s not locked.”

“What’s on it?”

“Nothing. I assure you, it’s completely blank,” and Francois nodded toward the laptop. “Go. See for yourself. You will see. It’s empty.”

The American took the device back to the desk, and the NanoVault connected automatically. He returned moments later.

“You’re right, it’s blank,” he said. “But if you’re not using it, why have one?”

“Research,” and Francois nodded toward the back wall. The American turned to see a lifetime of achievement and accolades. Among the faded degrees hanging on the wall were journal clippings, edges curled and fraying, a small shelf of dusty mathematics awards, and a handful of student group photos. Missing was any semblance of a life outside of academia. No wife. No family.

“Then, tell me Professeur,” he said, exaggerating the Frenchman’s academic position. “What makes this device so special?”

“Oh, but it’s not. It’s like any other. Available at any—”

The slap caught him before he could finish.

***

Excerpt from Relentless by Michael Maloof. Copyright 2023 by Michael Maloof. Reproduced with permission from Michael Maloof. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Michael Maloof

Michael Maloof is the author of the Kate Preacher Thriller Series—Relentless, Unstoppable, and Defiant—known for its global scope, emotional intensity, and hard-won authenticity. His novels draw readers into high-stakes worlds where intelligence, courage, and consequence collide. A lifelong adventurer, Michael has traveled to more than forty countries across six continents, experiences that deeply inform his writing. His real-world pursuits have ranged from gold dredging in Honduras and artifact hunting in Guatemala to acquiring uncut diamonds in Liberia and surviving an elephant charge in Kenya. He has also trained alongside Navy SEALs, Marine Raiders, Army Rangers, Green Berets, and the CIA—firsthand insights that lend his fiction uncommon realism and respect for the craft of service.

Catch Up With Michael Maloof:

www.MichaelMaloof.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @MichaelGoWrite
BookBub - @MichaelMaloof
Instagram - @MichaelGoWrite
X - @MichaelGoWrite
Facebook - @MichaelGoWrite
YouTube - @MichaelGoWrite

 

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

 

A Global Conspiracy, A Final Mission… And A Giveaway

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Michael Maloof. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
THE KATE PREACHER THRILLER SERIES by Michael Maloof || Gift Card

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Sunday, March 29, 2026

Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Who's Out There by Westley Smith

WHO'S OUT THERE by Westley Smith Banner

WHO'S OUT THERE

by Westley Smith

March 9 - April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Who's Out There by Westley Smith

Inside Marburg State Park lies the remains of Camp Southwoods, where four counselors were slain twenty-six years ago. Their murderer, Douglas Lee Carver, has become a local boogieman with a chilling nursery rhyme attributed to his name. Locals believe the now-abandoned camp is haunted.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, leader of the Ranger Rescue Unit for Marburg State Park, ignores the ghost stories of Camp South Woods. He has real-world problems to worry about, like apprehending the person who's been vandalizing the grounds, finding a missing local man who's disappeared inside the park, and making sure that his team secures the park before the rapidly approaching blizzard – the worst storm in years – unleashes hell across the land.

But when a member of Colt’s team is found murdered, Colt begins to wonder if the tales about Camp Southwoods are true. Has Douglas Lee Carver returned? Or is there someone else out there? Someone with a personal axe to grind against Colt and his team, hoping to use the urban legends as a cover for their crimes and keep what happened at Camp Southwoods three decades ago from being exposed.

Praise for Who's Out There:

"An abandoned summer camp with a dark history, a brutal winter storm, and a group of park rangers fighting for their lives are the core of Westley Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE. With no help coming from the outside, Colt Mitcham has to figure out how to protect his crew as a relentless killer strikes again and again. This intense, blood-spattered page-turner had me in its grip from the beginning and kept me guessing until the end. Westley Smith is the real deal."
~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

"Taut. Relentless... a plot careening to the brink and you're clinging on the edge all the way. Move over Voorhees. Step back Myers. Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE sends you both packing. Don't read this book until your feet are up, your blinds are drawn, and your glass is full-you're in it till the end!"
~ Tj O’Connor, Award Winning Author of THE WHISPER LEGACY and THE DEAD DETECTIVE FILES

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Action Adventure
Published by: Manta Press, Ltd
Publication Date: February 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 9781958370322 (ISBN10: 1958370320)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin.

Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is.

Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp.

Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father.

Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation.

The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple.

The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache.

Fuck cancer.

Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre.

Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six.

Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South.

The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this.

Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police.

Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood.

Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running,
Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting
Gonna catch that counselor,
Gonna cleave that counselor,
Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving.

He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak's base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare.

He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m.

Need to hurry this up.

With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid.

What was that? Footsteps?

Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer?

The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone.

Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands.

Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land.

But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going.

He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet.

Footsteps! On the trail again.

Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do.

He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area.

Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax.

Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away.

I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip.

Fuck this!

Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail.

He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…

“A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark.

Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories.

Then why were you running?

He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to—

My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side.

No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option.

Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him.

Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating:

They’re only stories.

***

Excerpt from Who's Out There by Westley Smith. Copyright 2026 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Westley Smith

Westley Smith is the author of the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth (Wicked House Publishing) and In the Pale Light (Watertower Hill Publishing). In the Pale Light landed on IngramSpark’s #1 pre-order charts in the mystery, thriller, and hard-boiled detective category. He is also the author of the psychological thriller, They Came at Night (Watertower Hill Publishing). He has two self-published horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve.

Writing since he was ten, his first short story, "Off to War," was published nationally at sixteen. His short stories have recently appeared in On the Premise and Unveiling Nightmares. He was the runner-up contestant in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, and his short story "Winter Reflections" was chosen as a finalist for Crystal Lake Publishing's Shallow Waters short story contest. He also had a short story, "The Security Guard," in the horror anthology "Hospital of Haunts," (Watertower Hill Publishing) which hit #1 on Amazon, and his true encounter with the urban legend of York, PAs, Toad Road and The Seven Gates of Hell, was featured in George Watertower and Other Childhood Terrors (Watertower Hill Publishing).

He lives in southern Pennsylvania with his wife and two dogs.

Catch Up With Westley Smith:

WestleySmithBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @wssmith100
Instagram - @wsmithbooks
Facebook - @westleysmith100

 

Review:

4.5 stars!

If Agatha Christie’s “The Mousetrap” were set at Camp Crystal Lake. 

Who’s Out There by Westley Smith is a riveting, suspense-filled thriller with a brooding atmosphere, incipient terror, and hints of supernatural interference that had me in its grip from the start. The result is what you’d get if Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap were relocated to Camp Crystal Lake, the setting of Friday the 13th. I enjoyed every minute of it. 

The story unfolds from multiple points of view as a massive snowstorm bears down on the region, and the ten rangers on duty try to button down the park before the roads in and out become impassable. However, a man with a grudge against the state park has gone missing in the park, and his father arrives looking for assistance in locating him across the acreage that used to belong to their family. As the storm worsens, the rangers are stranded, and one by one they are being picked off in the same manner as the camp counselors at the shuttered state-run lakeside summer camp on the park property were more than two decades earlier. 

The main characters are the recently appointed supervising ranger, Colt Mitcham, and his subordinate and secret girlfriend, Ranger Josephine “Joey” Walsh. Colt takes his responsibilities to his people very seriously and takes many risks to ensure they are safe. However, each murder becomes a personal failure, even as the evidence quickly points to one of the rangers being the killer. 

The book maintains an exciting, suspenseful pace, and I found it hard to take a break (or even want to take one!). I felt like I couldn’t trust any of the characters to be who they appeared to be, and even though clues were sprinkled throughout the action, I was never sure they meant what they seemed to imply. Luckily, I was able to read this book from start to finish in one day because I don’t think I could have slept without knowing how it all worked out and who would be left standing once the storm blew over. 

I recommend WHO’S OUT THERE to readers of thrillers, suspense, and mild horror.



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Book Review: In Her Own Backyard by Ashley Hanna-Morgan

In Her Own BackyardIn Her Own Backyard by Ashley Hanna-Morgan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A new mom suffering severe postpartum depression searches for clues to a local woman’s disappearance.

In Her Own Backyard by Ashley Hanna-Morgan is a riveting tale of a mother’s struggle with severe postpartum depression after the birth of her second child and her discovery that a young woman who lived in their home before they bought it had disappeared without anyone raising an alarm. Social worker Marlowe Moore is deep in the grasp of depression, anxiety, and trouble nursing her new daughter. Baby Valorie demands to eat, sleep for an hour, and eat again, and completely refuses bottle-feeding. Her three-year-old daughter, Violet, is also experiencing big feelings as she transitions from ‘only child’ to ‘big sister.’ But when a neighbor casually mentions that a young woman who had rented a room from the previous owners of Moore’s new home had disappeared one day, Marlowe and her circle of women friends and moms get concerned when they realize Aria Middleton had never even been reported missing.

Marlowe’s pregnancy and postpartum experiences are so realistic and relatable; every mother will see something of themselves in her childbearing and childrearing story. Her depression was overwhelming and gut-wrenching to read about; I ached for this young woman. However, her focus on finding out what happened to Aria provided a challenge external to her mental health struggles and helped her regain her stability. Her spouse, Aaron, is sweet and wonderful, but he is still unable to fully relate to what Marlow is experiencing, no matter how much he wants to or how hard he tries.

The plot is well-paced, and I had a hard time finding a good place in my reading to take a break. I enjoyed how the women all came together to support Marlowe (and each other) and to collaborate on finding Aria. They use clever methods to find answers and gather clues, and I loved how they reached out to people with whom they had the remotest contact for help in their search. My only quibble was that a noticeable amount of the dialogue, especially between Marlowe and her husband and Marlowe and her daughter, Violet, sounded like clinical examples of appropriate responses to certain situations; it didn’t sound natural or organic. On the other hand, this same style of language was fascinating when Marlowe described what she was going through and the impacts on her daily life. I loved the story’s eerie, brooding atmosphere and rising tension, and was delighted with the many surprises and plot twists. The final confrontation was absolutely gripping.

I recommend IN HER OWN BACKYARD to thriller readers, especially those with an interest in motherhood and the processes and impacts of childbearing.

I voluntarily reviewed this after receiving an Advance Review Copy through RABT Book Tours and PR.



View all my reviews

Saturday, March 28, 2026

Book Tour & Giveaway: Firestorm by Dana Wayne


Some fires are set...others are felt


Firestorm
by
Dana Wayne

Genre: Contemporary Small Town Romance



The greatest danger may lie in the firestorm burning between them


Jenna McCray dedicated her life and trust fund to helping others succeed through her charitable foundation, Pathways Mission. After a self-imposed hiatus, her first venture back into the dating pool is an unmitigated disaster witnessed by many, including hunky Fire Marshall Thomas Donovan.

Donovan had a profound mistrust of the upper crust—until Jenna McCray. One photo in the paper. That’s all it took. Regal. Composed. A killer smile. She looked straight into the camera…and into him--and he hadn’t even met her yet.

When he finally did, the effect was seismic. Prim, proper, and utterly magnetic. Something primal flared to life inside him, and he was powerless against it. Calling her “The Ice Queen” didn’t help. Mocking was easier than admitting she'd gotten under his skin long before they even spoke.

When a fire ravages her business on the same night someone vandalizes her home, he wonders if the incidents are connected and searches for answers.

But someone wants to keep their secret buried.

As danger escalates, so does the blistering chemistry between Jenna and Donovan, and he vows to protect her at all costs—even if it means risking everything.


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Jenna shrieked and jumped up, toppling her chair and stumbling into someone behind her, who then collided with a waiter carrying a water pitcher, sending all three to the floor in a shower of ice-cold water.

She landed partially on top of the man, his arms around her waist as he bore the brunt of the fall. Another scream lodged in her throat when she saw it resting on her thigh.  

Suddenly, his hand moved, and the spider vanished.

“You’re okay,” murmured a husky voice against her ear. “It’s gone. You’re okay.”

Laughter filtered through a fog of humiliation. She’d freaked out—in a public place and lay on the floor atop a total stranger while Oscar did nothing but watch, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Something wrong, Jenna?” he crooned.

“I t-t-told you I h-hate spiders.” Her body trembled, and she couldn’t control the quiver in her voice.

The man’s arms tightened slightly.

“Did you?” cooed Oscar. “I must have forgotten.”

***

Donovan couldn’t believe his eyes when he first saw Jenna McCray in person tonight. All prim and proper, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and his crazy heart raced like a runaway train. 

She’d dominated his thoughts from the moment he saw her picture in the paper two weeks ago. Hell, he’d even cut the damn thing out and kept it in his desk. How pathetic was that?

Everything from her regal posture to how she sipped the wine screamed money and class. Coffee-colored hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape, and pearl studs in her ears emphasized the delicate bone structure of her face and the fullness of ruby-colored lips. The basic black dress and single strand of pearls would look simple on most women. On her, it was elegant.

When their gazes locked briefly, the jolt of desire was so potent it shocked him.

The returning look of interest stole his breath.

Every unexplained feeling he’d endured the last two weeks hit like a tidal wave. It took massive effort to walk calmly to his table.  

Oscar's joining her was an unpleasant shock. The man was dirty as mud. Why on earth would a woman like her associate with him?

Thoughts in turmoil, he decided to skip dinner and leave—until all hell broke loose.

He’d never met anyone with arachnophobia, but judging by her reaction to a fake spider, she suffered an extreme case. As snickers from the other patrons registered, his protective instincts surged.

A shudder rolled through her body, and she sucked in a jerky breath, mumbling something he didn’t catch.

“It’s gone,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

She made a move to stand, and he maneuvered to assist, one hand remaining on her arm for stability.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact and swiping at the water on her dress. “I’ll pay to have your clothes cleaned.”

Face flaming, she watched the waiter clean up the mess. “Oh, Alfred,” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Miss McCray.” He nodded toward Oscar’s retreating figure. “And he’s to blame—not you.”

Donovan lightly squeezed her arm. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

She managed a shaky “I’m fine,” then swallowed. “Th-thank you. For helping me.”

 Donovan clenched his teeth as his fantasy dreams went up in smoke. She couldn’t even look him in the eye when she mumbled insincere words of gratitude.

“Anytime.”

At his terse response, dark, earnest eyes, filled with confusion and something he couldn’t readily identify, whipped to his. Desire coursed through him, heady as strong whiskey, leaving him off-balance.

She frowned and retrieved a wallet from the bag on the table, pulled out a card and some bills, then passed the money to Alfred. “If this isn’t sufficient for my wine and the pitcher, please let me know.”

He hesitated, then took the money. “It’s fine, Miss McCray.”

A harried woman appeared from Donovan’s left. The manager—they’d met on a previous visit, but he couldn’t recall her name.

“Oh my God, Jenna. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Katie. Embarrassed but unhurt.” She nodded toward Donovan. “This gentleman broke my fall.” She nibbled her lower lip as though unsure of what to do next. Inhaling, she passed him the card. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Donovan.”

“Mr. Donovan. Please—”

“No mister. Just Donovan.”

Lips slightly parted, she hesitated. “Oh. Okay. Donovan. Please send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes. It is.”

Cheeks the brightest red he’d ever seen, her earnest expression softened.

“Please.”

That one word curbed his resentment. He took the card, ignoring the tingle as their fingers brushed.

“Donovan,” said Katie. “Thank you for helping my friend.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

“And dinner’s on me tonight.”

“Actually, I was just leaving.”

She looked around. “Was something wrong with your table?”

He shook his head. “Unexpected change in plans. I was on my way out when—this happened.”

“Then please accept a raincheck for next time.”

He nodded, knowing he would never accept the offer, no matter how kindly extended.

Katie rubbed Jenna’s shoulder. “Guess kicking him to the curb in a public place wasn’t such a good idea after all, huh?”

Donovan barely covered his surprise. So that’s what happened—good for her.

Jenna’s gaze skipped from him to Katie. “No. It wasn’t.”

“I’ve never seen you react that way before.”

She glanced at Donovan. “I—it just surprised me. That’s all.”

He immediately recognized the lie. She wasn’t surprised. She was terrified.

“I told him they bothered me.”

And that’s the understatement of the century.

 “And you’d already told him to back off,” added Katie, “so the creep had a Plan B to get even. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt.”

This time, when she looked at Donavan, her gaze held, and the intensity floored him. A dark chocolate brown enhanced by a golden ring around the edges, they glistened in the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

Or was it unshed tears? 





Texas Winds

Genre: Contemporary Small-Town Romance



Two hearts shattered by betrayal. Once chance to trust again.

 

Jake Holloway discovered his wife’s infidelity as she lay in a coma, carrying a child that may not be his.

Four years later, his heart remains closed to all emotion. Lexie Morgan’s dream of happily-ever-after ended the day she stood alone at the altar. The need to put distance between her and the pain places her in the path of feral hogs and Jake Holloway’s life. Neither is prepared for the intense attraction.

When Lexie meets his four-year-old daughter, Katie, the timid child with downcast eyes steals her heart.

Forced to rely on Jake’s assistance, it’s impossible to ignore the escalating pull.

But the past never dies, and resurrected hurts threaten their fragile bond.

Will the ever-changing Texas winds hold them together or reduce their love to dust?

 

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Ankle and hip throbbed in unison, and a growing headache added to the misery mix.

She took a breath and looked around. The front bumper dug into the far side of the muddy embankment, and the blown-out tire rested in muck halfway up the rim. Dingy water in the ditch swirled around her feet and leached up her mud-coated pant legs. Her disgusted gaze took in the filthy jeans and soaked and blood-coated tee shirt. “Crap,” she muttered. “Brand new shoes.” She swiped a hand across her cheek, leaving a streak of bloody mud in its wake. “Great way to start my first vacation in years.”

She adjusted her grip on the door and blew wet hair away from her mouth. “Alrighty then.” Muttering under her breath, she reached past the dog and plucked the half-full Swear Jar from the floorboard. An irritated swipe at the wet hair clinging to her cheek left more muddy streaks behind. “Time for the big guns.” She placed the jug on the seat near Biscuit and pulled two soggy one-dollar bills and three quarters from her pocket. She took a breath and ceremoniously dropped the quarters through a slot cut into the lid, mumbling after each one. “Damn. Damn. Dammit.” She took a deep breath and crammed the wet bills through the hole. “And son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Don’t reckon that’s gonna help much.”

An f-bomb exploded before she could stop it.

***

Startled by the man’s deep voice, Lexie swore and spun around, tossing the jar over her shoulder as intense pain shot up her leg.  Off-balance, she grabbed the door to keep from falling on her rear as the jug landed with a mushy thump at the stranger’s feet.

The brim of a dark Stetson cast his face in shadow, but there was no disguising his frame. Tall, at least six-two or three, shoulders a mile wide, with long, muscular legs encased in worn jeans. Muddy work boots covered his feet, and well-used leather gloves stuck out of his front pocket. Rain dripping from the brim of his hat left wet trails on his pale blue chambray shirt, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed tanned, muscular forearms.

He hesitated, then picked up the jar, one corner of his mouth curling up as he read the inscription. “I’m guessing that last word is expensive,” he said as he passed her the container before stepping back.

His husky, just-woke-up voice raced through her like fine wine, leaving her momentarily speechless. “It is,” she snapped and took the jug. “Five bucks.”  She glanced past him and noted a grime-coated, black Ford F250 crew cab parked behind him on the shoulder of the road. Holy crap. I never heard a thing. She eyed her bag, mentally calculating how long it would take to reach the pistol inside if needed. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. I have a gun. And I know how to use it.” 

He made no effort to approach, just stood there, hands on his hips. “Are you hurt?”

She gripped the door tighter when her throbbing ankle threatened to fold again. “No. I’m good.”

“You have blood on your face. And mud.”

His intense gaze traveled up and down her body, causing an involuntary shiver.

“Were you ejected?”

“No. I slipped when I got out.”

He tipped his head toward the back seat. “What about the dog?”

She glanced at Biscuit, who showed no concern over the stranger’s sudden appearance, and noted a little blood on the side of his mouth. How did she miss that before? “Biscuit!” Dismissing the man, she leaned against the car and ran her hands over the dog again, checking more thoroughly for anything broken. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

The dog stoically endured her frantic exam with only a slight whimper when she touched his front paw before moving to his mouth. “Come on, baby, open up.” She slowly pried his jaw open and saw blood on his tongue.

“Looks like he bit it. Probably on impact.”

It took tremendous effort not to react to the unexpected voice behind her left shoulder. “Yeah. Probably. I’ll have him checked out when I get to town.” 

He looked at the luggage piled in the back of the SUV. “Where you headed?” 

She glanced up and discovered walnut-colored eyes watching Biscuit, his square jaw visibly tense. His face was rugged and somber, bronzed by wind and sun and covered with dark stubble. No laugh lines around full lips, and unspoken pain was alive in dark, fathomless eyes. In a heartbeat, his expression changed, switching to closed-off and distant as he took two steps back, hands stuffed in his front pockets.





Multi-awarding winning author Dana Wayne is a sixth-generation Texan and still resides in the Piney Woods. She routinely speaks at book clubs, writers’ groups and other organizations and is a frequent guest on numerous writing blogs. A die-hard romantic, her stories are filled with strong women, second chances, and happily ever after.

“I’m all about the romance, so my tales are heartwarming, have a splash of suspense and humor. While they are a little steamy, I believe romance is more about emotion than sex, and the journey is more important than the destination.

“I retired in late 2013 and published my first book in 2016. I was over the moon when it was awarded first place in a contest through the Texas Association of Authors, and I never looked back. My books have been nominated for and/or received various awards and numerous five-star reviews. To have my work validated in such a manner is very gratifying and humbling.”

Affiliations include Texas Association of Authors, Writers League of Texas, East Texas Writers Guild, Northeast Texas Writers Organization, and East Texas Writers Association.

 

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