Spotlight: A Cowboy Never Quits: A Turn Around Ranch novel by Cindi Madsen

These hardworking cowboys give everyone a second chance…

When single mom Jessica Cook is at the end of her rope, she takes her 16-year-old daughter to Turn Around Ranch. The ranch has a great reputation for teen therapy, and Jessica prays there’s room there for her and Chloe.

Wade Dawson’s first priority is to keep the ranch afloat to help teens and their families. But he can’t seem to keep his boundaries when it comes to Jessica—she’s talked her way into a job on the ranch so she can stay near her daughter and her tenacity and courage are truly impressive. Not to mention she’s a natural beauty and sparks fly whenever he’s in her vicinity.

But as one crisis after another befalls the ranch, Wade is going to have to decide whether he can afford to let a woman get under his skin…

Excerpt

A hint of sympathy flickered through Gruff-and-Grumpy’s eyes, but then the firmness crept back in. He reached up and readjusted his cowboy hat, which set off some kind of wave that made the other two brothers do the same.

Seriously, why do they have to look like they belong on the cover of Ride a Cowboy Weekly?

Wait. That sounded dirtier than she meant it. Not that she’d exactly take it back.

They practically dripped masculinity, their bodies speaking to hours of manual labor, and the effect kept hijacking her jumbled thoughts. It’d been so long since she’d more than half-heartedly checked out a guy that apparently now she couldn’t even handle being in the presence of handsome men.

Back when she was in her early twenties—before guys discovered she came with baggage and a five-year-old—she used to be fairly decent at flirting her way into getting a guy to help her out with things like clearing that late fee or giving her a few more weeks on the rent. Once she’d even talked her disgruntled landlord into mowing the overgrown lawn he was harping on and on about. Clearly, she’d lost it, because the expressions aimed her way were immovable ones that conveyed disbelief in exceptions or wiggle room. Or the charity she’d shed her pride to ask for.

A spinster failure-of-a-mom at thirty-one. Well, it took fifteen years, but Mom was right. Just when she’d been so cocky about how much she’d accomplished. Now she wanted to Frisbee the employee-of-the month plaque she’d received from her boss last week, for all the good it did her.

“We’re sorry you drove all the way here only to have to turn back,” Mrs. Dawson said, tucking behind her ear the sandy-brown and gray strands of hair that’d fallen from her bun. The woman had a frail sense about her, her skinniness and the dark circles under her eyes speaking to a recent—or possibly even current—health issue. “I can give you some referrals, and I’ll see if my contacts know of a good counselor in your area.”

In a daze, Jess blinked at the woman, defeat weighing against her chest and tugging down her shoulders. She truly had failed. And curse her DNA for passing on traits she wished it would’ve held back. In a lot of ways, her daughter was too much like her: stubborn to a fault, blind when it came to guys, spurred on by the words no and can’t, and turning the word guideline into loose suggestion.

If they simply returned home, it’d be harder and harder to keep Chloe from bad influences. This past year she’d struggled to fit in at school, and her solution had been to find the worst possible group of “friends.” Friends who ditched and smoked pot and encouraged Chloe to sneak out at night so she could go meet a guy like Tyler. He was two years older and a whole mess of bad influences on his own. Rebellious, disrespectful, and mysterious—the same things Jessica had been attracted to at Chloe’s age.

Not that her daughter was blameless. Chloe had made plenty of bad choices. She’d dived fully into the party lifestyle, snuck out yet again, and gone on the joyride in the stolen car while under the influence. It was a slippery slope, which was why Jess wanted her at the best place in the state.

Even the others were out of her price range. A counselor might be as well. Maybe they’d just move to a different state entirely. Leave it all behind and eat…ramen. Get a nice box hut under a bridge. Really live out the scenarios people had thrown at her when she’d refused to give her baby up for adoption.

Feeling both levels of failure, Jess shakily stood. “Thank you for your time.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Gruff-and-Grumpy said, and she wanted to shout that she didn’t want chivalry. She wanted her daughter enrolled in their program and a way to pay for it.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it. Unless you’re scared I’ll just drive away without my kid, and then you’ll have to take her.”

“Well, I am now.” An almost-smile crossed his face.

She almost returned it, but her lungs constricted more and more as she walked toward the door.

There in the corner, she caught sight of a wall of flyers on a corkboard. Along with a schedule that outlined class time, equine therapy time, and a few other events she couldn’t quite make out, she saw a neon-yellow paper with the words Help Wanted across the top. Even better, it was for a job here at Turn Around Ranch.

“You guys are looking for a cook?” It was as if she’d stepped out of her body and someone else had taken control—someone crazy and reckless, personality traits she’d tried very hard to suppress through the years. When you had a kid who depended on you, impulsiveness went out the window, and recklessness wasn’t an option. Still, even as she told her mouth to hold up before it landed her in trouble, the next words were pushing from her lips. “You’re in luck. I just so happen to be one.”

Those dark eyebrows lowered again, only visible under the brim of his cowboy hat when he was giving the signature scowl he’d given her from the moment she’d stepped inside the office. “You’re a cook?”

“Oh, we’ve been looking for a cook for forever and a day,” Mrs. Dawson said, scooting to the edge of her chair.

Hope edged in desperation bobbed up inside Jess. She’d told her boss she needed some time off, and he’d been super understanding. He might not be as cool about her taking…a month? Two? Whatever. This was her daughter. Jobs came and went, but if she lost Chloe, she’d regret it forever. “Perhaps we could help each other out. If you let my daughter into your program, I’ll stay and cook while she’s here. The only other thing I need is a bed to sleep in. I’m not even picky as to where that bed is.”

“Under the stars, then?” the looming cowboy next to her said.

“Okay, I’d prefer a roof over my head. Like a lean-to, at least.”

That almost-smile quivered his lips, but he tamped it down. Why was he so determined to keep up the steely front? Or maybe it wasn’t a front. Right now, she didn’t care, and since she clearly wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, she turned to Mrs. Dawson. “I can have a list of references to you within a matter of hours. My bosses all love me.” At least that was true. At one point she hadn’t known how to balance books or create databases, but she’d learned. Cooking had never been high on her priority list, but she could learn to do that as well. There were Google and the Food Network, and she could make a box of mac and cheese like nobody’s business. How hard could it be?

***

Excerpted from A Cowboy Never Quits by Cindi Madsen. © 2019 by Cindi Madsen. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

Cindi Madsen is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance and young adult novels. She sits at her computer every chance she gets, plotting, revising, and falling in love with her characters. Sometimes it makes her a crazy person. Without it, she’d be even crazier. She has way too many shoes, but can always find a reason to buy a new pretty pair, especially if they’re sparkly, colorful, or super tall. She loves music, dancing, and wishes summer lasted all year long. She lives in Colorado (where summer is most definitely NOT all year long) with her husband and three children.

Spotlight: Love By Chance by Kacy Cross

She thinks meeting him must’ve been fate. It wasn’t.

Claire, a pastry chef struggling to make her restaurant succeed, is too busy to pursue romance. That doesn’t stop her loving but meddling mother, Helen, from setting her up on dates. Even after Helen promises to stop her matchmaking efforts, she can’t help herself. She convinces Eric, a pediatrician, to meet Claire at a gallery event.

Eric and Claire feel an immediate connection, and their meeting becomes a magical first date. But the longer Eric and Claire see each other, the less comfortable Eric feels about hiding the fact that Claire’s mom set them up. Meanwhile, Claire loves to talk about how she trusts Eric, and how they met by chance. How will she react to the truth?

This witty, sweet romance includes a free Hallmark original recipe for Claire’s Coconut Lime Tarts.

Excerpt

She considered his question about her dad as she set another piece of chocolate.

“He’s a financial advisor, but he and my mom are newly retired and about to travel to Italy together.”

She could easily stop there, but Eric always listened to everything she said so attentively, as if there wasn’t anything in the world more important than whatever she was about to say next. A lot of guys constantly checked their phones, even while on a date, which really annoyed her. Eric never did that, and as a pediatrician, he had the best excuse for it.

His laser focus on her hadn’t shifted an iota since he’d arrived. It felt like a good time to share the reason she thought the way her parents had met was so romantic. Why she’d held out for her own story.

“They actually met in a college bookstore,” she told him. “There was one copy of A Room with a  View, which is set in Italy, and they both needed it for an exam, so they shared it, and by the end of the book they were in love.”

“Huh, that’s a great story.”

Yes. And the fact that he thought so spoke volumes. Enough that she couldn’t help but take a tiny break from her chocolate to focus on him for a few minutes. She settled onto a stool next to him. It wasn’t a hardship in the least to drink him in. He really was gorgeous with his dark hair and chiseled features that were so distinctive.

“Just think. If the clerk had more copies, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I think you should track down that clerk and give her a box of your pastries. It’s the least you can do.”

She laughed at yet another example of his blind support for her culinary skills. It really turned her head in the best way. “Okay, I’ll get right on that.”

One thing about Eric’s laser focus: it was impossible to miss the way he was looking at her, as if he’d spotted his favorite treat inside the bakery case. It tripped her pulse and, suddenly self-conscious, she glanced away.

“I must look a mess,” she announced unnecessarily, because clearly he could see that for himself. “I usually wear half of what I bake.”

Served her right for choosing this instead of a real date at a nice restaurant where she didn’t have to do any of the cooking. But it had been this or nothing. And she wasn’t sorry at all as Eric leaned in to capture her gaze in his, refusing to let go. The long, charged moment dragged out, impossibly thick with possibilities.

“I think you look perfect,” he murmured.

Nerves kicked up a storm in her stomach as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Was he thinking about kissing? Because she sure was.

She had no idea what to say next, so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Did I ever tell you when I was five, I had my first éclair? The waiter was French. I kept thinking he said ‘Claire.’”

Eric took her hand, leaning even closer, intent written all over his face. He did want to kiss her, but she was still babbling about éclairs. Knowing that didn’t seem to give her any special ability to stop babbling though.

“So I thought he named the dessert after me. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Hilarious,” he repeated softly.

And then suddenly the words died in her throat as his mouth settled on hers. Tentatively at first, as if gauging whether she’d welcome this, but when she melted into it, he lifted a hand to her face, deepening the kiss. Eric kissed her with that same laser focus, as if there was nothing else in the world that could compare with this experience and he wanted to savor every second.

She felt the same. This was better than éclairs, better than any of the finest chocolate in the world. If the Wandering Gourmet himself walked into her bakery, she’d tell him to wait.

She was busy.

Fate had gotten the timing exactly right. This was meant to be. How many other guys would have so graciously veered from course when she’d announced she couldn’t make their date?

She considered his question about her dad as she set another piece of chocolate.

“He’s a financial adviser, but he and my mom are newly retired and about to travel to Italy together.”

She could easily stop there, but Eric always listened to everything she said so attentively, as if there wasn’t anything in the world more important than whatever she was about to say next. A lot of guys constantly checked their phones, even while on a date, which really annoyed her. Eric never did that, and as a pediatrician, he had the best excuse for it.

His laser focus on her hadn’t shifted an iota since he’d arrived. It felt like a good time to share the reason she thought the way her parents had met was so romantic. Why she’d held out for her own story.

“They actually met in a college bookstore,” she told him. “There was one copy of A Room with a 

View, which is set in Italy, and they both needed it for an exam, so they shared it, and by the end of the book they were in love.”

“Huh, that’s a great story.”

Yes. And the fact that he thought so spoke volumes. Enough that she couldn’t help but take a tiny break from her chocolate to focus on him for a few minutes. She settled onto a stool next to him. It wasn’t a hardship in the least to drink him in. He really was gorgeous with his dark hair and chiseled features that were so distinctive.

“Just think. If the clerk had more copies, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I think you should track down that clerk and give her a box of your pastries. It’s the least you can do.”

She laughed at yet another example of his blind support for her culinary skills. It really turned her head in the best way. “Okay, I’ll get right on that.”

One thing about Eric’s laser focus: it was impossible to miss the way he was looking at her, as if he’d spotted his favorite treat inside the bakery case. It tripped her pulse and, suddenly self-conscious, she glanced away.

“I must look a mess,” she announced unnecessarily, because clearly he could see that for himself. “I usually wear half of what I bake.”

Served her right for choosing this instead of a real date at a nice restaurant where she didn’t have to do any of the cooking. But it had been this or nothing. And she wasn’t sorry at all as Eric leaned in to capture her gaze in his, refusing to let go. The long, charged moment dragged out, impossibly thick with possibilities.

“I think you look perfect,” he murmured.

Nerves kicked up a storm in her stomach as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Was he thinking about kissing? Because she sure was.

She had no idea what to say next, so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Did I ever tell you when I was five, I had my first éclair? The waiter was French. I kept thinking he said ‘Claire.’”

Eric took her hand, leaning even closer, intent written all over his face. He did want to kiss her, but she was still babbling about éclairs. Knowing that didn’t seem to give her any special ability to stop babbling though.

“So I thought he named the dessert after me. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Hilarious,” he repeated softly.

And then suddenly the words died in her throat as his mouth settled on hers. Tentatively at first, as if gauging whether she’d welcome this, but when she melted into it, he lifted a hand to her face, deepening the kiss. Eric kissed her with that same laser focus, as if there was nothing else in the world that could compare with this experience and he wanted to savor every second.

She felt the same. This was better than éclairs, better than any of the finest chocolate in the world. If the Wandering Gourmet himself walked into her bakery, she’d tell him to wait.

She was busy.

Fate had gotten the timing exactly right. This was meant to be. How many other guys would have so graciously veered from course when she’d announced she couldn’t make their date?

That alone had tipped the scales. No doubt about it. She was falling for him.

That alone had tipped the scales. No doubt about it. She was falling for him.

Get Your Copy Today:  Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble

About Kacy Cross: 

“I write romance novels starring swoon-worthy heroes that you can share with your daughter, the ladies at church, and your grandmother. I live in Texas, where I’m raising two mini-ninjas alongside the love of my life who cooks while I write, which is my definition of a true hero.

Come for the romance, stay for the happily ever after. My books will make you laugh, cry and swoon–cross my heart.”

Connect with Kacy: Website | Amazon | Facebook | Bookbub

Spotlight: The Way Back to You by Sharon Sala

What do you do when your whole life is turned upside down?

Sully Raines sets out to find his birth mother, and ends up in Blessings, Georgia. A new surprise awaits him here, but of the best kind—his childhood sweetheart, whom he hasn’t seen since she moved away when they were teens, is living in Blessings now. He’s not sure she’s as happy to see him as he is to see her, but it’s been a lot of years, and a lot of water under the bridge…

Sully’s heartfelt search for answers about his past might just turn out to be the key to his future…

Excerpt

Sully drove straight to the flower shop. A bell rang as he walked in, and an older woman in a colorful floral smock appeared from the back.

“Hello. I’m Myra. How can I help you?”

“I want to get a bouquet of flowers. Do you have some made up?”

“Yes. Here in the cooler behind this stand of stuffed toys. But if you don’t see what you want, I can easily make something else while you wait.”

“Okay, thanks,” Sully said. “Let me check these out first.”

“Seeing as how fall is upon us, we have several different sizes of fall bouquets, and with different kinds of flowers. And, of course, the roses,” Myra said.

He pointed to a bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase with a ruby-colored base.

“Those, in that vase with the ruby-colored base. How much are those?”

“Well, it’s a dozen American Beauties, and the vase is crystal, which makes it a bit pricier than others. It’s one hundred and ten dollars.”

“I’ll take it,” Sully said.

Myra beamed. Her husband, Harold, had fussed at her nonstop because she’d used a vase that expensive, and now she could say “I told you so.”

“Wonderful,” she said, as she removed the bouquet from the cooler and carried it to the register. “Will this be cash or credit card?”

“Card,” Sully said as he pulled it out of his wallet.

“If you want to sign a card to go with the flowers, you can pick from these,” Myra said, pointing to the little rack on the counter.

“No card, I’m handing them to her in person.”

Myra pulled up a new screen on the computer. “Your name, sir?”

“Sully Raines.”

Myra gasped. “You’re the man who saved Melissa Dean’s life, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is wonderful. I’m glad to meet you. Everybody loves Melissa.”

Sully smiled. “I’m finding that out, but I’m not surprised. She was a sweetheart when we were kids, and she’s only gotten better with age.”

“You knew each other! Wow. Then you must have been really frantic when you were trying to get her out of the burning car.”

“I’d only arrived in town about an hour before it happened. I didn’t know anybody here, and I sure didn’t know it was her until we were in the ER. The last time we’d seen each other, we were thirteen.”

“Oh my! What an amazing story. If these are for her, please give her our best.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sully said, and then they finished the purchase.

He made the drive back to Melissa’s house slowly and carefully, and he was happy to see her car in the driveway when he arrived. He got out carrying the vase, and then instead of using the key she’d given him, he rang the doorbell.

When Melissa opened the door, her eyes widened in delight.

“Delivery for the prettiest woman in Blessings,” he said.

She laughed. “I think you must have the wrong house.”

“Nope. I know exactly where I am, and these are for you. Where do you want me to put them?” he asked.

“I think here on this table in the foyer. That way I’ll see them all the time, coming and going.”

He set them on the table, then turned around and hugged her.

“Does this mean Elliot gave you good news?” Melissa asked.

“He gave me news,” Sully said, and felt the knowing of meant to be when he kissed her.

Melissa’s heart fluttered from the gentleness of the kiss, but she was dying for information.

“But what news? Did he know where she was?”

“That man talks around a subject more than anyone I’ve ever met. He told me my birth father’s name, thinking I already knew.”

“Oh my gosh! What is it?”

“Marc Adamos. I never found the name on any papers, but now I know.”

“And your mom? What did he say?”

“He told me not to leave Blessings.”

Melissa frowned. “But what does that mean, exactly? That she’s here? Then where?”

“He just kept repeating, ‘Don’t leave Blessings,’ so I’m not leaving.”

Melissa laughed and hugged him. “Don’t expect me to be sad about that.”

“He also said you were my soul mate and wished us a long and happy life together.”

She gasped. “Did he really say that?”

Sully nodded.

Melissa sighed. “Well, it took us long enough to find each other again. Maybe that is why it was so easy to fall back into this.”

“Works for me,” Sully said, then kissed her again until he heard her moan. “The feeling is mutual.”

Melissa felt like her whole body was humming—like someone had turned up the energy in the room.

Sully saw her shiver. “Are you afraid? Don’t be afraid. This is not anything to act on until we’re ready.”

“Afraid? Of you? No, Sully. I just don’t know what to do with what I feel.”

“Then don’t do anything. When the time is right, there won’t be any confusion. That I can promise.” He wrapped his arms around her. “It’s all good, love. It’s going to be all right.”

“I feel like a forty-something idiot. This should not be so hard,” she muttered.

He chuckled, and when he did, she started to push away, then felt his heartbeat. Without moving, she put her other hand on her own. Their heartbeats were in rhythm.

“What’s wrong?” Sully said.

She reached for his hand and put it over his own heart, and then put his other hand on hers.

“Feel that?” she asked.

“Feel what… Oh, wow! We’re in sync.” Then he laughed. “I love this.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s pretty amazing. I adore the roses, and I adore you, too, Sully Raines.”

“Is this where I sweep you off your feet and take you to bed, or is this where we go eat pie?”

Melissa burst into laughter, and once the joy bubbled up, more kept coming, and she laughed until there were tears in her eyes.

Sully grinned and then put his arm around her and led her to the kitchen.

“I think it’s pie.”

“Just because you went to see a psychic doesn’t mean you’re turning into one.”

He stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Are you saying it’s not pie?”

“Not pie. Cake!”

“You and your sass,” Sully said, and kissed the laugh right off her face.

***

Excerpted from The Way Back to You by Sharon Sala. © 2019 by Sharon Sala. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

Buy on Amazon | Barnes and Noble

About the Author

SHARON SALA has over one hundred books in print and has published in five different genres. She is an eight-time RITA finalist, five-time Career Achievement winner from RT Book Reviews, and five-time winner of the National Reader’s Choice Award. She lives in Norman, Oklahoma.

Spotlight: Good Girls Lie by J.T. Ellison

Perched atop a hill in the tiny town of Marchburg, Virginia, The Goode School is a prestigious prep school known as a Silent Ivy. The boarding school of choice for daughters of the rich and influential, it accepts only the best and the brightest. Its elite status, long-held traditions and honor code are ideal for preparing exceptional young women for brilliant futures at Ivy League universities and beyond. But a stranger has come to Goode, and this ivy has turned poisonous.

In a world where appearances are everything, as long as students pretend to follow the rules, no one questions the cruelties of the secret societies or the dubious behavior of the privileged young women who expect to get away with murder. But when a popular student is found dead, the truth cannot be ignored. Rumors suggest she was struggling with a secret that drove her to suicide.

But look closely…because there are truths and there are lies, and then there is everything that really happened.

J.T. Ellison’s pulse-pounding new novel examines the tenuous bonds of friendship, the power of lies and the desperate lengths people will go to to protect their secrets.

Excerpt

1

THE HANGING

The girl’s body dangles from the tall iron gates guarding the school’s entrance. A closer examination shows the ends of a red silk tie peeking out like a cardinal on a winter branch, forcing her neck into a brutal angle. She wears her graduation robe and multicolored stole as if knowing she’ll never see the achievement. It rained overnight and the thin robe clings to her body, dew sparkling on the edges. The last tendrils of dawn’s fog laze about her legs, which are five feet from the ground.

There is no breeze, no birds singing or squirrels industriously gathering for the long winter ahead, no cars passing along the street, only the cool, misty morning air and the gentle metallic creaking of the gates under the weight of the dead girl. She is suspended in midair, her back to the street, her face hidden behind a curtain of dirty, wet hair, dark from the rains.

Because of the damage to her face, it will take them some time to officially identify her. In the beginning, it isn’t even clear she attends the school, despite wearing The Goode School robes.

But she does.

The fingerprints will prove it. Of course, there are a few people who know exactly who is hanging from the school’s gates. Know who, and know why. But they will never tell. As word spreads of the apparent suicide, The Goode School’s all-female student body begin to gather, paying silent, terrified homage to their fallen compatriot. The gates are closed and locked—as they always are overnight—buttressed on either side by an ivy-covered, ten-foot-high, redbrick wall, but it tapers off into a knee-wall near the back entrance to the school parking lot, and so is escapable by foot. The girls of Goode silently filter out from the dorms, around the end of Old West Hall and Old East Hall to Front Street—the main street of Marchburg, the small Virginia town housing the elite prep school—and take up their positions in front of the gate in a wedge of crying, scared, worried young women who glance over shoulders looking for the one who is missing from their ranks. To reassure themselves this isn’t their friend, their sister, their roommate.

Another girl joins them, but no one notices she comes from the opposite direction, from town. She was not behind the redbrick wall.

Whispers rise from the small crowd, nothing loud enough to be overheard but forming a single question.

Who is it? Who?

A solitary siren pierces the morning air, the sound bleeding upward from the bottom of the hill, a rising crescendo. Someone has called the sheriff.

Goode perches like a gargoyle above the city’s small downtown, huddles behind its ivy-covered brick wall. The campus is flanked by two blocks of restaurants, bars, and necessary shops. The school’s buildings are tied together with trolleys—enclosed glass-and-wood bridges that make it easy for the girls to move from building to building in climate-controlled comfort. It is quiet, dignified, isolated. As are the girls who attend the school; serious, studious. Good. Goode girls are always good. They go on to great things.

The headmistress, or dean, as she prefers to call herself, Ford Julianne Westhaven, great-granddaughter several times removed from the founder of The Goode School, arrives in a flurry, her driver, Rumi, braking the family Bentley with a screech one hundred feet away from the gates. The crowd in the street blocks the car and, for a moment, the sight of the dangling girl. No one stops to think about why the dean might be off campus this early in the morning. Not yet, anyway.

Dean Westhaven rushes out of the back of the dove-gray car and runs to the crowd, her face white, lips pressed firmly together, eyes roving. It is a look all the girls at Goode recognize and shrink from.

The dean’s irritability is legendary, outweighed only by her kindness. It is said she alone approves every application to the school, that she chooses the Goode girls by hand for their intelligence, their character. Her say is final. Absolute. But for all her goodness, her compassion, her kindness, Dean Westhaven has a temper.

She begins to gather the girls into groups, small knots of natural blondes and brunettes and redheads, no fantastical dye allowed. Some shiver in oversize school sweatshirts and running shorts, some are still in their pajamas. The dean is looking for the chick missing from her flock. She casts occasional glances over her shoulder at the grim scene behind her. She, too, is unsure of the identity of the body, or so it seems. Perhaps she simply doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth.

The siren grows to an earsplitting shriek and dies midrange, a soprano newly castrated. The deputies from the sheriff’s office have arrived, the sheriff hot on their heels. Within moments, they cordon off the gates, move the students back, away, away. One approaches the body, cataloging; another begins taking discreet photographs, a macabre paparazzi.

They speak to Dean Westhaven, who quietly, breathlessly, admits she hasn’t approached the body and has no idea who it might be.

She is lying, though. She knows. Of course, she knows. It was inevitable.

The sheriff, six sturdy feet of muscle and sinew, approaches the gate and takes a few shots with his iPhone. He reaches for the foot of the dead girl and slowly, slowly turns her around.

The eerie morning silence is broken by the words, soft and gasping, murmurs moving sinuously through the crowd of girls, their feet shuffling in the morning chill, the fog’s tendrils disappearing from around the posts.

They say her name, an unbroken chain of accusation and misery.

Ash.

Ash.

Ash.

2

THE LIES

There are truths, and there are lies, and then there is everything that really happened, which is where you and I will meet. My truth is your lie, and my lie is your truth, and there is a vast expanse between them.

Take, for example, Ash Carlisle.

Six feet tall, glowing skin, a sheaf of blond hair in a ponytail. She wears black jeans with rips in the knees and a loose greenand-white plaid button-down with white Adidas Stan Smiths; casual, efficient travel clothes. A waiter delivers a fresh cup of tea to her nest in the British Airways first-class lounge, and when she smiles her thanks, he nearly drops his tray—so pure and happy is that smile. The smile of an innocent.

Or not so innocent? You’ll have to decide that for yourself. Soon.

She’s perfected that smile, by the way. Practiced it. Stood in the dingy bathroom of the flat on Broad Street and watched herself in the mirror, lips pulling back from her teeth over and over and over again until it becomes natural, until her eyes sparkle and deep dimples appear in her cheeks. It is a full-toothed smile, her teeth straight and blindingly white, and when combined with the china-blue eyes and naturally streaked blond hair, it is devastating.

Isn’t this what a sociopath does? Work on their camouflage? What better disguise is there than an open, thankful, gracious smile? It’s an exceptionally dangerous tool, in the right hands.

And how does a young sociopath end up flying first class, you might ask? You’ll be assuming her family comes from money, naturally, but let me assure you, this isn’t the case. Not at all. Not really. Not anymore.

No, the dean of the school sent the ticket.

Why?

Because Ash Carlisle leads a charmed life, and somehow managed to hoodwink the dean into not only paying her way but paying for her studies this first term, as well. A full scholarship, based on her exemplary intellect, prodigy piano playing, and sudden, extraordinary need. Such a shame she lost her parents so unexpectedly.

Yes, Ash is smart. Smart and beautiful and talented, and capable of murder. Don’t think for a moment she’s not. Don’t let her fool you.

Sipping the tea, she types and thinks, stops to chew on a nail, then reads it again. The essay she is obsessing over gained her access to the prestigious, elite school she is shipping off to. The challenges ahead—transferring to a new school, especially one as impossible to get into as The Goode School—frighten her, excite her, make her more determined than ever to get away from Oxford, from her past.

A new life. A new beginning. A new chapter for Ash.

But can you ever escape your past?

Ash sets down the tea, and I can tell she is worrying again about fitting in. Marchburg, Virginia—population five hundred on a normal summer day, which expands to seven hundred once the students arrive for term—is a long way from Oxford, England. She worries about fitting in with the daughters of the DC elite—daughters of senators and congressmen and ambassadors and reporters and the just plain filthy rich. She can rely on her looks—she knows how pretty she is, isn’t vain about it, exactly, but knows she’s more than acceptable on the looks scale—and on her intelligence, her exceptional smarts. Some would say cunning, but I think this is a disservice to her. She’s both booksmart and street-smart, the rarest of combinations. Despite her concerns, if she sticks to the story, she will fit in with no issues.

The only strike against her, of course, is me, but no one knows about me.

No one can ever know about me.

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About the Author

J.T. Ellison is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than 20 novels, and the EMMY-award winning co-host of A WORD ON WORDS, Nashville's premier literary show. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim, prestigious awards, and has been published in 26 countries. Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens.

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Spotlight: The Viking's Captive by Ingrid Hahn

Thorvald Longsword can’t believe all he has to do is kidnap the daughter of his jarl’s enemy to get his land back. Easy. But when he finally snatches the princess up and tosses her over his shoulder, the beautiful spitfire makes him question his determination to get his land back at any cost.

Alodie gladly agrees to impersonate the princess so the bloodthirsty Northmen will take her instead. While Alodie might be ready to die for her people, she wasn’t prepared for how her pulse races for the maddeningly noble captor whom she’d just as soon hate.

But what happens when Thorvald finds out she’s not who she says she is…

Excerpt

“You may choose your own punishment.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Being near you is punishment enough. There. Are we finished?”

“For me as well.”

She raised her brows at him. “Pardon me?”

“It’s a punishment for me to be near you.” He stepped closer. His voice was raw and needy. “Torture. In ways you don’t even want to know about.”

Awareness stirred between them. All the things Thorvald had thought he could live without—around her, they became as vital as air. 

Her voice lowered. “Nothing you can say will frighten me.”

“This would. But I think…I think you already know.” The admission was so close he could taste it. 

“Sometimes things need to be said.”

It was what he needed to hear. “Don’t you see? I want to touch you and caress you and do things to you like I’ve never done to a woman before.”

She licked her bottom lip. “And yet you handed me over to him.”

“It was what I had to do.” Thorvald rubbed his brow and let out a heavy sigh. “I gave him my word—”

“Your word. Your word. Your word. Are you as weary of hearing that as the rest of us?”

“It’s not an excuse.” There was a note of desperation in his voice that made him hate himself. It was like he was clinging to a thrashing beast that would kill him, yet he was still unable to release himself. 

“Then you have no right to say these things to me.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” Now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “But while you were in thrall to me, I couldn’t touch you. Not because I knew you would ultimately belong to him—”

“I belong to nobody,” she snapped. “And you did touch me.”

He nodded. “I was wrong to do so.”

She paced to one side of the room and lingered, her back to him. Neither spoke. Beyond the walls were the sounds of the food being enjoyed and laughter that would only grow louder as more ale was consumed. 

“Is that your idea of punishment? Is that why you brought me here? Were you merely obeying him or did you think that you and I…we might…”

They were perilously close to speaking of something dangerous. Something forbidden. Something he wanted with all the dust in his bones. Did he dare? 

He was a warrior. He’d been trained to tread into the unknown. Since his first summer as a man, he’d fought and felled bigger, heavier, stronger warriors than himself. 

Being with her was different. What he said here didn’t threaten bodily harm. It threatened what was inside of him should she see how desperately he wanted her. If she saw, she could rip him apart and he’d never recover. 

Oh, yes. He dared. If he remained silent, he’d never forgive himself. “I think about it constantly. You. Me. Everything a man and woman can have together, I think about that with us. More than you can probably begin to imagine.”

“But you still have to punish me.” Her voice was flat. 

A tortured sigh escaped his lungs. “I still have to punish you.”

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About the Author

Ingrid Hahn is a failed administrative assistant with a B.A. in Art History. Her love of reading has turned her mortgage payment into a book storage fee, which makes her the friend who you never want to ask you for help moving. Though originally from Seattle, she now lives in the metropolitan DC area with her ship-nerd husband, small son, and four opinionated cats. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves knitting, theater, nature walks, travel, history, and is a hopelessly devoted fan of Jane Austen.

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Spotlight: Pathfinder by Anna Schmidt

Return to a time when the West was Wild…

Captain Max Winslow was once a pathfinder for the Army, blazing trails and keeping his brothers-in-arms safe. Now he’s the star of a Wild West show, reminding curious audiences of days long gone. The world around him may be changing, but that doesn’t mean he has to accept it—not when there are frontiers yet to be explored.

When Max first sets eyes on no-nonsense Harvey Girl Emma Elliot, he knows that anything between them would be impossible. She’s a realist embracing what the future holds, while he’s a dreamer, determined to preserve the West he once knew. And yet something about Emma’s strength of will calls to him. It isn’t long before Max must decide: is there room in his dream for love, or will his resolve to hang on to the past jeopardize their future?

Excerpt

Having practically counted the ticks of the large clock in the lobby, marking time until the supper shift ended, Emma changed out of her uniform, released her hair from the bonds of its chignon, and fastened it with a barrette at the nape of her neck. George had mentioned a surprise, but she wasn’t sure what she should do. Wait in her room? Wait outside the kitchen door where he had come before? Of course, the surprise might be tomorrow or next week for all she knew.

In the end, she settled on a compromise. She would sit in one of the rocking chairs on the hotel veranda. It was not at all unusual for her to do that before retiring for the night. No one would think it odd. Yes, that was the right choice. She carried along a basket of knitting. She could form stitches even in the dark if necessary, although there was always light coming from the lobby windows.

Knit one, purl one, repeat.

As she worked, she kept an eye out for Diablo. The stallion would be the clearest sign of Max’s arrival. As the minutes clicked away, she counted out the pattern, nodding politely to guests returning to the hotel for the night while she waited. She was about to pack up her yarn and needles when from behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of dishes rattling on a metal tray.

She turned and saw Max struggling to keep two glass ice cream dishes plus spoons and napkins at an even keel.

“This is harder than it looks,” he grumbled.

Emma set her knitting aside and relieved him of the tray. “What on earth?”

“I promised you ice cream.”

“That you did,” she said, setting the tray on a small side table.

“I can’t take full credit. I had help. George is responsible for the whipped cream and the cherries. He insisted. Truth is, he was so set on getting it all perfect, I figured you’d be long gone by the time I got here.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Max chuckled. “Folks tend to keep an eye on you, Emmie. One of the waitresses came through the kitchen while George was fussing with the sundaes, and I reckon she just assumed this was all for you. She reminded George vanilla is your favorite and then told me you were out here.” He handed her a cloth napkin and spoon, waited for her to drape the napkin over her lap, and then presented the stemmed glass bowl brimming with the sundae.

“Thank you. It looks delicious.”

“It’s not for admiring, Emmie. Take a bite before the whole thing melts.” As if to demonstrate, he filled his spoon with a heaping bite of his chocolate ice cream and savored it. “Mm-mm.”

Emma took a much smaller bite and relished the cold sweetness that filled her mouth. “Oh, that’s so good,” she murmured and quickly took another bite.

“If you think that’s good, try this,” he said, offering her a bite of his.

The gesture seemed far too intimate to be proper, and yet it was hard to resist his enthusiasm. She opened her mouth, and he slid the spoon between her parted lips. The chocolate was rich, almost decadent. She closed her eyes. Slowly, Max withdrew the spoon. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, the spoon still suspended between them.

“Do you really prefer vanilla?” he asked, his voice husky.

“I prefer variety,” she replied and, to prove her point, took a bite of her ice cream.

“You could share.”

This was getting out of hand. She was not immune to the game he was playing, but really, they were seated in a public place where they might easily be observed by anyone. Instead of filling her spoon and feeding him, she handed him her dish. “Help yourself.”

He set his dish on the tray and accepted hers, filling his spoon not once but twice before she objected.

“I didn’t say take it all,” she protested with a laugh. When she reached for her dish, he turned away, protecting it. “Very well,” she announced. “Two can play this game.” She picked up his dessert. Caught up in the silliness of their contest, she ate three small bites of his chocolate sundae in quick succession, then closed her eyes as the cold went straight to her head, giving her a sudden headache.

Max set the dish he was holding aside and took hers from her, then clasped her hand. “Are you okay?”

She nodded and smiled as she shook off the headache. “One forgets ice cream is to be savored, not gobbled like a last meal.” She leaned back in her chair as did he. She noticed he did not let go of her hand. They set the rockers in motion.

After a moment, he said, “You gonna eat that last cherry?”

She laughed. “It’s all yours.” She watched him pop the fruit in his mouth. “How did the first show go?”

“I think we were a hit, as they say in this business. Folks were definitely on their feet cheering.”

“Someone mentioned they could hear the roar of the crowd all the way in town.”

Max chuckled. “I kind of doubt that, but it’s nice to think about. You should have seen Reba in that blouse you fixed up for her.”

“You didn’t tell her I did the work, did you?”

“No, but why shouldn’t I?”

“I just think Pearl should have the credit.”

She heard him let out a long breath. He sounded exhausted, and it occurred to her that if she thought her day had been long and hard, his had begun well before dawn and included not just the parade and the show but also the emergency of Reba’s costume. And that was just what she knew. Yet he’d made time to come to meet her.

She stood and set the dishes and her napkin on the tray. “Thank you, Max, for this lovely treat.”

“You’re leaving me here alone?”

She couldn’t help laughing. “Tomorrow is another day. I have four trainloads of people to serve, and you have two performances to deliver. I think we could both use some rest.”

“Are we still going to meet your friends a week from Sunday?”

“Are you sure you have time?”

“Show’s up and running, and we don’t perform on Sundays, so the answer is I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” she admitted.

“I’ll rent a buggy if that suits.”

“That would be fine.” The playfulness they’d shared while eating their ice cream had disappeared. Emma wondered if there would ever come a time when they could be completely at ease in each other’s company.

Max took a step toward the back of the hotel.

“There’s no need to see me to the door,” Emma protested.

The lamplight from the lobby caught Max’s smile. “Now what kind of gentleman allows a lady to walk home alone?”

“It’s no more than a few steps,” she reminded him.

“You’d be surprised what can happen in just a few steps,” he replied.

They walked along the path that led around the side of the hotel and on to the kitchen entrance. Emma balanced the tray with their dishes while Max reached for the door.

“Well, here I am, safe and sound,” she said, wishing there were more time. “Good night. Thank you for the ice cream.”

“Emmie?”

She looked back at him with a questioning smile. Gently, he relieved her of the tray, setting it just inside the door, then took hold of her shoulders and turned her so their faces were only inches apart. He was wearing his hat, and his face was in shadow, and yet she knew what he wanted—what she wanted.

As if driven by outside forces, she placed her hand on the back of his neck and raised herself to her toes. “Yes,” she whispered, although he had not asked, at least not in words.

She felt the warmth of his breath and then the fullness of his lips meeting hers. She felt as if she could stand in that place all night.

***

Excerpted from Pathfinder by Anna Schmidt. © 2019 by Anna Schmidt. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

Award-winning author ANNA SCHMIDT delights in creating stories where her characters must wrestle with the challenges of their times. Critics have consistently praised Schmidt for the reality of her characters—exposing their flaws as well as their strengths as she delivers strong tales of hope and love in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. She resides in Wisconsin and Florida.