Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Treasure of the Blue Whale by Steven Mayfield


It’s a pleasure to tell you about a new-to-me author I recently was introduced to and his upcoming release, TREASURE OF THE BLUE WHALE.

* Treasure of the Blue Whale
* By Steven Mayfield
* Publication Date: April 1st, 2020
* Genres: Fiction, Coming of Age, Humor

In this whimsical, often funny, Depression-era tale, young Connor O’Halloran decides to share a treasure he’s discovered on an isolated stretch of Northern California beach.

Almost overnight, his sleepy seaside village is comically transformed into a bastion of consumerism, home to a commode with a jeweled seat cover, a pair of genuinely fake rare documents, a mail-order bride, and an organ-grinder’s monkey named Mr. Sprinkles. But when it turns out that the treasure is not real, Connor must conspire with Miss Lizzie Fryberg and a handful of town leaders he’s dubbed The Ambergrisians to save their friends and neighbors from financial ruin.

Along the way, he discovers other treasures in the sometimes languid, sometimes exciting days of that long-ago season. He is rich and then he isn’t. He learns to sail a boat and about sex. He meets a real actor. He sneaks into villainous Cyrus Dinkle’s house and steals his letter opener. He almost goes to jail. He loves Fiona Littleleaf. He finds a father. And best of all, he and little brother, Alex, reclaim their mother from the darkness of mental illness.

TREASURE OF THE BLUE WHALE is available at the following sites: Amazon, Goodreads, and Regal House Publishing.

Advanced praise for this tantalizing story.

“Steven Mayfield's Treasure of the Blue Whale is a fascinating and wildly inventive narrative that artfully weaves the timeless themes of greed, survival, and love into an epic American tale that grips the reader from start to finish. This story is told through the lens of a talented and empathetic writer whom I've long admired for his ability to observe and to make sense of our complicated world and the individuals who make a community. This is the novel I've been waiting for, and it does not disappoint.”—Thanh Tan, Two-time Emmy Award-winning journalist and multimedia storyteller.

“Treasure of the Blue Whale is a mystifying tale capable of accomplishing what the great American novels often do. It fosters conversation and debate about who we are as people and what makes us tick, while entertaining to the very last page.” —Erick Mertz, author of The Book of Witness and The Lies & Truth of Doctor Desmond Brice

Now here’s an excerpt from TREASURE OF THE BLUE WHALE for your reading pleasure.

Every boy has a friend with an older brother happy to introduce an innocent younger sibling and his pals to pornography. Mine was Webb Garwood, whose brother Tuck had already initiated our education with a library of postcard photos depicting Rubenesque women and hairy men engaged in naked Greco-Roman wrestling. Thus, I believed myself to have more than a nodding acquaintance with what went on behind a bedroom door and was incensed with Fiona. My indignation might seem silly in today’s world, but I assert with some confidence that it is difficult to stumble across a bigger prude than a ten-year-old boy in 1934. Thus, I was profoundly ashamed of Fiona as well as frightened by the prospects a liaison with Everson Dexter had put in her future.  I knew sex resulted in babies, rejecting the claim of Judy Buford, my fourth-grade teacher, who had solemnly informed our class that childbirth was a result of marriage, prayer, and a good night’s sleep. “You pray very hard, and when you wake up, you’re pregnant,” Mrs. Buford told us. So, I hope it’s understandable that what I next said to Fiona was a product of my worldliness, when compared to Mrs. Buford, and the distress attending Fiona’s decision to become a fallen woman before I was old enough to fell her.
          “Now you’re gonna get pregnant!” I shouted.
          I ran off and went to the beach below the lighthouse, firing sand dollars into the surf until my arm ached. Then I sat on the damp sand, muttering curses I’d heard the men use at the Last Resort, all the while plotting various ways to make Fiona sorry she’d chosen Everson Dexter over me. The air was filled with the smell of the sea, and although it was a scent I usually found invigorating, it now seemed dank and rotten, redolent of brackish tide pools and decay. My mood, already sour, grew more bitter. And then, in the way of all spurned lovers, anger drifted into despondence, self-pity rolling over me like the low gentle waves curling relentlessly onto the beach, the thin rim of foam at their crests like the tears clinging to my eyelashes. I was heartbroken; indeed, it was my first broken heart.
          I had nearly worked up the courage to drown myself when James showed up.
          “Nice day,” he said, sitting next to me.
          “Leave me the heck alone, James,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t make me and we spent a couple of minutes in silence. Of course, I did want to talk about it, but when I at last chose to speak, my voice was little more than a whisper.
          “Is Fiona a whore now?” I asked him.
          James frowned. “You watch your tongue, young man,” he scolded, his tone making clear that there was only one adult on the beach and he’d be sure to let me know when there were two. “Fiona Littleleaf has been really good to you and your brother. She loves you and you love her. You don’t put names like the one you just used on someone you love.”
          I wrapped my arms around my knees and leaned forward, burying my face in the nest made by the crooks of my elbows.

Author Steven Mayfield
For those who aren’t familiar with the author, here’s a brief background on him.

Steven Mayfield is a past recipient of the Mari Sandoz Prize for fiction and the author of Howling at the Moon, a Best Books of 2010 selection by USA Book News.

He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and three spoiled mutts.

Thanks so much for stopping by today. What would you do if a treasure potentially worth millions washed ashore in your sleepy seaside town?

Monday, March 30, 2020

Cowboy Firefighter Heat (+Giveaway)


It’s a pleasure to be a part of author Kim Redford’s Sourcebook Blog Tour for her latest release, COWBOY FIREFIGHTER HEAT, the sixth installment in her Smokin’ Hot Cowboys Series.

Cowboy Firefighter Heat
by Kim Redford
Series: Smokin’ Hot Cowboys #6
Genre: Contemporary Western
Publication Date: 3/31/2020

She’s back and hotter than ever. Good thing this firefighting cowboy can handle the sparks.

When country singer Fern Bryant returns to her cabin in Wildcat Hall Park, the last thing she expects to find is Craig Thorne in her home…asleep in her bed. Fern had big dreams, and chasing those dreams required sacrifices. Unfortunately, Craig was the cowboy singer and firefighter she left behind. Much to her surprise, now they’re the co-owners of her beloved Wildcat Hall Park.
          Craig hasn’t seen Fern since she left Wildcat Bluff County—and him—to sing on a cruise ship. When she storms back into town, the sparks between the two aren’t only rekindled but burn hotter than ever. As long days turn into long nights, Craig is determined to show Fern that she belongs in Wildcat Bluff…and his arms.

Purchase Links:
IndieBound: http://bit.ly/38nZ5ka

Now here’s an excerpt from COWBOY FIREFIGHTER HEAT for your reading pleasure.

Fern Bryant yawned as she lay down, slipped under the covers, and breathed a sigh of relief. Home…finally. And then she realized the mattress didn’t feel the same. No lumps. Had Ivy—her sister— replaced it? That’d be wonderful. She snuggled a little deeper. And she realized something else. Heat. The bed was way too warm. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, and surely she was, there was a…
“About time you came home,” a man said in a deep, melodic tone from the far side of the bed.
She screamed in shock, even as she recognized the unforgettable voice she’d tried so hard to forget. She leaped out of bed and switched on the nightstand lamp. “Craig Thorne! What are you doing in my bed?”
“I could ask the same of you.” He sat up, the covers slowly, suggestively sliding down to his lap to reveal the chiseled planes of his bronzed, muscular chest. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his full lips, and his hazel eyes gleamed more jade than amber.
Now she understood why she’d found firefighter gear and a dirty mug. He was a cowboy firefighter…and he drank coffee. But what was he doing here? She sucked in her breath, ready to put him in his place, but instead she inhaled the scent of citrus and sage as it swirled outward from the heat of his body. That sight and scent sent her spiraling back in time to a hot and hungry place.
She traced him with her gaze but wished she could use her hands. She’d run her fingers through his thick chestnut hair, with just a touch of wave, that brushed his ridiculously broad shoulders. When she started to follow the dark line of hair down his bronze chest, she snapped her gaze back to his face. And those knowing eyes had turned dark as they roamed her in return.
“How are you?” Craig said in a raspy voice.
“Fine. And you?”
“Better now.”
She couldn’t help but smile. He always knew exactly what to say, whether it was on stage or off.
“Are you here to stay?” he asked.
“I finished the gigs.”
“Good ones?” He cocked his head to one side as if contemplating how it’d been for her.
“What’s not to like about cruise ships?”
“Bet we’ve got better gigs at Wildcat Hall,” he said.
“Yeah.” She needed to get control of the situation, but she was so distracted by the hot cowboy in her bed that she wasn’t thinking straight. Still, it was Craig, and she couldn’t go there again. He would try to corral her, like he’d attempted to do before she’d left for her dream job when he’d wanted her to stay. He’d offered marriage and babies, but there was plenty of time for a family later. She’d always wanted a gig on the high seas, and it’d been a once in a lifetime job. He hadn’t understood. He’d made it an ultimatum—him or work. She wouldn’t be fenced in, not when her sister could step in and run the Park for her. Besides, she’d always been a rolling stone.
“When are you leaving again?”
“I’m not.”
He shook his head, scolding her with his gaze.
“I’m back. And I’m taking control of Wildcat Hall.”
“Control, huh?” He gave her a little smile and cocked his head to one side as he contemplated her.
“Ivy is ready to get on with her life. Me, too.” She didn’t much like his smile. It looked cagey.
“Slade’s a lucky guy to be with her.”
“I’m happy for them.” Fern needed to get their conversation back on track, so she could get him out of her bedroom. “Look, you’re popular at the Hall. Well, more than popular. You’re a huge hit. Naturally, I still want you to play there. It’s just…there is no us anymore.”
“You made that pretty clear when you left.”
She nodded, feeling relieved he was agreeing with her. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d be more comfortable if you went home. I’m not even sure why you’re here in the first place.”
He leaned toward her, still with that smile on his face.
She froze in place. She had an uneasy feeling life wasn’t going to be quite as simple as she’d imagined when she was on the high seas where everything was controllable—something Craig had never been in his life.
“This is my home now.”
“Ivy rented the cabin to you?”
“Not quite.”
“What do you mean?” She shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone. She clasped her arms around her middle for warmth and comfort.
“I’m willing to share the bed with you. After all, it’s only right.”
She was more confused by the moment. “I appreciate the offer, but—­”
“Fifty-one percent.”
She felt color drain from her face. “Surely, you can’t mean…my sister wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Ivy never had the same interest in the honky­tonk as you. Or me. It’s lifeblood to us. And she has a new life with Slade on his ranch.”
“Are you telling me straight out that Ivy sold you her percentage of the Park?”
“Yes.”
“But she didn’t discuss it with me or anything first.” Fern felt incredibly betrayed by her sister.
“Guess it wasn’t in the contract.”
She shook her head, feeling a ringing in her ears that tried to blot out what she was hearing from him. “I suppose it’s a done deal.”
“Official and everything.” He stopped, looking concerned about her. “It’s okay. We worked fine together in the past. We can do it again.”
“Forty­nine percent.” She tried to wrap her mind around that agonizing fact. “You’re in charge.”
“We’re partners.”

***
Excerpted from Cowboy Firefighter Heat by Kim Redford. © 2020 by Kim Redford. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

For those not familiar with the author, here’s a bit of background on her.

Author Kim Redford
Kim Redford is a bestselling author of contemporary Western romance novels. She grew up in Texas with cowboys, cowgirls, horses, cattle, and rodeos. She’s a rescue cat wrangler and horseback rider—when she takes a break from her keyboard.

Kim Redford currently divides her time between homes in Oklahoma and Richardson, Texas.

For more on Kim and her writing, visit her website at http://www.kimredford.com/
Thanks for stopping by today. Could this story get any hotter with a cowboy that is not only a singer but a firefighter too, oh my?

Be sure to enter the giveaway below!

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Friday, March 27, 2020

The Sinner by J.R. Ward (+Giveaway)


I’m delighted to be participating in the Gallery Books Blog Tour for author J.R. Ward’s THE SINNER, the 18th installment in her Black Dagger Brotherhood series.

THE SINNER
The Black Dagger Brotherhood series
by J. R. Ward
On Sale: March 24, 2020

Purchase Link:

A sinner’s only hope is true love in this passionate new novel in J.R. Ward’s #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series.

          Syn has kept his side hustle as a mercenary a secret from the Black Dagger Brotherhood. When he takes another hit job, he not only crosses the path of the vampire race’s new enemy, but also that of a half-breed in danger of dying during her transition. Jo Early has no idea what her true nature is, and when a mysterious man appears out of the darkness, she is torn between their erotic connection and the sense that something is very wrong.
Fate anointed Butch O’Neal as the Dhestroyer, the fulfiller of the prophecy that foresees the end of the Omega. As the war with the Lessening Society comes to a head, Butch gets an unexpected ally in Syn. But can he trust the male—or is the warrior with the bad past a deadly complication?
With time running out, Jo gets swept up in the fighting and must join with Syn and the Brotherhood against true evil. In the end, will love true prevail...or was the prophecy wrong all along?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Author J.R. Ward
J.R. Ward is the author of more than thirty novels, including those in her #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series. There are more than fifteen million copies of her novels in print worldwide, and they have been published in twenty-six different countries around the world. She lives in the South with her family.

Don’t forget to sign-up for exclusive Black Dagger Brotherhood original content:

Now here’s a sneak peek at THE SINNER:

Route 149
Caldwell, New York

          Behind the wheel of her ten-year-old car, Jo Early bit into the Slim Jim and chewed like it was her last meal. She hated the fake-smoke taste and the boat-rope texture, and when she swallowed the last piece, she got another one out of her bag. Ripping the wrapper with her teeth, she peeled the taxidermied tube free and littered into the wheel well of her passenger side. There were so many spent casings like it down there, you couldn’t see the floor mat.
          Up ahead, her anemic headlights swung around a curve, illuminating pine trees that had been limbed up three-quarters of the way, the puff y tops making toothpicks out of the trunks. She hit a pothole and bad-swallowed, and she was coughing as she reached her destination.
          The abandoned Adirondack Outlets was yet another commentary on the pervasiveness of Amazon Prime. The one-story strip mall was a horseshoe without a hoof, the storefronts along the two long sides bearing the remnants of their brands, faded laminations and off -kilter signs with names like Van Heusen/Izod, and Nike, and Dansk the ghosts of commerce past. Behind dusty glass, there was no merchandise available for purchase anymore, and no one had been on the property with a charge card for at least a year, only hardscrabble weeds in the cracks of the promenade and barn swallows in the eaves inhabiting the site. Likewise, the food court that united the eastern and western arms was no longer offering soft serve or Starbucks or lunch.
          As a hot flash cranked her internal temperature up, she cracked the window. And then put the thing all the way down. March in Caldwell, New York, was like winter in a lot of places still considered northerly in latitude, and thank God for it. Breathing in the cold, damp air, she told herself this was not a bad idea.
          Nah, not at all. Here she was, alone at midnight, chasing down the lead on a story she wasn’t writing for her employer, the Caldwell Courier Journal. Without anyone at her new apartment waiting up for her. Without anyone on the planet who would claim her mangled corpse when it was found from the smell in a ditch a week from now.
          Letting the car roll to a stop, she killed the headlights and stayed where she was. No moon out tonight so she’d dressed right. All black. But without any illumination from the heavens, her eyes strained at the darkness, and not because she was greedy to see the details on the decaying structure.
          Nope. At the moment, she was worried she was about to provide fodder for True Crime Garage. As unease tickled her nape, like someone was trying to get her attention by running the point of a carving knife over her skin—
          Her stomach let out a howl and she jumped. Without any debate, she went diving into her purse again. Passing by the three Slim Jims she had left, she went straight-up Hershey this time, and the efficiency with which she stripped that mass-produced chocolate of its clothing was a sad commentary on her diet. When she was finished, she was still hungry and not because there wasn’t food in her belly. As always, the only two things she could eat failed to satisfy her gnawing craving, to say nothing of her nutritional needs.
          Putting up her window, she took her backpack and got out. The crackling sound of the treads of her running shoes on the shoulder of the road seemed loud as a concert, and she wished she wasn’t getting over a cold. Like her sense of smell could be helpful, though? And when was the last time she’d considered that possibility outside of a milk carton check.
          She really needed to give these wild-goose chases up.
Two-strapping her backpack, she locked the car and pulled the hood of her windbreaker up over her red hair. No heel toeing. She leftright-left’d it, keeping the soles of her Brooks flat to quiet her footfalls. As her eyes adjusted, all she saw were the shadows around her, the hidey-holes in corners and nooks formed by the mall’s doorways and the benches pockets of gotcha with which mashers could play a grownup’s game of keep away until they were ready to attack.
          When she got to a heavy chain that was strung across the entry to the promenade, she looked around. There was nobody in the parking lots that ran down the outside of the flanks. No one in the center area formed by the open-ended rectangle. Not a soul on the road that she had taken up to this rise above Rt. 149.
          Jo told herself that this was good. It meant no one was going to jump her.
Her adrenal glands, on the other hand, informed her that this actually meant no one was around to hear her scream for help.
Refocusing on the chain, she had some thought that if she swung her leg over it and proceeded on the other side, she would not come back the same.
“Stop it,” she said, kicking her foot up.
          She chose the right side of the stores, and as rain started to fall, she was glad the architect had thought to cover the walkways overhead. What had been not so smart was anyone thinking a shopping center with no interior corridors could survive in a zip code this close to Canada. Saving ten bucks on a pair of candlesticks or a bathing suit was not going to keep anybody warm enough to shop outside October to April, and that was true even before you factored in the current era of free next-day shipping.
          Down at the far end, she stopped at what had to have been the ice cream place because there was a faded stencil of a cow holding a triple decker cone by its hoof on the window. She got out her phone.
          Her call was answered on the first ring.
“Are you okay?” Bill said.
“Where am I going?” she whispered. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s in the back. I told you that you have to go around back, remember?”
“Damn it.” Maybe the nitrates had fried her brain. “Hold on, I think I found a staircase.”
“I should come out there.”
Jo started walking again and shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I’m fine—yup, I’ve got the cut through to the rear. I’ll call you if I need you—”
“You shouldn’t be doing this alone!”
          Ending the connection, she jogged down the concrete steps, her pack bouncing like it was doing push-ups on her back. As she bottomed out on the lower level, she scanned the empty parking lot—
          The stench that stabbed into her nose was the kind of thing that triggered her gag reflex. Roadkill . . . and baby powder?
          She looked to the source. The maintenance building by the tree line had a corrugated metal roof and metal walls that would not survive long in tornado alley. Half the size of a football field, with garage doors locked to the ground, she imagined it could have housed paving equipment as well as blowers, mowers, and snowplows.
          The sole person-sized door was loose, and as a stiff gust from the rainstorm caught it, the creak was straight out of a George Romero movie—and then the panel immediately slammed shut with a clap, as if Mother Nature didn’t like the stink any more than Jo did.
          Taking out her phone, she texted Bill: This smell is nasty.
Aware that her heart rate just tripled, she walked across the asphalt, the rain hitting the hood of her windbreaker in a disorganized staccato. Ducking her hand under the loose nylon of the jacket, she felt for her holstered gun and kept her hand on the butt.
          The door creaked open and slammed shut again, another puff of that smell releasing out of the pitch-black interior. Swallowing through throat spasms, she had to fight to keep going and not because there was wind in her face.
          When she stopped in front of the door, the opening and closing ceased, as if now that she was on the verge of entering, it didn’t need to catch her attention and draw her in.
          So help her God, if Pennywise was on the other side . . .
Glancing around to check there were no red balloons lolling in the area, she reached out for the door.
I just have to know, she thought as she opened the way in. I need to . . . know.
Leaning around the jamb, she saw absolutely nothing, and yet was frozen by all that she confronted. Pure evil, the kind of thing that abducted and murdered children, that slaughtered the innocent, that enjoyed the suffering of the just and merciful, pushed at her body and then penetrated it, radiation that was toxic passing through to her bones.
          Coughing, she stepped back and covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her elbow. After a couple of deep breaths into her sleeve, she fumbled with her phone.
          Before Bill could say anything over the whirring in his background, she bit out, “You need to come—”
“I’m already halfway to you.”
“Good.”
“What’s going on—”
          Jo ended the call again and got out her flashlight, triggering the beam. Stepping forward again, she shouldered the door open and trained the spear of illumination into the space.
          The light was consumed.
Sure as if she were shining it into a bolt of thick fabric, the fragile glowing shaft was no match for what she was about to enter.
The threshold she stepped over was nothing more than weather stripping, but the inch-high lip was a barrier that felt like an obstacle course she could barely surmount—and then there was the stickiness on the floor. Pointing the flashlight to the ground, she picked up one of her feet. Something like old motor oil dripped off her running shoe, the sound of it finding home echoing in the empty space.
          As Jo walked forward, she found the first of the buckets on the left. Home Depot. With an orange-and-white logo smudged by a rusty, translucent substance that turned her stomach.
          The beam wobbled as she looked into the cylinder, her hand shaking. Inside there was a gallon of glossy, gleaming . . . red . . . liquid. And in the back of her throat, she tasted copper—
          Jo wheeled around with the flashlight.
Through the doorway, the two men who had come up behind her without a sound loomed as if they had risen out of the pavement itself, wraiths conjured from her nightmares, fed by the cold spring rain, clothed in the night. One of them had a goatee and tattoos at one of his temples, a cigarette between his lips and a downright nasty expression on his hard face. The other wore a Boston Red Sox hat and a long camel-colored coat, the tails of which blew in slow motion even though the wind was choppy. Both had long black blades holstered handles down on their chest, and she knew there were more weapons where she couldn’t see them.
          They had come to kill her. Tracked her as she’d moved away from her car. Seen her as she had not seen them.
          Jo stumbled back and tried to get out her gun, but her sweaty palms had her dropping her phone and struggling to keep the flashlight—
And then she couldn’t move.
          Even as her brain ordered her feet to run, her legs to run, her body to run, nothing obeyed the panic-commands, her muscles twitching under the lockdown of some invisible force of will, her bones aching, her breath turning into a pant. Pain firework’d her brain, a headache sizzling through her mind.
          Opening her mouth, she screamed—
         
Thanks for stopping by today. Don’t forgot to enter the giveaway below. Isn’t it fascinating when authors create other worlds for us to visit.

GIVEAWAY DETAILS:

This giveaway is for one (1) finished copy of THE SINNER (US only).

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Wednesday, March 25, 2020


* Screwed and Satisfied
* By Em Petrova
* (Moon Ranch #2)
* Publication date: March 23rd 2020
* Genres: Adult, Romance, Suspense
Second chance at romance? Like hell, and definitely not with the girl next door.
Dane Moon is the troublemaker of the family, and his latest screw-up was marrying a Vegas stripper. Or was it that she married the male dancer? Either way, that chapter of his life’s over, along with the marriage. He’s back in Colorado on the family homestead, attempting to pick up the broken pieces of his past, present and future.
When vet assistant Brennah Peterson finds a drunk guy passed out in her hay bale, she isn’t surprised it’s Dane Moon. The panty-melting bad boy next door always had a reputation for being the life of the party. Any torch Brennah used to carry for the rough and tumble cowboy has been long extinguished—at least until he throws that crooked smile her way again.
Wanting Brennah and wanting to be a better man go together like boots and hats, and maybe it’s time Dane cleans up his act. But Brennah’s got every reason to stay away from him, and he doesn’t want another ex-wife anyhow. When things heat up, it’s hard for Brennah to walk away. But a hot roll in the hay with Dane won’t be enough, and she won’t accept less than all or nothing.
EXCERPT:
Brennah stared down at the big, muscled, tattooed cowboy passed out in her barn. His black hair and the blacker five o’clock shadow coating his jaw gave him a dangerous air.
Speaking of air, she could use some fresher variety. Manure was a treat compared to this guy, who smelled like he’d soaked himself in alcohol and hadn’t bathed since the time of pirates.
Setting a hand on one hip, she contemplated calling the Stokes sheriff to come get him. She didn’t have time to spend on a drunkard—she had animals to tend to before her real day of work started at her veterinary practice. Without looking, she knew her schedule was jam-packed all morning. She’d eat lunch in her vehicle on the way to some ranch calls to see to livestock and then return late in the day to her clinic to treat more dogs, cats, iguanas, and whatever ailing animal came through her door.
Looking at the man curled on his side, she couldn’t help but think she recognized him. His angled jaw and the breadth of his shoulders seemed mighty familiar.
Sometime in his sleep, his Stetson had toppled off and lay a few feet away. The deep, heavy sleep spoke of one hell of a hangover to come.
Feeling a little on the evil side today, she clapped her hands loudly. “Hey! Get up! Hello!”
He moaned and rolled onto his back, giving her a good view of his big, hard body sprawled on her barn floor. The horses were restless in their stalls, eager for their breakfasts, and in the big corner pen, several llamas pawed the floor to show they wanted out to roam the fields too.
Brennah nudged the cowboy’s foot with her own boot. “Hey! You’re trespassing! Wake up!” No matter how loud she yelled, she didn’t get even a flicker of an eyelid in response.
Storming outside, she looked around for a bucket. She located one and filled it with water—cold mountain water from the spring-fed well—and carried the bucket back in. One heave of the bucket and water hit the guy square in the face and chest.
“What? Wha—” He shook his head, but didn’t get up. In fact, he went back to snoring, mouth open.
Brennah stared at him in shock. His blood must be 100-proof if that didn’t do the trick.
“All right. You asked for it.” Her last resort lay in the midsized tractor she used to haul hay bales to her animals. Quickly, she walked outside and climbed into the tractor seat. She started the engine and backed to the open double barn doors.
A glance over her shoulder revealed that the guy hadn’t stirred even at the sound of the loud engine. She set the brake and then leaped to the ground again. After locating a rope, she hitched it to the back. Then she looped the other end around the man’s ankles. To do this, she had to move each of his spread legs, which weighed as much as tree trunks.
She’d seen drunk people sleep this heavily before, and the behavior always scared her. But her annoyance outweighed any butterflies in her stomach that the guy would wake and come up swinging.
Once she had the rope around his booted feet, she stood back to look at him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
But he was big and heavy, and she had no choice but to drag him out of her barn.
With a shake of her head, she returned to the tractor. Another backward glance and she saw he hadn’t budged.
She put the tractor in gear and rolled forward. The guy bumped along the wooden floorboards. As his body crossed the threshold, she swore she heard a groan from him. Looking back again, she watched his head bump over the lip of the doors and onto the patchy grass outside.
She towed him across the bumpy earth to the water trough and cut the engine. Jeez, this guy was really out for the count, wasn’t he?
When she climbed down, she spotted a small leather object along the trail that had been cut into the dirt by his heavy body. His wallet—and presumably he carried an ID. Though the feeling she recognized him burned strong, she didn’t know the guy’s identity.
She gave him a wide berth in case he woke suddenly and made a grab for her. Then she’d have no choice but to brain him with a shovel.
She walked over to pick up the wallet that had fallen out of his pocket. Propriety told her not to open the bifold and look, but she had to identify the guy, right? She flipped it open and stared at the Colorado driver’s license—expired with a picture of a younger man.
She groaned. No wonder she recognized him—Dane Moon.
Her mind waged a war with her younger alter-ego. In high school, she would have done just about anything to have Dane throw one of his gorgeous crooked smiles her direction, and he never gave her the time of day.
He could only be described as rough around the edges, with a look about him every girl in Stokes High wanted a piece of. Heck, Brennah had her fair share of fantasies involving Dane Moon.


Author Bio:
Em Petrova was raised by hippies in the wilds of Pennsylvania but told her parents at the age of four she wanted to be a gypsy when she grew up. She has a soft spot for babies, puppies and 90s Grunge music and believes in Bigfoot and aliens.
She started writing at the age of twelve and prides herself on making her characters larger than life and her sex scenes hotter than hot.
She burst into the world of publishing in 2010 after having five beautiful bambinos and figuring they were old enough to get their own snacks while she pounds away at the keys . In her not-so-spare time, she is fur-mommy to a Labradoodle named Daisy Hasselhoff and works as editor to other authors.
You can find Em Petrova at http://empetrova.com
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Thanks so much for stopping by today. Don't you just love stories where the bad boy tries to become a good guy for the love of a woman?

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Monday, March 23, 2020

Jace by Sasha Summer (+ Giveaway)


It’s my please today to feature author Sasha Summer’s latest release, JACE, as part of her Sourcebooks Blog Tour. This is the first installment in her Kings of Country series.

Music is all he has…but is it enough to heal them both?

Jace Black went from an oilfield roughneck to an overnight singing sensation. Now he’s working on a duet with country music legend Krystal King, and he’s determined to earn his way to the top. But the more time he spends with Krystal, the more he finds himself falling for her—and he’s beginning to be more interested in her than he is in making a name for himself.
Krystal King grew up on stage and in the spotlight. No matter how golden her life appears, her past left deep wounds. But Jace Black makes her wish things were different. To do that, she’d have to risk letting him in… And that might be too big a risk for her battered heart to take.

Jace
by Sasha Summer
Series: Kings of Country #1
Genre: Contemporary Western

Publication Date: 3/31/2020
Purchase Links:

Excerpt:
“How’d you get here?” she asked, a smile on her face.
“My sister. She entered me in that reality show and everything changed.” He shook his head. “All this”— he pointed around the studio—“is still a shock to my system. Your dad in there. Your sister. Being opposite you. Singing with you?” His voice deepened. “I am in my head a little.”
Her expression shifted, from curious to…concerned. “I’m guessing there’s a reason you’re working so hard?” She cleared her throat. “Wife? Kids?”
“No.” Not anymore. Thinking about what he’d lost still tore him up inside. Talking about it here, now? No way. “Little sister. A lot of medical bills to pay off.” He didn’t elaborate. “She’s a freshman in college now.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “She’s a kid. A good kid. Deserves having her chance.”
“What about you?” she asked. “Ever stop to think this is your chance?”
This was definitely his chance. But he’d been putting Heather first for so long, putting her first now just made sense. “A chance I can’t afford to screw up,” he agreed.
She grinned. “Jace Michael Black. My daddy thinks you can sing. And if my daddy thinks you can sing, you can’t be all that bad.” 
He laughed. Was it wrong that hearing her say his name felt good? And her grin. Damn but she was a pretty thing. Even without all the makeup and fancy clothes she’d been wearing the other night. If anything, he preferred her like this—young, natural, casual. And then he realized, she was relaxed, all the defensive tension and anger gone. She loved this, loved music. They had that in common.
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Heather,” he said.
“She’s named Heather and you get stuck with Jace?” She shook her head.
“Still not over the name yet?” he asked, his gaze falling to her long neck.
“Told you, I’m not sure what I think yet,” she said.
“I’m fine. I mean, I’m ready now.” He rolled his head. He could do this.
“You sure?” she asked, picking up her headphones. “We could go once, no music. If you want?”
He shook his head and put on his headphones.
Krystal gave the sound booth the thumbs-up and a slight hum flooded his ears. The yearning strains of the guitar flipped a switch inside. The melody was sweeter than he’d expected. And when the lead-in notes rolled over him, he closed his eyes and sang, “I remember you, standing in the sun, smiling at me, and suddenly the world caught fire. Blinding, beautiful fire.”
The music kept going, but Krystal was silent.
He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her lips parted and her eyes wide. He’d screwed up? His gaze bounced from the pages to Krystal. She just kept right on staring. Shit. What had he done? He glanced at her, skimmed the lyrics, then turned to the sound booth. “Aw, was my timing off?” As far as he could tell, he’d been spot on.
Hank King chuckled. “No. You were great. You just blew her socks off, son.” He was still chuckling. “How about we start again? Will that work for you, Krystal?”
Jace looked at Krystal then, really looked at her. There weren’t many musicians he admired like Krystal. She was the real deal, what singers and songwriters should strive to be. And he’d impressed her. He’d impressed her? “Did I?” he asked, disbelieving. “Knock your socks off?”
She shook her head but didn’t say a word.
“I did.” He sat a little straighter, more than a little pleased.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Krystal teased. “Besides, I’m not wearing socks.” She smiled at him. “You keep singing like that and you’re going to do just fine.” She blew out her breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
One minute, he was feeling pretty damn proud of himself. The next, he was drowning in the heat of those green, green eyes.
“Let’s go,” Hank said.
He slid his earphones back on, the swell of the music flooding his ears. She liked what she heard. And this time, he didn’t close his eyes. He watched her. “I remem­ber you, standing in the sun, smiling at me, and suddenly my world caught fire. Blinding, beautiful fire.”
She blinked, green eyes flashing before she closed her eyes to sing, “I remember you, taking my hand, holding me close, and suddenly my world caught fire. Blinding, beautiful fire.” Her voice—damn, her voice. It reached inside and grabbed hold of him.
“You were everything. My breath, my home, my night, my day. Didn’t care what people said. Didn’t need a thing but you,” he paused a beat. “Till the flames inside burned too hot, and you tried to run from the heat.”
“You were everything. My hope, my fear, my night, my day. Didn’t know my heart was gone. Didn’t know you took it all.” The words gutted him. “And your words, your lies, your promises were the sweetest pain of all.”
The chorus was together. Her gaze met his then, locked together as the words hung in the air between them. “Love isn’t love when the flames burn it down. There’s no hiding or forgiveness from the damage that it’s done. When the smoke clears away, you’ll still find me search­ing here. Searching for the ashes of my heart.”
He was lost in her green-eyed gaze by the time they’d finished the second verse. And the chorus, together… Singing with her was more than he could ever have anticipated.
Her lyrics were powerful and real. He knew what it was to love someone and suffer betrayal. The anger and pain took some of the joy out of life. If he thought about Nikki and Ben too long, the pain made it hard to breathe. How many times had he replayed that night, over and over, wishing he could go back and change it?

***
Excerpted from Jace by Sasha Summers. © 2020 by Sasha Summers. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with Sasha, here’s a bit of background on her.

Author Sasha Summers
Sasha Summers’s passions are storytelling, romance, and travel. A bestselling and award-winning author of more than 20 romance novels and novellas, Sasha continues to fall in love with each hero she writes.

Sasha lives with her family in the suburbs of the Texas Hill country near San Antonio.

For more on Sasha and her writing, visit her website at https://sashasummers.com/

Thanks so much for stopping by today. Don’t you just love stories that tug a little on your heart strings?