Excerpt & Giveaway! Give Us a Chance by Allie Everhart

Jake Wheeler doesn't date. He has a one and done rule. Some would say he's a player but he disagrees. He's always upfront with a girl, letting her know he's not interested in a relationship. That is until he meets Ivy.

A talented carpenter who can hold her own on a construction site, Ivy worked for Jake last summer. He asked her out but she turned him down. Now, months later, Jake is ready to try again. He can't get this girl out of his head and he needs to figure out why. When he asks her out he assumes she'll say no again, so he's shocked when she actually says yes.

After the first date, Jake knows he's in trouble. Ivy is actually someone he could see himself being with, for a lot longer than a night. But what Jake doesn’t know is that Ivy’s only going out with him to prove she’s not the girl for him. She’s dated his type before and doesn’t want to do it again. But is Jake really the player she thinks he is? And if not, is she willing to trust him with her heart?

Author's Note: Give Us a Chance is a standalone and book two of The Wheeler Brothers, a series of standalone novels that each feature a different brother. Next to Me, featuring Jake's older brother, Nash, is book one.

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Jake

Before she gets in my SUV, I stop her and kiss those beautiful lips again. Then I slide my hand over her smooth silky hair and say, “It’s kind of a rule.”

“What’s a rule?”

“You kiss me before you get in the car.”

She smiles. “And why is that a rule?”

“It’s for good luck. It ensures we’ll have a safe drive. I’m very superstitious.”

“You didn’t do it last night.”

“Yeah. And thank God we didn’t get in an accident. But tonight, I’m not risking it. You need to kiss me before you get in.”

“Every time? That’s too much.”

“It’s for our safety. People drive like maniacs around here.”

“Fine. I’ll go along with it but only because your kisses are…” She glances to the side. “Not completely horrible.”

I laugh. “What the hell? Not completely horrible? That’s how you describe my kisses?”

“What did you want me to say?”

“That the kiss I gave you was the best kiss you’ve ever had. That I kiss like a freakin’ pro. An expert. Someone who could give lessons to all the idiots you’ve kissed before who didn’t know what the hell they were doing.”

“You’re awfully full of yourself, you know that?” Her lips tick up.

“I know when I’m good at something and I’m not afraid to admit it.” I step forward, backing her against my SUV, my eyes on hers. “And I fucking know how to kiss.”

“You really think so?” She leans back but there’s nowhere for her to go.

“I know so.” And with that, I grip the back of her head and bring her mouth to mine and kiss her hard. She grabs my coat and yanks me closer and I thrust my tongue in her mouth. It lashes with hers in a heated frenzy, and then we both slow down, parting just enough to breathe each other’s air, our bodies relaxing. And then I kiss her again, softly, gently, my hand still cradling her head, and we continue on as if we’re not standing in a parking lot in the middle of winter. As if we’re the only two people here, despite the cars driving down the street and the people walking by. We’re completely lost in the moment, lost in each other. It’s surreal, and I don’t understand it because I’ve never experienced anything like this before.

Ivy lets go of my coat and I look at her and see that her face is expressing exactly what I’m feeling. Uncertainty. Doubt. Fear. Because we both know there’s something here. There’s something between us. Something we haven’t felt with anyone else, and never in a million years expected to find with each other.

I don’t know what I was expecting with Ivy. Maybe she was just an experiment to see if I could really date a girl without it being about sex. Or maybe I was just determined to convince her to go out with me since she’s only the girl who’s ever said no. But when she finally said yes, I never expected THIS. This overwhelming need to make her mine and never let her go. Where is this coming from? It can’t just be from a kiss, can it?

Allie Everhart is a hopeless romantic who writes books about love. Allie has authored fifteen novels, including The Jade Series, a college romance that follows the story of Jade and Garret as they deal with numerous obstacles trying to tear them apart. Her other series, The Kensingtons, is a romantic suspense series. Her standalone romance novels include Next to Me, and her latest book, Give Us aChance.

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Excerpt & Giveaway! Stubborn Hearts, In Cold Mud #1 by Heidi Hutchinson

Ryan Zacherson’s life was forever altered the moment her mom passed away. Thrust into a family feud decades old, she attempts to hold tight to the reins of her life without losing control. She embarks on a forced journey of self-discovery. As she becomes more deeply involved in the world of horse racing, liars, gamblers, and cheats, she learns harsh lessons as the girl no one wants. She’s taught the value of love, compassion, loyalty, and resilience. With the help of her closest friend, Jesse Hart, she learns what it really means to be brave.

With every lesson she learns, Ryan proves time and time again: nothing can break her spirit without her permission.

Companion to Brand New Sky.

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Red hadn't run since the last threatening note had caused so much strife and upheaval in Louisiana. They also hadn't changed his schedule. They proceeded as if everything was normal. But Ryan was a bit apprehensive, especially in light of the things Jesse had shared with her over Thanksgiving.

Red's next scheduled race was in a week.

Jesse straightened and held his stopwatch in his hand. “Let's see how he's feeling.” He lifted his hand and signaled the jockey to bring him around and open it up.

Red was the kind of horse who didn't just like to run.

He liked to run.

Full out, no restrictions, no limits.

The trouble these days was horses' bodies were degrading at a faster rate than they did fifty or a hundred years ago. Ryan had her theories, so did Jesse. They'd discussed them in depth. Horses were being pumped with too many performance enhancing drugs and their bodies were deteriorating. Sometimes only allowing them six good races before being called into retirement due to weakened bone structure and the higher rate of injury. Breeding was where the big money had moved and Ryan could see why, a single horse winning a dozen stakes races in a year was unheard of anymore. 

However, it appeared, Red was immune to the things that held back the other horses and their teams. And under Jesse's training, he had blossomed into a horse no one saw coming.

A legend in the making.

It had a lot to do with Jesse being old school. No drugs, no enhancements. He wanted his colt to feel every moment of the race, not be numbed stupid. The diet was important, too. For years, there was a belief that feeding a horse a higher amount of protein would contribute to muscle growth and better performance. It had the opposite effect. Horses need a high carb diet, it was just body chemistry. Which Ryan had studied extensively in college.

Putting Ryan, Jesse, and Red on the same team? It made them unstoppable.

Red stood still at his start, then Eddie made a slight move and the horse jumped forward. The power in his hindquarters propelling him to a phenomenal speed instantly. He thundered by, the ground shaking beneath them and ricocheting through Ryan's rib cage.

Red picked up speed as he came around again.

It was an eight furlong dirt track, or one mile. Usually taking a horse a minute forty. Jesse stiffened, his head jerking back and forth from his clock to his colt. Ryan could sense it, but she didn't take her eyes off of the fastest horse she had ever seen. If it were even possible it looked like....

“That's not possible,” Jesse said out loud.

“What?” Ryan asked as Red went by a third time. Eddie was standing in the stirrups, trying to get him to slow down.

“He... damn.” Jesse laughed out loud and shoved away from the fence. Ryan spun to watch him. His smile was enormous and unsuccessfully hidden by his hand.

He charged forward, getting close to Ryan. “He just broke a track record.” He shook the stop watch in Ryan's face excitedly. “Twice!”

“What?” Ryan asked, not following.

Jesse's flushed face was beaming. “The track record was a minute thirty-five for a mile. He ran the first mile in a minute thirty-four-five. And he ran the second in a minute thirty-three.”

“That's not possible,” Ryan said, feeling the blood drain from her face.

Jesse laughed again, running a hand through his short hair so it stood up all crazy on top. “But he did it anyway.” He kicked his boot in the dirt and pointed the watch at Ryan. “I told you! Didn't I tell you?”

Heidi Hutchinson was born in South Dakota and raised the exact right distance away from the Black Hills. She had an overactive imagination very early on, and wasted no time in getting most of her friends in trouble due to her unrealistic and completely ridiculous ideas. Seeing as she was so lazy and also afraid people would think she was bonkers, she didn’t write down any of the story lines that played out in her daydreams.

During her high school years, she took pen to paper and filled more notebooks than she is proud of with angsty, depressing, self-deprecating poetry. This led to her writing down more things: notes, ideas, character bios, plot twists that had no plot yet to twist. After years of cleaning up her own scraps of imagination with nothing solid to hold on to, she sat down and wrote the story that had been in her head the longest. Fueled by coffee and her unwavering and perfectly normal devotion to Dave Grohl, she discovered a writer living inside of her.

She still lives in the Midwest, though not as close to the Black Hills as she would prefer, with her alarmingly handsome husband and their fearless child. They eat more pizza than God intended and she listens to her music the same way she lives: loudly.

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Excerpt & Giveaway! The Rancher's Son, Montana #2 by R.J. Scott

A man without memories, and the cop who never gave up hope.

When he wakes up in the hospital, the victim of a brutal beating, John Doe has no memories of who he is or who hurt him. The cops can find nothing to identify him and he can't remember anything to help... except the name Ethan and one recurring place from his dreams. Two words, and they're not much, but it's a start: Crooked Tree.

Detective Ethan Allens has never stopped searching for the two boys who vanished. When a report lands on Ethan's desk that may give new leads, he jumps at the chance to follow them up. The man he finds isn't his brother, but it's someone who could maybe help him discover what happened twelve years ago.

What neither man can know is that facing the very real demons of the past could destroy any kind of future they may have together.

Ethan must have nodded off at some point, waking to another coffee from Clare and a ten-minute warning that breakfast was about to be brought up to the patients. His neck ached, and he was semi curled up in the hard chair. 

“Thought you needed this. If you want to go to the cafeteria, I can keep an eye on Adam.” 

“No, I’ll stay here. Thank you, though.” 

“I’ll see if I can get someone to bring you up something.” 

A quick glance at his watch showed Ethan it was a few minutes after six. He checked his email. He’d only sent the information to Navy Liaison at late last night, but there was already a message back saying all efforts would be made to get the information to Cole Strachan. There was a group joke sent by one of the shift officers back at the precinct, and some spam. Other than that, nothing. 

Ethan stood and stretched tall, sipped his hot coffee, and watched the April morning unfold before his eyes. Clare managed to scrounge up some pastries, and he ate them at the window, a hundred thoughts racing through his head. 

A nurse disappeared into Adam’s room, and Ethan tensed in expectation. He desperately wanted to go in there, but would Adam even be interested in talking to him? 

“Are you Ethan?” the nurse asked. The tray in her hand carried untouched food. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You can go in. He’s asking for you.” 

As he started to walk past her, she thrust the tray at him. There was a plate of eggs, and a sorry-looking pancake. “Try to get him to eat some of this,” she said. 

He took the tray, because he didn’t really have a choice, and went into Adam’s room, kicking the door shut behind him. There was no one in the bed, but the bathroom door was closed, so Ethan assumed that was where the errant Adam was. He placed the tray on the table and waited, looking out of the same window Adam had been standing at last night. From this angle and at this height, Ethan could see the water of Lake Michigan and watch the hospital parking lot grow busier by the minute. 

The bathroom door opened. Ethan instinctively turned and wished he hadn’t, because now he was staring. Not so much at the pajama bottoms that rode low on slim hips, or the broad chest that had a smattering of hair, tapering to a happy trail downward, nor to the muscles in Adam’s arms. No, Ethan was staring at the scars—new ones and some way older by the look of them—bruises purple and yellow and green, and the tattoos. 

Tribal tattoos circled Adam’s arms, over his right shoulder, and down onto his pec: big swathes of dark ink with finer detail in curls around muscles. Something that looked like old burns marked his neck. A body that had seen a lot, felt a lot. 

“I don’t remember them,” Adam said, his voice lost. He ran his fingers over the tattoos as if touching them would bring back memories. “They must have hurt, don’t you think?” 

Ethan thought of the small tattoo over his heart and recalled the discomfort of getting it. His hadn’t hurt; the million tiny pricks into his skin were nothing. 

“Maybe,” he offered. 

Adam turned a little and checked the tattoos in the mirror, peering close. “I wonder what they mean?” 

When he turned, he exposed more marks on his back and the fine lines of a horse standing on his hind legs. Ethan inhaled sharply. 

“What?” Adam snapped, attempting to see his back even though he couldn’t get the right angle. “What is it?” 

“Your horse.” 

Adam frowned. “That is my horse? I want to see that again, the detective took a photo but he didn’t have a copy for me.” 

Ethan pulled out his cell and snapped a shot of the beautiful tattoo, then passed the phone to Adam, who stared at the picture. 

“Why is it—” Any energy seemed to leave him in the exhalation of a sigh, and he slumped to sit on his bed. “—I remember this is a cell phone, but I don’t recall patterns on my own skin?” 

From his research Ethan learned terms like brain centers and retrograde amnesia, alongside traumatic stress, he didn’t understand a lot of it. “I have no idea.” 

Adam curled into himself, hunching over his knees, looking utterly defeated. 

Compassion welled inside Ethan, and he sat next to his old friend, pushing the tray toward him. “Eat your eggs,” he said gruffly. 

Adam side-eyed him and huffed before taking the tray and resting it on the small hospital table. He forked some into his mouth, grimacing as he chewed and swallowed, but at least he ate half of what was there, and one cold, dry pancake. 

“I need a proper breakfast,” Adam grumped. 

“Like what?” 

“Hot fresh bacon,” Adam said immediately, paling at what he was saying. “I think that I love bacon. I’d eat plates of the stuff if you gave them to me.” 

“And real pancakes,” Ethan added. He reached over and poked at the sorry excuse for one that had been served. “But not like this one. Fluffy, steaming pancakes.” 

Adam nodded and darted his tongue out to collect a small piece of egg resting on his lips. “Maple syrup,” he added softly. 

“You always liked maple syrup.” 

Adam finished the eggs and grimaced again. “When we get out of here, will you find me bacon?” 

“Of course.” 

“Real bacon, and pancakes with maple syrup. That sounds just like what I want to eat.” 

Ethan’s chest tightened as Adam looked up at him under his eyelashes, his dark eyes holding humor. Adam and Justin had spent their childhoods getting Ethan to do what they wanted: the older brother with money from a part-time job, the one with the car. And he’d done everything they asked. 

“I wouldn’t take you anywhere bad,” Ethan said 

Adam pushed the tray to one side. “I need a shower, and then we go, right?” 

“Right.” 

“You should take photos of all my tattoos, so you could maybe find out more about me.” 

“I know who you are. The rest will follow when your memories return.” He didn’t want to say that he’d already decided to email the tattoo of the horse to Jen, just in case she could track down where it had been done. It was a beautiful piece of work, and likely whoever did it would have it in a portfolio somewhere. Of course, that was a needle in a haystack. Who knew where Adam had been in the last twelve years? Chicago, where he was now? Or had he traveled from Montana to another city? 

Adam looked at him, confused. “You said I disappeared. How old was I when that happened? Fifteen, you said?” 

“You were nearly sixteen.” 

Adam glanced down at himself, “And I’m twenty-eight now, so what happened in between?” He stood up and half turned. “You should get them all.” 

Ethan did as Adam wanted, and pulled all the photos into one email, sending the whole lot to Jen with a particular request about tracking down the artist. Meanwhile, Adam went into the bathroom, closed the door, and left Ethan staring at the wood.

RJ Scott has been writing since age six when she was made to stay in at lunchtime for an infraction involving cookies and was told to write a story. Two sides of A4 about a trapped princess later, a lover of writing was born. She reads anything from thrillers to sci-fi to horror; however, her first real love will always be the world of romance. From billionaires, bodyguards and cowboys to SEALs, throwaways and veterinarians, she writes passionate stories with a heart of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and more than a hint of happily ever after.

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In The Spotlight! From Ashes Into Light by Gudrun Mouw

From Ashes into Light is a transpersonal tale of epic tragedy, spirituality, family, and personal redemption. It is told through three distinct voices: the hauntingly tragic story of Ruth, a Jewish adolescent during Kristallnacht in Austria, Saqapaya, a stalwart Native American from coastal California during the time of the Spanish conquest, and Friede Mai. 

Friede is born during World War II to a Bavarian soldier and a East-Prussian mother. As those around her struggle with the inevitable chaos and paradox of war, Friede opens her heart to gruesome enemies, at times saving herself and family members from atrocities. 

With war behind them, the Mai family immigrates to the US, where Friede, her veteran father and ex-refugee mother, struggle with the reverberations of trauma. Friede is unable to find inner freedom until she meets her spiritual guide, a Rabbi, who helps her see that the voices from the past are teachers and the horrors of history are also beacons of light. 

The three electric characters weave a narrative of raw consciousness, a moving example of transforming the ripple of suffering through the incredible strength of vulnerability.

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November 10, 1938, Kristallnacht, night of shattered glass, broken bodies and broken faith. We are propelled into a chaotic world. Our Salzburg home has been torn apart.

I stare at drawers emptied on the floor, papers thrown about, clothes everywhere and my 12-year-old mind cannot comprehend. 

“Papa, where are Oma Gutherz and Onkel David? Did they go to the doctor? When will they be back? Who made this mess?”

We have just returned from visiting Stefan and Anna Richert, and Papa wants to go back to the Richerts and make inquiries. Mother nearly yells, “Josef, they should be taken away? An old woman taking care of her son sick in bed? This I cannot believe.”

“Esther, believe it. Haven’t we been trying to convince you, Stefan and I? The Nazis have no mercy. We are lost.”

The pain in my father’s voice shocks me. I think, how can Papa say lost? Grandmother Gutherz and Uncle David must be somewhere.

“What are we going to do? Josef, we have to do something!” Mother stands in the midst of our ransacked apartment. Forgetting danger, she begins to cry loudly.

“Quiet. Please, be quiet,” Papa whispers. Mother chokes back sound. “What do you think we can do, Esther? Don’t you understand what’s been happening since the Nazis took control?”

Before returning to the Richerts’, Papa warns, “Keep it dark, stay still, don’t open the door.” He points to an overturned lamp and pictures from the walls smashed on the floor in a pile of splintered glass. “The place has been well gone over. It’s unlikely anyone will be back here tonight.”

Mother and I huddle on the divan, afraid to talk. I hug my knees tightly. Forehead presses bone. Mother makes suppressed noises, and her thick body heaves. How can I help? What can I say? 

When Papa returns, he whispers, “Stefan went to the Gestapo. He said he wanted to report breaking and entering and destruction of property. The Gestapo told him they already knew and not to bother about it. To cover himself, he pretended to be pleased saying. ‘Good, good, they got what they deserved.’ Then, he heard someone give an order to send a telegram to Vienna about ‘Salzburger Jews taken in protective custody.’ Stefan thinks Vienna is their immediate destination, but someone else told him that those arrested would eventually be sent to a camp in Germany near Munich. He and I agree. We need to leave as soon as possible. He will take care of the business and send us money.”

We wear extra clothes, bring food and a few valuables that hadn’t been found. We walk inside dark pockets of night, hiding in the shadows of tall buildings. We peer in every direction as we hurry over cobblestones and past street lamps that glare down from building fronts. At the plaza, I linger by the bronze horses that rear up from the fountain’s base. I have always loved the one on the right with his back to the cathedral. His forelegs kick above the water, head pointing up, mouth open as though about to make a loud, defiant noise.

I reach into the pool, trail fingers in the water, touch a smooth leg. “Goodbye, be brave,” I whisper, echoing the words of my classmate, Rolf, who told me more than once, “Ruth, be brave.” Mother grabs my arm.

“It’s not safe,” she says.

We arrive at the edge of town where Stefan Richert leads us inside the back of one of our Gutherz trucks, loaded for Vienna deliveries. He directs us to the right of a dresser, beyond tables and chairs and behind a bookcase. Mr. Richert has taken over our family’s furniture business because of the Nazi requirement that all Salzburger enterprises be judenrein, free of Jews. Jews are no longer allowed to own businesses.

“You know the work and the customers,” Papa had said to his friend and partner as they shook hands over the change of ownership. “You are an honorable person who will carry on the business with its tradition of quality now that my family and I have become one of the displaced.”

We conceal ourselves in the space Mr. Richert created at the back of the truck bed. He will drive us to Papa’s sister’s house in Vienna himself. Will we ever see him again, I wonder, after tonight?

Gudrun Mouw was born in East Prussia (formerly part of Germany) in 1944. At the age of 7, she arrived in the United States as a displaced person. Mouw moved many times in the US before ending up in California in the 60s. There she studied at San Jose State University, receiving her Master’s Degree in English Literature in 1969. Mouw has worked as a college English teacher, a Stanford librarian, a columnist, a California poet-in-the-school, as well as a yoga and meditation teacher. She lives in Santa Barbara County, California and has for over thirty years.

Mouw wrote From Ashes Into Light beginning with a research trip to various locations in Eastern Europe, Germany, Austria and Switzerland (in the 1990s). Her research took her places like Dachau, the concentration camp, a Jewish graveyard in Prague, and the streets of Salzburg.

Mouw is a prolific and award-winning poet and her poems have appeared in literary journals such as Praire Schooner, Practical Mystic, The Chariton Review and others. Her collection of poetry called Wife of the House was published in April 2014. Mouw won first place in a short fiction contest at the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference in 1992. From Ashes into Light will be her first published novel.

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