One of the things that I really love about the new world of Indie publishing is the support authors give one another. We have come together to help each other get good books into the hands of the readers. The other thing that I really love is that good books that the Big 6 or agents overlooked are getting into the hands of readers and heading up the bestseller lists!

Today I want to share with you a beautiful book written by a talented author who has also become a friend of mine. Tracey Garvis Graves’ book ON THE ISLAND has hit that top 10 Amazon list and has been strong there for weeks now. With 327 five star reviews you can’t go wrong with this one!

 I had the pleasure to interview Tracey. I hope you enjoy and please check out her books.

 Cheers,

Michele

Can you tell us a bit about yourself?

I’m a new author and On the Island is my debut novel. When I’m not writing I like to curl up with my Kindle; it’s one of my most prized possessions. Add a glass of wine and I’m instantly in my happy place.

When did you begin writing?

I’ve always been interested in writing and took a few fiction writing classes in college. I started blogging in 2008 and decided to try my hand at novel writing in 2010.

Do you write during the day, at night, or whenever you can sneak in a few moments?

I prefer to write early in the morning. I get up at 5:00 a.m., take a quick shower, pour a giant cup of coffee, and power up my laptop. I write until about 7:00 and then finish getting ready so I can be at work by 8:00. I also try to sneak in as much writing time as I can on the weekends.

What is this book about?

When thirty-year-old English teacher Anna Emerson is offered a job tutoring T.J. Callahan at his family’s summer rental in the Maldives, she accepts without hesitation; a working vacation on a tropical island trumps the library any day.

T.J. Callahan has no desire to leave town, not that anyone asked him. He’s almost seventeen and if having cancer wasn’t bad enough, now he has to spend his first summer in remission with his family – and a stack of overdue assignments – instead of his friends.

Anna and T.J. are en route to join T.J.’s family in the Maldives when the pilot of their seaplane suffers a fatal heart attack and crash-lands in the Indian Ocean. Adrift in shark-infested waters, their life jackets keep them afloat until they make it to the shore of an uninhabited island. Now Anna and T.J. just want to survive and they must work together to obtain water, food, fire, and shelter. Their basic needs might be met but as the days turn to weeks, and then months, the castaways encounter plenty of other obstacles, including violent tropical storms, the many dangers lurking in the sea, and the possibility that T.J.’s cancer could return. As T.J. celebrates yet another birthday on the island, Anna begins to wonder if the biggest challenge of all might be living with a boy who is gradually becoming a man.

On the Island is a full-length adult romance novel. It explores the human need for more than mere survival, the meaning of bonds formed in isolation, and the ways those bonds are bound to change.

 What inspired you to write it?

I love, love, love the desert island premise. I’m a big fan of the T.V. show Survivor and I’ve seen every episode of Lost. I have fond memories of my mom taking me to see The Blue Lagoon when I was thirteen. I enjoyed the movie Castaway but felt the premise was underutilized by placing Tom Hanks on that island all alone. Think of the possibilities if they’d put someone else there with him (I’m not sure I ever really bought the attachment to the volley ball). When the idea of writing a desert island book first came to me, I thought it would be interesting to put two people on it that shouldn’t be together and then see what would happen.  

Who is your biggest supporter?

My husband, without a doubt. He’s a great sounding board and he’s wonderful when I need the male perspective. I think he thought I was crazy when I first told him what I was going to write about. Actually, everyone probably thought I was crazy but they were too nice to say anything. My other biggest supporter is my friend Elisa Abner-Taschwer. I refer to her in my acknowledgments section as my de facto publicist. We used to work together thirteen years ago and even though we don’t live in the same city anymore, she works tirelessly to promote On the Island. She’s absolutely wonderful. My critique partner, my twin sister, and my dad are also infinitely supportive.

Who are some of your favorite authors?

There are way too many to list, but if there’s one author who influenced me the most it would be Stephen King. Although I’m not a huge fan of horror novels, his book The Stand is my all-time favorite book. Once a year I reread the same beat-up paperback copy that my dad gave me when I was twelve. It’s just an epic book. My favorite genres to read are contemporary women’s fiction, contemporary romance, and most commercial fiction.  

Where can readers purchase a copy of your book?

Amazon (the e-book and paperback are available now and the audiobook will be released in the next week or so), Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords (which distributes to Apple, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel).

Do you have a website and/or blog where readers can find out more?

www.traceygarvisgraves.com

Do you have a video trailer to promote your book? If yes, where can readers find it?

April Haug, one of the bloggers that hosted a stop on my A Tale of Many Reviews blog tour made a trailer for On the Island which was incredibly nice. I certainly don’t have the knowledge or skill to do it myself, so I think it’s great that she did it for me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5nBGwLTXEHw&list=UUZeC4NxXpGoo3zTTxx02Cnw&index=1&feature=plcp 

What is one piece of advice you would like to share with aspiring authors everywhere?

If you want to write a book you’re going to have to sit down and write. Don’t worry about it being perfect right out of the gate (that’s what multiple drafts and revising are for). You can’t edit a blank page so just get the words down. It took me twice as long to revise On the Island as it did to write it. And the most important advice of all: write the book you want to read. Forget about trends because they’re constantly changing.

What is up next for you?

What if the life you wanted, and the woman you fell in love with, belonged to someone else?

Chris and Claire Canton’s marriage is on life support. Downsized during the recession, Chris copes by retreating to a dark place where no one can reach him, not even Claire.

Daniel Rush had it all, until a tragic accident took away everything he cherished. A chance meeting with Claire sets in motion a chain of events that will leave three people questioning their choices and dealing with the aftermath of their decisions.

Is there anything you would like to add?

Yes. I’d like to thank readers everywhere for embracing On the Island, taking the time to review it, and telling their friends and family members about it. It’s a word-of-mouth book and I feel strongly that without these positive reviews and personal recommendations, it might never have found a wide audience. I’m eternally grateful and blown away by the readers and wish I could thank them all personally. 

 Tracey Garvis-Graves lives in a suburb of Des Moines, Iowa with her husband, two children, and hyper dog Chloe. On the Island is her first novel. She blogs at www.traceygarvisgraves.com using colorful language and a snarky sense of humor to write about pop culture, silly television shows, and her suburban neighborhood. She is hard at work on her next book. You can e-mail her at traceygarvisgraves@yahoo.com. She’d love to hear from you. 

I’ve been getting a ton of e-mails regarding the next Michaela book. I promise it is in the works and will be out this summer. Here is a sneak preview. Also, be sure to check out my new book The Grey Tier: A Dead Celeb Mystery. http://www.amazon.com/Grey-Tier-Celeb-Mystery-ebook/dp/B007R98NYM/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2

Have a great day and enjoy!  

CHAPTER ONE

Michaela Bancroft had to be crazy. What in the world had she been thinking? Who decides to get married during the holidays?! Oh yeah, she and Ethan, that’s who. “Let’s get married on New Year’s Eve,” she’d said. “It’ll be like starting over, with a clean slate.” He’d happily agreed, and the rest, as they say, is history. But now, just a few weeks before Christmas and up to her neck in holiday planning, it didn’t seem like such a great idea. Michaela smacked herself in the head. Brilliant, Michaela. Just brilliant.

The baby monitor suddenly crackled to life as Josh whimpered softly in his crib. She set the box of Christmas ornaments aside and headed toward the nursery. “I’m coming, little man.”

Truth be told, her best friend Camden was to blame for this whole mess. If she hadn’t insisted on having a mai tai bar for her Hawaiian wedding and if Michaela hadn’t caught the bouquet…although in retrospect, she was damn glad she had and even happier at the grin on Ethan’s face when she turned to look at him. Then there was the slow dancing and the kissing, and the passionate interlude back in their suite at the resort. Well, after all that, a New Year’s wedding seemed to make perfect sense. Until now. Why hadn’t she suggested a good old-fashioned elopement? To Vegas? But Ethan had already been there, done that with Summer, his ex-wife and Josh’s mother. And that ended with Summer ditching Ethan and her infant son for another man. Apparently being a wife and mother wasn’t her forte.

Michaela opened the nursery curtains and lifted Josh from his crib, cuddling the toddler to her chest. As hard as it had been to watch Ethan deal with Summer’s abandonment, she couldn’t help but be glad things turned out the way they did. She now had Ethan—her childhood friend and lifelong crush—and Josh, who was by every standard (except biological) her son. Life was good. So, in reality, when she thought about it, a New Year’s wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The holiday trappings would go along nicely. Everything would be perfect. Sure. 

 “Hello? I’m here,” Camden’s voice rang out from below. “Where’s my god son?”

Michaela carried the drowsy, blue-eyed boy down towards the open arms of his godmother. Camden’s latest hair color was bleached blonde and she’d pulled it straight back into a high, tight ponytail. She’d taken to wearing Wranglers, cowboy boots, and a silver belt buckle. Being married to Dwayne, Michaela’s right hand man at the ranch, had obviously turned haute couture Camden into a true blue cowgirl. She even rode on a regular basis—something Michaela never expected to see.

Josh adored Camden as much as she did him. He reached his pudgy arms out to her as she cooed his name, “Joshy, Joshy boy, come to Auntie Cam.” The little boy almost leapt into his godmother’s arms and snuggled into her soft denim shirt.

It never ceased to amaze Michaela just how much Camden loved Josh. Yes, he was an adorable little guy, but Camden wasn’t exactly known for her maternal ways. Her idea of a home cooked meal was Hamburger Helper, packaged salad, and a frozen margarita. All Michaela could figure is Dwayne had something to do with it. Since she’d married him, Camden had started cooking (real, albeit not gourmet, food) and had fallen hard for little Josh.

“I’m feeling a little second fiddle here,” Michaela said wryly.

“Don’t be silly. He knows who his mommy is.” Camden’s eyes locked on Michaela’s. Neither one said what they were both thinking. Michaela was hoping to adopt Josh after she and Ethan married. It was clear to all involved that Summer didn’t want to be his mother. She’d abandoned him as completely as she’d abandoned Ethan. But all the same, when it came to signing away any rights to the little boy, Michaela wondered if Summer would go through with it.

“He knows exactly who his mommy is.” Camden tickled Josh’s tummy and he let out a squeal of delight.

Michaela smiled and glanced down at her watch. “Okay, I should be home by lunch time. I’m going to run over to Winsor and take a look at that horse Devon called me about, and then swing by the florist. If I have time afterwards, I may try to squeeze in some more Christmas shopping.”

“Oh honey, it’s eight already. You’re going to need more than four hours to do all that!”

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “I thought you knew me better than that. I don’t need four hours to decide whether or not a horse will fit in my program or choose flowers for my wedding. As far as Christmas shopping goes, I already know what I’m buying everyone. I’ll be in and out in a jif.” She snapped her fingers. “Now if it was you, it’d be a whole ‘nother story.”

Camden shrugged. “What can I say? Auntie Cam likes to shop. Josh doesn’t think it’s a problem. Do you Joshy?”

The little boy giggled.

 Michaela kissed him on the cheek. “Okay, be back in a bit. And remember, do NOT let him watch those reality TV shows.”

“Oh come on, he loves The Housewives of OC! Those L.A. broads are crazy!” She circled her index finger by the side of her head.

“No. I mean yes, they’d have to be crazy to be on that show. But no, I don’t want him watching that stuff,” Michaela replied. “Nick Jr. or Discovery Kids if you have to. Actually, I’d prefer no TV time. Play with him.”

Camden rolled her eyes. “You know I will.”

“Ok, ok. Be back soon!”

 Michaela headed out and did a quick walk through the breezeway of the barn. Her three-year-old, Leo, had cast himself the other night in his stall. She’d had to poultice and wrap him to help sweat out the swelling. Dwayne would have already checked him and likely rewrapped him when he fed Leo that morning, but it was rare for Michaela to leave the house without a quick hello to her horses. Today was Monday—a day off for everyone: the horses, Michaela’s students, and herself.

Michaela trained horses with an emphasis on reining, but she’d ventured out her comfort zone recently when one of her clients had brought over an appendix filly she wanted trained as a hunter jumper. Michaela had done some jumping throughout the years but explained that it wasn’t her strong suit. The owner didn’t care. She’d heard wonderful things about Michaela, going so far as to call her a horse whisperer. Michaela still cringed a little when she thought about that. She just did what she did best—train using empathy and kindness, setting boundaries where needed.

 Leo stuck his head out of the stall as he heard his “mom” approaching. “Yes, I have a treat for you.” She rubbed his face and kissed his nose, his hot breath puffing on her face and hands as he sniffed for the treat. Michaela reached into the front of her jeans pocket and took out a handful of carrots. He nuzzled the palm of her hand as he sucked them up. “You’re not a horse. You’re a vacuum cleaner.” She undid the latch on his stall and went inside. The woodsy smell of shavings mixed with earth and horse smelled better to her than any perfume ever could. She bent down and checked Leo’s wraps. As suspected, Dwayne had beat her to the job.

Speaking of Dwayne, he was probably back in bed. He also took Mondays off and, according to Camden, typically spent them watching reruns of old shows like Gilligan’s Island, Three’s Company, and I Love Lucy. 

Michaela closed Leo’s stall door behind her and continued down the breezeway. Immediately the young horse started banging against the door of his stall with his hoof. “No more. Knock it off,” she scolded him. His ears pricked forward and his eyes widened. She shook a finger at him. “You heard me.”

There were twelve more horses to kiss and hand treats to. Some were there for training and some for her lesson program. Michaela gave lessons to kids. She’d also developed a program for autistic children. Nothing gave her more joy than the moment when a kid had a breakthrough because of a horse. Horses were gentle souls who, for the most part, seemed to understand how to help a person grow, heal, and be nurtured.

After her brief visit with the horses, she headed out to Winsor. Winsor Riding Academy was a nearby high school prep academy and riding school that educated both local and out-of-state kids. It definitely wasn’t for families short on cash. Most of the kids at the school trained in three-day eventing, which Michaela loved to watch, especially the cross-country jumping. Those riders had some serious cajones! Galloping through a course, jumping over stationary obstacles—usually wooden logs that jarred both horse and rider if they hit.

 Devon Winsor, one of the owners, was an acquaintance and had given Michaela a call the other day about an older gelding in their stable. Apparently he was also an appendix—half Quarter horse, half Thoroughbred—and although he’d been an excellent eventer and a good school master, he was at an age where he needed to be taken off the jumps. Devon felt the horse would be a perfect fit for Michaela’s program. Michaela liked the idea of adding a gentle soul to the barn, one who could teach the beginners and also be great for her special needs kids. This horse sounded like a good fit, but she wanted to see him up close and personal—preferably without Devon hovering—to make sure. She didn’t know Devon that well and before Michaela plunked down a few thousand dollars on a lesson horse, she needed to take a peek at him. His name was Silverado and per Devon, he was stabled in barn three. The horses had name tags on their stall doors, so she figured it wouldn’t be a problem finding this one.

Cruising slowly down the long driveway leading up to the academy, Michaela noticed how empty the place was. Most of the kids had gone home for the holiday break. And while there were a few local boarders around, the place was pretty deserted.

Michaela smiled as she pulled up in front of the barns. Dr. Grace’s truck was parked out front. Grace Morgan was Ethan’s business partner. He’d recently bought into her veterinary practice when he’d decided to make a move from his old partnership. Ethan’s former partner wasn’t willing to learn new techniques and his bedside manner was far from pleasant. That was enough for him to buy the guy out and find a new partner. When Dr. Grace mentioned an opening at her practice, Ethan jumped at the opportunity.

Grace was well respected and renowned for her veterinary skills in Indio and beyond. She was cutting edge and did a lot of lab work and looked deeper than most to get to the bottom of a number of horse ailments. She cared deeply for the animals and it showed.

Maybe Grace could vet Silverado for her. She called out the doctor’s name as she entered barn three. No answer. She called again into each of the barns. Still no response. Maybe Grace was up at the main house with Devon? Michaela checked her watch and realized she only had a few minutes left to check out Silverado.

She found the grey gelding down the aisle of barn three. He stuck his nose out to greet her. “Oh you are a cute guy, aren’t you?”

The horse in the opposite stall banged against the door just like Leo had done earlier that morning. “Ah, another begger,” she said, turning around to see what she guessed was a Dutch Warmblood. He was huge. At least seventeen hands, and had a wild look in his eye. He snorted, weaving his great head back and forth.

Michaela turned back to the grey gelding. “Looks like your friend has some issues to work through. But you, on the other hand look very sweet.” She liked his soft, kind eyes. Devon said he was eighteen, but there was no sway to his back. He had great muscle tone and a very pretty face. She’d have to ride him to see how his disposition was. But so far, so good.

The wild guy across the way though—he was something else entirely. He became more agitated as she stood there talking to the other horse. She finally took a step toward the large animal and spoke in calm tones. “Hey, hey there.” She squinted to read his name plate. Geronimo. Should’ve known. “Hey Geronimo. It’s okay. It’s alright, bud.”

The horse blew out another snort and held his head high and out of reach as she went to try and stroke him on the neck. It was then that she caught a glimpse of what was making him crazy. She took a step closer and the horse backed away. She closed her eyes and shook her head. This could not be happening. She swallowed hard.

“Oh my God.” Her voice came out in a croak. It didn’t sound like her at all. She stared down at a sight she was certain she’d never, ever forget. Dr. Grace lay sprawled on the floor of Geronimo’s stall—dark patches of dried blood all around her.

 The Billy Dal Gang

By

Michele Scott

We called ourselves “The Billy Dal Gang.” Four ten-year-old girls, their horses and my dad.

My dad Dal was, of course, Billy Dal. There was Billy Stace, Billy Renee, Billy Laura, and me Billy Shell. While grooming and saddling up our horses, we’d get into character. Billy Dal would set up the scenario. “Okay, girls, we got three bad guys, and I mean bad guys on the run. They stole a lot of money from that there bank.” He’d point to our house. “Now we gotta go find them and arrest them, and bring ‘em back.”

“Yes we do, Billy Dal!”

“We gotta be real careful and sneak up on ‘em. They’re armed and dangerous.”

We would giggle at my dad’s silly antics, but once we were up on our horses it was a different deal. We were playing the roles. Dad had a sure-footed Quarter horse named Smokey that led the gang. He was a horse with sharp instincts. Several times as we would wind down single file from the mountain, the thick chaparral smelling sweet and earthy, surrounding us on the rocky trail, and occasionally, Smokey would stop on a dime. Billy Dal would turn around bringing a finger to his lips, his blue eyes tinged with a stern warning for us to not move. Our adrenaline pumping as we’d come to know before we ever heard the zing and rattle of the snake that Smokey had spotted a rattler.

We would wait for the snake to back away before clucking the horses forward, as Billy Dal’s constant rule was to leave nature alone. He didn’t believe in killing the snakes out on the trail as many others did. “They were here first,” he’d say.

Making it down off the mountain we would ride through what we learned was former Indian grounds in San Diego county. As we descended into the foothills, we passed a crumbling stone wall built hundreds of years ago, ancient remains at the bottom of the mountain. Danger lurking around every corner, on every trail. It always seemed as if a slight breeze was blowing through that passage, even on days when there was no wind. It was the kind of breeze that carried a whistle on it, and would make the hair on the back of the neck stand on end. It was easy to let our young imaginations get the best of us, wondering if someone was watching us as that feeling of an other worldly presence remained strong until we got down onto the flats. We would all grow quiet passing through the open crevice in the stone wall. In a word, it was spooky. And Billy Dal loved to add to the mystery of it all.

Once we past the cobblestone wall and entered the flats, Billy Dal would again bring a finger to his lips and shake his head. We all understood that this time it wasn’t a snake. He’d point straight ahead and mouth, “Bad guys.” In retrospect I think my dad was just trying to get all of us little girls to stop yapping our mouths because we could make a lot of noise, particularly my friend Billy Stace and me.

Billy Stace and I had a kind of competition between us. It was called, “My horse is faster than your horse.” This debate could take up the entire three hour trail ride if we didn’t have the distraction of The Billy Dal Gang. Stace had a petite grey Arabian mare named Zelle. Zelle was a little loose in the brain. Okay, she was nuts much of the time, but, yeah, she could run. My horse was definitely faster, though–definitely. I’d had the good fortune to raise this mare from a yearling when my dad had her delivered for my sixth birthday. He bought her for a hundred dollars without ever seeing her. He coined her ugly duckling when she stepped off the trailer. But to me she was the most beautiful horse in the world, and she was by far one of the most patient animals I’ve ever had. This mare as a two-year-old would let me lay on her back while in her corral. I’d climb all over her. I have no clue what my parents were thinking, but thank goodness the horse was as sweet natured as she was.

Full grown Dandy stood over sixteen hands. She had only two spots on her rear, but apparently that was enough to be a registered Appaloosa, and this horse could haul butt! Stace and I liked to get down to the flats and race each other. I can still hear the argument now. “I won, Shelly. I did. You started before me, so technically I won and you cheated.”

“No way. I started when you started and I won fair and square. My horse is faster than yours,” I’d say.

“No she isn’t.”

“Wanna make a bet?” And this was how it went. We started bringing stopwatches with us, but the argument to this day (thirty years later) still has not been decided. Both Stace and I (we are still great friends) have agreed to disagree on this count. Dad wouldn’t let us race each other when he was with us, but on those days when he couldn’t go, we were all about getting down onto the flats and moving out.

Dad also liked speed and, as Billy Dal, he added a bit more tension to our game besides only seeking out the bad guys. My father, as you’ve guessed by now, is quite a storyteller. We’d be riding along down on the flats with cottonwood trees on either side of us. Many times cotton would blow in the wind and we might suggest it was snow falling, even in eighty degree weather. Each of us with long hair hanging down our backs, our faces turned up to soak in the sun, and all of a sudden Billy Dal would say, “Oh no. Oh no. We gotta get outta here!”

“What? Why?” the Billy Dal Gang would squeal.

“It’s the hoop snake!”

“The hoop snake?”

 “Oh yes. The hoop snake. You don’t know about the hoop snake?”

“No.”

Billy Dal would point up. “Look up there at the top of the ridge. Don’t you see it? He’s the color of coral with black rings every few inches on his diamond back skin. He’s related to the Diamond Back Rattler, but he’s much deadlier. And he’s after us.”

 “What do you mean?” one of us would ask.

“I mean he’s spotted us and in a minute if we don’t get out of here, he’ll be down off that mountain so fast and bite your horses and have us all for dinner.”

“He’s a snake, Billy Dal. He can’t eat us all for dinner.”

“He’s not just a snake. He’s the hoop snake. He rounds himself up like a circle, takes his tail in his mouth, and rolls down the hill. His prey are horses and their riders, and believe me he could eat us all up. We gotta go. Now!”

Billy Dal would put Smokey into a gallop and we’d all follow suit, laughing and squealing and carrying on about how we’d better hurry so we didn’t become snake food. I don’t know how many times we played out this scenario. It could have been a hundred or more. It didn’t matter. It was so much fun and we’d add to it, change it up a bit, but it always came down to pure ecstasy and freedom on the backs of our horses.

After a good gallop and getting away from the hoop snake, there were all sorts of other “enemies” we had to keep an eye out for. There was a pack of hostile Indians we had to watch out for who, if we weren’t careful, could track us and we’d wind up scalped. We had to watch out for all sorts of wild animals and of course, those bad guys. Any chance we had to “getaway” from anything considered an enemy, we did, and we did quickly.

Our trail rides typically wound up at “the saloon.” We’d ride along a trail that would take us through a golf course. We’d only go onto the course if it was later in the day and Billy Dal scoped it out to make sure there weren’t too many golfers on the course. I still have no clue how we never got kicked off that golf course. We’d ride through on the cart trails and on up to the bar, where Billy Dal would order us all Shirley Temples and he’d have a beer. I think part of the reason we didn’t get kicked off is we were sort of entertainment. I’d learned how to stand up on Dandy in the saddle and I was even able to do a headstand on her. We were like a regular circus show. Looking back, I have to wonder how I made it out of childhood.

“Okay, gang, we’ve had our refreshments and now we gotta get back out there and track those bad guys.”

“Yes, sir, Billy Dal!” And we’d be off again and back out onto the trail. If the day was a hot one and the river bottom had water in it, we’d many times head over to the river, we’d untack the horses, slide off the their backs as they went into the water and hang on to their tails and swim with them. Of course there were always “dangers” in the river bottom, too.

“Watch out for that crocodile, Billy Shell,” one of the other gang members would yell.

“Yeah he’s gonna eat you.”

Fits of laughter would break out amongst us as we truly were having the best times of our lives.

We also had names for our trails. Our favorite was the jumping trail. My mother would never allow me to jump as a kid (guess what I do now?), so I’m pretty sure if she knew about this trail she’d have come totally unglued.

The jumping trail was covered with brush and cottonwoods. Talk about a cross-country course! Jumping the trail was always precluded with another story, like almost everything we did as the gang. The best part is that with all of the trees and brush there were shadows that filled the area. Imaginations ran wild, and even on days my friends couldn’t join us, I could come up with all sorts of fantastical story ideas. As far as I was concerned, fairies hid underneath the rocks that lined the trail, elves played in the shadows, and trolls hid underneath the logs we jumped, waiting to surprise us with their snaggly teeth and green, grotesque faces. They never did, but it was great to imagine that they might.

And of course, there were the horses who were characters in their own right. They tolerated our fantasies. Dandy was never one to spook or do anything flighty. She was calm, strong, and patient for a young horse. Smokey was the leader, like Dad—both wise. Billy Stace had Zelle who ironically enough was a lot like my friend—both a bit hyper and strong willed. Billy Renee had an older Thoroughbred who tolerated whatever was tossed his way without much ado, and Billy Laura had a Buckskin gelding who wasn’t the best mannered animal of the group (loved to nip others’ rear ends), but all the same he followed the pack and no matter what, we knew when we set out on those horses with my dad that we weren’t going to be disappointed.

The only disappointment came when we heard those words, “Well, Gang, we better head home. The mother folk will have dinner ready and it’s getting dark.”

A collective sigh would ring out and we would head back up the hill and into our neighborhood.

There are days now, as I learn more about the horse than I ever learned as a kid, that I wished I’d participated in Pony Club or horse shows, other than the little backyard shows I’d occasionally do. At times I feel ignorant about these amazing animals. But as I reflect back on my childhood and how horses were such a huge part of it, I realize I wouldn’t change it for the world. I may not have understood the mechanics of the animal, the right feed to give them (we were known for feeding them coffee cans filled with grain daily with their hay—the horses loved it), what the right lead was, or the right diagonal, or any of that. That all came as I grew into an adult. But what I did learn, what I do understand, is that to me the horse represents far more than being an animal who tolerates me up on his/her back. To me, the horse represents family, friendship, imagination, and total fantasy. The soul of the horse has driven me to explore who I am as a creative person and that comes from the animals I enjoyed as a kid and the father who was never too old to be a kid himself, but always wise enough to be safe, loving, nurturing, and fun.

 CHAPTER ONE

My name is Evie Preston and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I know, weird, huh? Trust me, I think so, too.  I’ve  actually came home to witness Janis Joplin strumming her guitar and singing along with Bob Marley. And that is only the beginning of what happened that night! I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent-like. Oh no. The ones I see tend to be in full-color 3-D except for when they exert, ah…certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. I will get to that. And they prefer to be called spirits.

I know, I sound completely insane, right? Like “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Okay, maybe a little bit, and believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (technically not my place, not even close to being my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood hills getting high and singing ‘Buffalo Soldier,’ (sans Janis) I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating from a bad meal at Denny’s, or, yes, completely nuts.  None of that was the case. Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’m currently developing some feelings for. But more about him later, too). So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one or, at least, in lust…which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy.

Before I go any further, though, I need to go back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday in Brady, Texas: population 8,000. The signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, to get the hell out of dodge.

I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place which smelled of fresh laundry, home cooking, and mothballs. She was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation, which she’d kindly hosted—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur.

We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed…possibly part-coyote, part-lab, maybe a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, lay across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Mama Cass in the house. Cass went everywhere with me, but not everyone is as gracious about her as Betty.

“I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm tea to my lips.

Betty smiled, the fine lines in her eighty-something-year old face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals get; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.

I nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad turnout.” Thing was, only Betty bought anything. Her friends Margaret and Hazel only came for the cookies and samples. “And I made about ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll love that anti-wrinkle cream.”

Betty ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly . “Child, there is nothing gonna work on this here face at this stage. And I’m proud of these lines. I earned them.”

I laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you felt sorry for me?” Mama Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head, which I bent over to scratch.

Betty sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you started kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly,” She winked at me. “I have watched you try so hard to be exactly what your mama and daddy wanted you to be, especially after all that bad business. And there was that little faux pas with—” she paused briefly, “What was his name?” She brought the cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was referring to. As for the faux pas, he was the star quarter back my senior year and the lucky recipient of my virginity. Sadly, he was also the jerk who then decided to share the news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able to intercept that little tidbit before it could reach my father’s ears.

But as far as the bad business, neither of us wanted to go there.

Betty waved her free hand carelessly in the air as if to brush the painful thoughts away. “But I know you wanted to be a good Texas girl and marry a good Texas boy and have babies and run a family like your folks did. However, dear girl, then you got real lucky, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You got a God-given talent.” She tried to set the tea cup down on the side table. I reached over and took it, setting it down for her. She beamed at me. “Thank you, honey.”

I looked down at my dog, now licking my toes sticking out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I owned. “No, I don’t, Betty. I know I’m good, but there are a lot of good musicians out there.” Now I was twirling the ends of my hair, but there was no way my mother or even myself would ever put it up into a chignon. It was stick straight, long—just past my shoulders, dark brown, and baby fine but silky, which is good, I suppose…the silky part, anyway. The closest I ever get to pinning my hair up is a ponytail. Everything else just slips through the hair ties.

Betty waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands on the sides of her chair, she pushed herself up and ambled over to the white-bricked mantle. She grabbed an envelope, brought it back, and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“You remembered?”

She frowned. “I may be old but I don’t forget my favorite people’s birthdays.”

“I’m one of your favorite people?” I mused.

“Oh Baby Girl, you know you are. You got spunk. Had it since you came out ass-backward showing the world what you thought of it.” She was referring to my breech birth.

“Thank you. I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. She didn’t tip-toe around stuff. Very different from my family. Tip-toeing was what we did best.

“Open it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”

I tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five thousand dollars made out to me. I gasped. “Betty! What…”  Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked forward, tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay, girl.” She lay back down.

“I was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams, big dreams.” Her blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I wanted to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn good, like you are at what you do, and I was once beautiful, believe it or not.” She winked at me, but there were tears in her eyes. I knew about Betty’s dreams from long ago. I also knew that there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good, and it was that part, which had changed the course of her life. If only I had known her back then, but I hadn’t been alive yet. I could have made it easier for her. Although, it had been decades since the trauma she’d endured had passed leaving a large scar on her heart, I could still help in a small way. I laid my hand on top of hers. Ten seconds later, her tears were gone and the scar from the past was lessened and she continued.

“But then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided to play by their rules. Now, I don’t regret it . . . maybe I do a little. Thing is, Evie, you can sing like a nightingale and you can play the guitar like nobody’s business. You need to get the hell out of this town before you wind up like every other girl here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.”

I frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high school graduating class living out the life Betty had just described. The lucky ones skipped town and went to college. I hadn’t been quite that lucky for a variety of reasons. I could have. I had the grades and the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side, which is where I like to go, I at least had not had the misfortune of marrying some guy who didn’t appreciate me, expected his dinner on the table when he got home from his shift at the local textile factory, and wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said so.

“It’s amazing it hasn’t happened to you already,” she continued. “My guess is you were either smart enough to use birth control, smart enough to not date one of the goof-offs in this town, or scared to death by your daddy’s brimstone and fire sermons.”

“Pretty much all of the above, but still, I can’t accept this.” I held the check up.

“Yes, you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston. Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, Mama Cass, and head west. You sing your heart out in every bar, every café, every church—I don’t care where you go, but go and sing. I know one thing: you have what it takes to be a star. Forget all about them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”

“Mary Kay,” I interrupted. “It is a really good line. Mama swears by them.”

She frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget it no matter what, because you and I both know that won’t get you nowhere. That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road trying to make an extra buck to take care of those four kids of hers. Not for you. Take the money, cut your losses, and run. Go live your dream, child. You gotta stop living for your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what happened and you can’t ever change it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Now your parents, they have to get on with their lives, honey, and if they don’t, I hate to see you waste yours. So go on and live life. Do it for me. Go live my dream. Humor an old woman. Please?” Her blue eyes watered and the creases around them crinkled as she choked back emotion. “You go do this for Betty La Rue.” She shook a bent finger at me.

How could I refuse after a plea like that? I tried one last time, for the sake of courtesy. “But my daddy—”

Betty dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “He’ll get over it. And your mama is gonna secretly be cheering you on. It’ll be hard on them, but this’ll be the best thing for all of you.” She sighed heavily. “Especially you, Evie. Especially you. Trust me.”

So I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.

The next day I packed up my 1974 VW bus, a suitcase of clothes, my Rosewood Gibson acoustic guitar, and Cass. I pulled out of my parents’ driveway while Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life out there, Evangeline (he’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name)! Los Angeles isn’t the city of angels. It’s a city of heathens and devils!!”

I knew he was just scared. My leaving was breaking his heart. I’m pretty sure if I looked closer, I’d see tears in his eyes. God, I felt so heartless, so cruel, but…I knew Betty was right. This was something that had to be done.

 I could see tears for sure in my mother’s big hazel eyes, the same color as my own, as she mouthed, “I love you.”

I rolled down the window, choking back my own sobs. “I love you, too. I’ll call. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I really will.”

With blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline cassette in the tape deck (Thank God for eBay. You have no idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these days), I headed west to the City of Angels. For the first time in sixteen years I felt like I could finally breathe again. I was leaving behind the only two people around me who I had never been able to heal even a little bit, and I didn’t think I ever could.

 ·         How did you get into writing about True Crime?

I have been an avid reader for over 30 years and really enjoyed fictional stories that included serial murders. I also read all of John Douglas books, who is my FBI hero, and he coined much of the terminology used today when talking about serial killers. I don’t have much of an imagination so I never attempted fiction, and I wanted to write after reading thousands of books, so I decided to write on what I know best, serial killers.

 ·         What draws you to a certain subject? That is, what are the essential things that you look for in determining what will make a good/valid True Crime story or book?

There have been many serial killers in our history, it’s not hard to pick certain individuals, there’s an endless list. In my first book, Unsolved Serial Killings, I focused on the ones that got away which really intrigued me. SK’s then could literally get away with murder because law enforcement lacked technical skills, not like today with DNA and Behavioral Science, Profiling etc. I also picked the topic of women because they are the least likely to become a serial killer, however, there have been many. People want to read about serial killers who killed many. They are not interested in the ones who only have 3 kills..they like 30 better. It makes for a better read, which is sad, but true. People are fascinated with true crime in numbers.

 ·         As a True Crime author you deal with a lot of disturbing subject matter in your work, has this impacted on your own life in any way? If so, how do you distance yourself from the more negative aspects of life as a True Crime author?

When I was writing No Killing in the Hallways, I was an emotional wreck. Being a parent of two teenage girls in school, and to research and write about what happened at V. Tech and Columbine, was draining. My daughters haven’t read the book and I don’t want them to.  My most memorable time was writing about Dahmer. The following is an excerpt from Case Closed: Serial Killers Captured and it broke my heart to write it:

 “In the wee hours of May 27^th, 1991, Konerak Sinthasomphone, fourteen, was discovered wandering naked on the street, heavily drugged and bleeding from his rectum. Two young women from the neighborhood found the confused young boy and called 911. Dahmer chased after the boy to take him back to his apartment, but the women stopped him. When the police arrived, Dahmer told them that Sinthasomphone was his nineteen-year-old boyfriend, and they’d had an argument while drinking. The two women were not pleased and protested, but the two police officers turned the boy over to Dahmer. The police later reported a strange smell inside Dahmer’s apartment, but did not investigate it. The smell was the body of Tony Hughes, Dahmer’s previous victim, decomposing in the bedroom. The two policemen did not try to verify the boy’s age and also failed to run the background check that would have revealed Dahmer as a convicted child molester, registered sex offender, and still on probation. Later that night, Dahmer killed and dismembered the young lad, keeping his skull as a souvenir. Author Note: Officers Joseph P. Gabrish and John A. Balcerzak were fired after this incident but appealed and were re-instated.”

 ·         How do you choose your subject/s when it seems as though there are so many accounts of the same crimes available, especially the more notorious cases involving Serial Killers and high profile crimes? That is, how do you make your books stand out from the rest?

Many books are written about ‘a’ serial killer, but mine are compilations of serial killers or spree killers. If someone wants to read all about Bundy, they will buy a Bundy book. If they want to read about 15 or 20 summary files of various serial killers, I have good choices for them; Women, Unsolved, Children, Doctors etc., then if a person finds one or two that they would like to read more about, there’s books out there on individual cases.

 ·         Do you plan to, or have you ever, interviewed any of the more infamous/bizarre criminals in your books? In terms of reliable source material, is it best as a True Crime author to stick to validated accounts like court transcripts and previously published materials?

I would love to interview a serial killer some day but I haven’t yet. The dregs of society I wrote about so far I think are all dead: either killed in prison, death sentence or old age. As for spree killers, they most always kill themselves. It is better to stick with Court documents, FBI archives etc., that are released under the Freedom of Information Act, unless, one gets the rare opportunity to interview a killer such as John Douglas has. He really wrote the book on SK’s and have interviewed and gotten into the minds of dozens of them.

 ·         Where do you gather your source material from and what is the process you use when researching your subject before drafting your work?

I’ve contacted the FBI and have been given quite a bit of information, as well from their archives. Some things get blacked out however. The FBI policy on extracting information is that you have to rephrase or edit every paragraph, or, every 40 words. If the perp is captured and sentenced, than court documents is a great source and very explicit. If someone is interested in writing, those are two avenues plus, contacting the local police station that investigated the crime and if the case is closed, they will give you a summary of the crime but not crime scene pictures unfortunately.

 ·         What are some of the issues involved with writing True Crime accounts? For example, are there copyright requirements involved in quoting news/source materials and using images etc?

If you obtain information from the FOIA FBI archives, you don’t have to source it. If you obtain bits and pieces from a newspaper article for instance, you have to source it. As for images, I only use images that are public domain. When you click on an image, it will state whether it’s copyright protected. If not, it’s public domain and free for the using.

 ·         Do you ever worry that the people/criminals you write about revel in their notoriety and the infamy generated by media interest?

At this point, no, because anyone I’ve written about so far is already dead. Unless it’s an unsolved serial killer which I would have no idea how they feel about their notoriety. Most serial killers do like their moment in the media and enjoyed being coined a name, such as the Green River Killer or the BTK.

 ·         I notice in most of your books, you always acknowledge the victims of the crimes you analyse. Most, if not all, of the crimes dealt with in your various case studies are crimes against others, ie. they all leave a trail of victims behind. How do you deal with the victimology of these cases? It must be hard to represent the victims in these cases while being impartial when outlining the crimes themselves, how do you find the ‘middle ground,’ so to speak?

Good question. I grew up in a Christian home, and I feel for each and every one of those victims. Yes I write about the killers and the killings because it’s a fact, I wish it wasn’t, but it did happen. However, they will not get the glory from me. At the end of each case file, I list the victim, their age, and sometimes a little info about them with a prayer for their souls.

 ·         Have you ever had any mentoring or formal training as a True Crime author? There seems to be a certain type of instinct, or investigative style, needed to be effective as a writer in this genre – can anyone be a True Crime author?

Sure I guess anyone can be a writer, but it takes a different person to write about true crime. Not a harder person without feelings, because that’s not the case with us TC writers. But to be able to separate emotionally from the criminals and the victims. It’s tough. There isn’t any training for a TC writer really. If you have good organizational skills and can put your own spin on things, you can do it. I have two professional designations in management so I’m very organized. I guess those skills helped me in writing these books.

 ·         Who do you look up to or admire as a True Crime author? Can you recommend any other authors/specialists in your field, and any other books, that stand out to you as exemplars of the genre?

First and foremost, John Douglas is my favorite. Since I was a young boy, I always wanted to be an FBI Agent from watching the show at the time, The FBI starring Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. (who is 93 years young). I found out in my early teens that I couldn’t be with the FBI because I was Canadian…what a disappointment, I still remember it. Getting back to John Douglas, I really enjoyed his books: Mind Hunters, Inside the Mind of BTK, Obsession, and The Cases that Haunt Us. He has other books, but those were my favorite and inspiration to write. Other great authors are: Gary King, Brian King, Ann Rule and Jack Olsen, just to name a few.

 ·         What are you working on currently and do you have any upcoming projects you can tell us about?

I am working on a couple new books. One is about cops who turned serial killer and the other is Children who killed their parents. I am also going to write volume 2 of Unsolved Serial Killings but more international stories.

 ·         Finally, what advice would you give for anyone thinking of writing True Crime and publishing in today’s market place? Is self-publishing the way to go, what would you recommend?

I wrote my books over many years and had no intentions of self-publishing. I was holding out for a publisher and the book was going to be about 500 pages, called, Playpen to Prison. However, a friend and famous NY best selling author of over 80+ books convinced me to self publish in November. I tell you, it’s been a learning curve because I no sooner had the books up on other markets, when I retracted them all after Amazon announced the Select Program. It’s been interesting and I have mixed views on this program. Self-publishing is definitely the way to go. Why spread the royalties around with agents and publishers? Like newspapers being replaced with the internet, paperbacks and hardcopies are being replaced by digital format and it only just begun, so I say, if you have a book to publish, get it edited and hop on the E-Book train. I also suggest not to put all your eggs in one basket. There are many venues out there and if you want more exposure, spread the book around. Currently, only people who own a kindle can buy my books which as I said earlier, is a learning experience.

 Michaela Bancroft had to be crazy. What in the world had she been thinking? Who in the heck decides to get married during the holidays? Whose idea had that been? Oh yeah, hers and Ethan’s. What was their thinking? Wouldn’t it be great to get married on New Year’s after all they’d been through? Right? It was starting over. Starting fresh. She smacked herself in the head. Yes, brilliant. She set the box of Christmas ornaments aside, hearing Josh’s whimper through the baby speaker. “I’m coming, baby,” she said out loud.

Her best friend Camden was to blame for this Holiday wedding idea. If she hadn’t insisted on that margarita bar for her wedding out in paradise and if Michaela hadn’t caught the bouquet—although she was damn glad she’d caught it, and even happier to see the grin on Ethan’s face when she turned to look at him. Then the slow dancing and the kissing, and back in their suite at the resort, a New Year’s wedding in that moment sounded perfect. Now what sounded good was a good old fashioned Vegas wedding. Hmm…couldn’t do that. Ethan had already been there and done that with the mother of his son. But Summer had decided not too long after having Josh that marriage and motherhood was not her forte and ran off with some other guy.  Michaela had tried to save her childhood friend Ethan—the same childhood friend she’d been secretly, madly in love with since she was a girl—she’d tried to convince him that Summer was bad news and always would be. But although, it was kind of obvious to those in the know that Ethan didn’t exactly love Summer, he was a good man, a man of his word and he made good on it by marrying the witch, after she’d told him she was pregnant

And, the witch lived up to her reputation and boy was Michaela glad she had. So, in reality, when she thought about it, A New Year’s wedding was a grand idea and all the holiday trappings would go along smoothly. They just would. Sure. 

Michaela picked up Josh and cuddled the eighteen month old tyke who now called her Mama, and by every standard besides the biological one, Michaela had become his mother. Life was good.

“I’m here,” Camden’s voice rang out from below. “Where’s my God son?”

Michaela carried a sleepy, dark haired, big blue eyed boy down stairs to see Camden.

Camden’s latest hair color was bleached blonde and frequently worn pulled straight back. She’d also taken to wearing Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots and a silver belt buckle. Being married to Michaela’s right hand man at her ranch Dwayne had turned high fashioned, high falootin’ Camden into a regular old cowgirl. She even rode on a regular basis—something Michaela never expected to see.

The other funny thing that Michaela never expected from Camden was her adoration for Josh. Yes, Josh was an adorable baby and hard not to love, but Camden was not exactly maternal. Her idea of a home cooked meal was Hamburger Helper, packaged salad and a frozen margarita. But Dwayne had domesticated the divaesque Camden quite a bit. She’d fallen for Josh and she’d started cooking some—albeit, the food wasn’t exactly, hmmm, how to be tactful—gourmet.

Josh appeared to love his Godmother as much as she did him, as he reached out to her while she cooed his name, “Joshy, Joshy boy, come to Auntie Cam.”

They both held out their arms. “I’m feeling a little second fiddle here,” Michaela said.

“Don’t be silly. He knows who his mommy is.” Camden’s eyes locked on Michaela’s. Neither one said what they were both thinking. Michaela was hoping to adopt Josh after Ethan and her were married. She knew Summer didn’t want to be his mother. She’d abandoned Josh. But all the same, when it came to signing away any rights to the little boy, Michaela wondered if she would do it. “He knows exactly who his mommy is.” Camden tickled Josh’s tummy who let out a squeal of delight.

Michaela smiled. “Okay, well I should be home by lunch time. I’m going to run over to Winsor and take a look at that horse Devon Winsor called me about, and then swing by the florist. If I have time after that I was going to try and get some more Christmas shopping done.”

“Oh honey, it’s eight already. You’re going to need more than four hours to do all that.”

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “I thought you knew me better than that. I don’t need four hours to make decisions on whether or not a horse will fit for my program, what color flowers or types I need for my wedding, and as far as Christmas shopping, I have an idea already of what I’m buying everyone. I’ll be in and out in a gif.” She snapped her fingers. “I know if it was you, it’d be a whole ‘nother story.”

Camden shrugged. “What can I say? Auntie Cam likes to shop. Josh doesn’t think it’s a problem. Do you Joshy?”

 The baby giggled.

Michaela kissed him on the cheek. “Okay, be back in a bit. Do not let him watch those reality TV shows you like.”

“Oh come on, he likes The Housewives of the OC. But he really likes the L.A. broads. Crazy!” She rounded her index finger in a continual circle by the side of her head.

“No. I mean yes, I am certain they are crazy and so are you. No on the watching of that stuff,” Michaela replied. “PBS or Discovery Kids. I’d prefer no TV time. Play with him.”

“You know I will.”

“Thank You.”

Michaela headed out and did a quick walk through the breezeway of the barn. Her three-year-old Leo had cast himself the other night in his stall and she’d had to poultice and wrap him to help sweat out the swelling. She knew Dwayne would have already checked him and likely had already rewrapped him when he’d fed that morning, but it was rare for Michaela to leave her home in the mornings without a quick hello and if she was leaving—a goodbye to her horses. Today was Monday, which meant a day off for everyone. The horses, Michaela’s students and herself.

Michaela trained horses with an emphasis on reining but she’d ventured out her comfort zone recently when one of her clients had brought over an appendix filly that she wanted to be trained as a hunter jumper. Michaela had done some jumping throughout the years but explained to the owner that it wasn’t what she was the best at. The owner didn’t care. She’d heard wonderful things about Michaela, going so far as to call her a horse whisperer, which kind of made Michaela cringe. She just did what she did best—train horses using empathy and kindness but setting boundaries where needed. One could never forget that horses were very strong animals–much stronger than Michaela’s one hundred twenty pound frame.

Leo stuck his had out of his stall as he heard his “mom” approaching. “Yes I do have a treat for you.” She rubbed his face and kissed his nose, his hot breath sniffing for the treat. She reached into the front of her jeans pocket and took out the horse treat. He nuzzled the palm of her hand as he sucked up the treat. “You’re not a horse. You’re a piglet. My piggy boy.” She undid the latch on his stall and went inside. The woodsy smell of shavings mixed with earth and horse smelled better to her than any floral type perfume ever could. She bent down and checked Leo’s wraps. As suspected Dwayne had beat her to the job.

 Dwayne was probably already back in bed. He also took Mondays off and Camden revealed that his Mondays were about lying in bed and watching reruns of old shows like Gilligan’s Island, Three’s Company, and I Love Lucy. She said that he laughed all day and nothing made her happier than to hear him laugh.  

Michaela closed Leo’s stall door behind her and headed on her way. Immediately the young horse started banging against his with his hoof–obviously he’d learned to beg. “No more. Knock it off,” she scolded him. His ears pricked forward and his eyes widened. She shook a finger at him. “You heard me.”

Michaela then proceeded down the breezeway that held twelve horses giving each one a treat and a kiss on the nose. Some were there in training and some were there for her lesson program. She gave lessons to kids, and also had developed a program for autistic children. She was busy but nothing gave her more joy than to be part of a moment when a kid had a breakthrough because of the horse. Horses happened to be gentle souls who for the most part understood how to help a person, grow, heal and be nurtured.

After her brief visit with the horses, she headed out to Winsor Riding Academy. Winsor was a high school prep academy and riding school close by that educated both local kids and kids who came from all over the country. It was a place for kids whose families had endless amounts of cash. Most of the kids at the school, trained in three day eventing, which Michaela loved to watch but didn’t know if it was an area of riding she would venture into. Especially the cross country jumping. Those riders had some serious cajones. Galloping through their course and jumping over stationary obstacles—usually wooden logs that when a horse hit, the log wasn’t going to go anywhere.

One of the owners at Winsor, Devon Winsor was an acquaintance and had given Michaela a call the other day about an older gelding they had in their stable. Apparently he was also an appendix—half Quarter horse, half Thoroughbred—and although he’d been an excellent 3 day event horse and a good school master, he was at an age where he needed to be taken off the jumps. Devon felt the horse would be a perfect fit for Michaela’s program. Michaela liked the idea of adding a gentle soul to the barn, one who could teach the beginners and also be great for her handicapped kids. This horse did sound like a good fit, but to now for sure, Michaela wanted to get over to Winsor Farms a little bit earlier than Devon and her agreed upon. She didn’t know Devon well enough to know how honest of a horse woman the lady was, and before she plunked down a few thousand dollars on a lesson horse she wanted to take a peek at him herself. Devon had told her that the horse was stabled in barn three, and that his name was Silverado. Michaela knew that the horses had name tags on their stall doors, so she figured it wouldn’t be a problem locating the horse.

Driving along the long driveway that led up to the academy, she noticed how empty the place was. Most of the kids had gone home for the holiday break. There were probably a few of the local kids that boarded their horses at the academy around, but Michaela didn’t really see anyone. Well it was a Monday before nine o’ clock.

Michaela smiled as she pulled up in front of the barns. Dr. Grace Morgan’s truck was out front. A friendly face. Dr. Grace was Ethan’s partner. He’d bought into her practice recently when he’d decided to make a move from his old partnership. Ethan had felt his former partner wasn’t willing to learn new techniques. He was grounded in an old way of thinking and veterinary medicine was changing all the time. The guy’s bedside manner was not pleasant as Ethan had heard from clients. That was enough for him to buy the guy out and find a new partner. So, when Dr. Grace wound up going through a divorce and somehow cutting her ex-husband who was also a vet out of the practice, Ethan thought it was a good opportunity.

Michaela agreed. Grace was well respected and well renowned in Indio and even in other parts of California and the nation. Grace was a cutting edge vet who did a lot of lab work and looked deeper than most for mysterious causes that ailed horses. She cared deeply for the animals and it showed.

Maybe if Michaela liked Silverado and since Grace was obviously already there, she could vet the horse for her. She called out Grace’s name as she entered barn three. No answer, so she hollered out into each one of the barns. She still didn’t get a response from anyone. Maybe Grace was up at the main house with Devon, but it was a long way to walk. Michaela checked her watch and realized she only had a few minutes to take a look by herself at Silverado.

She found the grey gelding down the aisle of barn three. He stuck his nose out to greet her. “Oh you are a cute guy, aren’t you?”

The horse in the stall opposite of Silverado kept banging against the door just as Leo had done earlier that morning for treats. “Ah, another begger,” she said, turning around to see what she figured to be a Dutch Warmblood. He was huge. At least seventeen hands, and had a wild look in his eye, as the whites showed through. He snorted and weaved back and forth.

Michaela turned back to the grey gelding. “Looks like your friend has some emotional issues to work through. But you, on the other hand look very sweet.” She liked his soft, kind eye. Devon told her that he was eighteen, but there was no sway to his back. He had great muscle tone and a very pretty face. She’d have to ride him to see how his disposition was with her on him. But so far so good.

The wild guy across the way though—he was something else as he became more animated with her standing there talking to the other horse. She finally took a step toward the large animal and spoke in calm tones. “Hey, hey there.” She squinted to read his name plate. Geronimo. Should’ve known. “Hey Geronimo. It’s okay. It’s alright, bud.”

The horse blew out another snort and held his head high and out of reach as she went to try and stroke him on the neck. It was then that she caught a glimpse of what was making him crazy. She took a step closer and the horse backed away. She closed her eyes and shook her head. This could not be. She swallowed hard.

“Oh my God,” she uttered, but she wasn’t even sure that the words came from her. It didn’t sound or feel like her. If Michaela could have guessed who was seeing this horrible scene, who was speaking, who was feeling, she would have prayed that it wasn’t her. But the second time she repeated the words, “Oh my God,” she knew that it was her and she was looking at Dr. Grace on the floor of Geronimo’s stall–dried blood all around her.

Chapter One

             “Guess where we’re going?” Derek Malveaux snuck behind his wife Nikki and wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear.

            She set down the lettuce she was getting ready to rinse off to fix for dinner and turned around. “Are you taking me to dinner?” She smiled.

            “Oh it’s so much better than that. Come on.” He took her hand. “Let’s go sit outside on the patio and I’ll tell you.

            “Better than dinner out?” She giggled. “This must be good. Should I get us a bottle of wine?”

            “Already on the table outside, and so is your sweater. It’s a little chilly.”

            “Hmm, you’ve thought of everything. My interest is picqued.”

            “Good.”

            They went outside onto the back porch of their ranch style farm house that crested the top of a knoll where below them was a large pond, and beyond that rows of grapevines that had been cultivated for years in order to produce some of the best wines to come out of Napa Valley. Their Rhodesian Ridgeback Ollie followed them out and flopped his large self down at Nikki’s feet. A couple of ducks flew overhead and landed on the pond, a ripple effect spreading out across the water on the cool early December evening. “Ooh it’s cold out here,” Nikki said.

            “It is December,” Derek replied with a grin. “And did you know we’re expecting rain next week.”

            Nikki made a face. “Good for the vines.”

            “It is, but cold Christmas. Brrr.” He ran his hands up and down his arms and then wrapped them around Nikki. “It’s no coincidence I asked you to come outside into the cold and told you about the rain on the way.”

            “You’re acting weird.”

            He reached into his back pocket and handed her a brochure.

            “What’s this?” she asked.

            “This is where we’re going for the holidays.”

            “What?” Nikki looked at the cover of the brochure and then opened it. “Puerto Vallarta? Oh my gosh! Really?”

            He nodded. “Yes. Remember the other night when we had dinner at Costa Azul and we were talking about how delicious the food is and the margaritas and how nice it would be to just get away and sit in the sun somewhere.”

            “Yes.” She smiled.

            “I took it to heart and got on the phone the next day and started making arrangements.”

            “You are the best husband ever.” She wrapped her arms tightly around him and looked up at him. He planted his lips down on hers.

            “Yoo hoo. Okay makey out session time is up. It’s time to get all rated G again, people. Little person on the premises. And what in the world are you two doing out here in the freezing cold?”

            “Simon,” they said in unision.

            “You’re favorite brother at your service, and tiny tot,” Derek’s brother stated.

            His two-year-old daughter Violet reached out for Nikki. “Hello baby girl. Come see Aunt Nikki. You are getting so big. Where’s your Poppy?” she asked referring to Simon’s partner Marco. Violet called Simon Daddy and Marco “Poppy.”

            “Poppy had to make a trek into the city. He says he had a doctor’s appointment, but he is such a bad liar. He went for Christmas presents. I just know it. Oh what do we have here?” He pointed to the brochure in Nikki’s hand and then grabbed it. “Puerto Vallarta, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “So when we going?”

            “We are not going,” Derek said. “We…” he pointed at Nikki and then himself, “Are going on a holiday vacation. Alone.”

            Simon’s lower lip sunk into an immediate pout. “Wait a minute. You’re going away for the holidays?” He shook his head. “Uh uh. No I don’t think so. This is the first year that tiny tot even remotely understands who St. Nicholas is.”

            “Santa Claus.” Violet laughed and clapped her hands. “Santa, Santa.”

            “That’s right, sweetie girl, Santa,” Simon said. “But it looks like Uncle Derek and Auntie Nikki will be doing tequila shooters down south, and missing you getting the goodies out of your stocking.”

            “Stocking. Tequila. Santa,” Violet said.

            “Hmmm, somehow that doesn’t all work together. Look what you two made her say.”

            Nikki looked at Derek imploringly. “Oh no. No. No,” he said. “I know that look. This is about you and me. Going away. Some sunshine. Fun. Fiesta time. Siesta time.”

            “I know,” she said.

            “You can still have all that,” Simon interrupted.

            “It is Christmas, honey, and I don’t know. It just, well, it just wouldn’t really feel like Christmas without family.”

            “That’s the point,” Derek said.

            “Bah humbug,” Simon said.

            Nikki now pouted.

            “Oh God. I think I’m being ganged up on,” Derek replied. “Fine. We’ll all go.”

            Simon hugged him. “You are so wonderful. Oh piñatas and tacos and what do you think they call Santa in Mexico?”

            “Santa Claus,” Nikki said.

            “Santa Claus,” Simon repeated with a Mexican accent. “I was going to mooch some dinner off the two of you but I think I’ll order a pizza and go see if I can find my pancho.”

            “Pancho?” Derek asked.

            “It’s gorgeous. It’s green and red with a little splash of yellow. Very festive.”

            “Hmm. I can’t wait to see it.”

            “You’ll love it. Tah tah. Call me with the details, Snow White. Say bye-bye to Aunt Nikki and Uncle Derek.”

            Violet waved and her little voice said, “Bye bye.”

            As Simon walked off the patio, Derek turned to Nikki and mouthed the word, Pancho.

            She shrugged.

            “What did you just commit me to?” he asked.

            “I’m sorry, honey. I really love being around family and Violet is so precious. We will have our alone time. We will.”

            “This is my brother we’re talking about.”

            “I know, but it’ll be great. You’ll see. Promise. Now let’s get out of this cold, start a fire and find a way to celebrate.”

            “Any ideas?” he asked.

            “A few. Oh and they include a pancho and a little salsa dance.”

            “Oh Senora, I like the way you think.”