Available now: Gumshoe Girl by Andi Ramos

GUMSHOE GIRL
Andi Ramos

$4.99

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(99c through Sunday, 3 June)

Sheagan O’Hare got more than she bargained for when her newly inherited detective agency lands its first case; a missing person, embezzlement, and murder. Sheagan’s out to prove she can hang with the pro's, despite the constant reminder of her amateur status from an annoyingly attractive FBI agent, Colin 'Mac' MacEvine, who’s forced himself into her life.

How does she feel when an old high school friend hopes to ignite a new romance?

Will she be able to discover if detective work and love can mingle before someone gets hurt?

• • •

Sheagan blinked back the sting in her eyes as sweat drizzled from her forehead. Her shoulders and forearms cried out as determination inched her body forward through the tin walls that framed her slender figure. The narrow shaft rendered her legs useless as they dragged behind her like dead weight. She made a vow to start working out as she approached her destination, the metal grate that looked down into the sweetheart suite of the Eliot Hotel.

She shimmied her binoculars out of her bag and clutched them in her sweaty palms as she readied herself to delve into the world of private investigating. The friction of her movements caused her mahogany mane to cling to all the surfaces of her temporary confinement. Perched behind the filigree frame, peering like a caged animal, she was a mere 20 feet from her target. Her target? The Rat Bastard, who up until this very moment she’d called boyfriend.

She wasn’t there to kill him, even though the thought had crossed her mind; no, she was there to catch him in the act. She suspected he had been cheating on her for some time, so proof would end her suspicion or the relationship. Spying on her significant other through an air-vent of a swanky hotel room was hardly a promising start to her so-called glamorous career as a private detective. But it snapped her back into the reality that her new chosen profession would often be messy and difficult.

She peered through the grate and envied the spacious room below, but her viewing angle was no good for the task at hand. She could feel the heat in her cheeks rise along with her anger as she scanned the room and soaked in the extravagance–the hardwood tables, the Italian marble fireplace, the opulent sheen of the fabric on the overstuffed furniture that glimmered in the soft candlelight. The Rat Bastard was not known to overindulge on frivolous expenses, unless it was on her dime. Thoughts of killing him resurfaced.

What is wrong with me? Why did I wait so long?

She immediately regretted the fleeting question. She knew why. The answer brought back the pain and significance of her father’s sudden death. He had been the only family she had left, and he was gone. All that was left behind was his detective agency. She had thought about giving it up, but she couldn’t; it was her only connection to him, to her family.

She closed her eyes briefly, realizing that now she was facing more loss–even if he was a lying, cheating Rat Bastard.

No! It’s better this way, stay focused.

She choked in a breath and turned her attention back to the room. His secret love nest was finished with soothing tones on the walls and thick, plush carpeting.

What is that on the end table?

Her gaze was drawn to the bottle label as it bobbed upside down in the melting ice. She sharpened the focus of her binoculars, and her eyes widened in recognition.

Her cheeks flushed. Cristal, she scoffed. Who is this Bimbo, anyway?

As if she had room to criticize this girl’s intelligence, when Sheagan was the one sweating her makeup off in a four-by-four-foot air-duct.

Yeah, who’s the stupid one?

She heard passionate sounds coming from the right of the room and recognized his tone. Leaning sideways, Sheagan pressed her face to the grate, but her limited view revealed only a portion of the bed and unable to make out major details, like faces.

Crap, I can’t see anything. Damn! She needed to get a better look

As she shifted her weight, the metal walls started to reverberate and Sheagan stifled a gasp, willing the rumbling to cease. Her breathing became labored as the musty air stole the aroma of the sweet perfume wafting up waft from the suite below. She stilled her movements and did the only thing she could think of… nothing. Nothing but stare at the heap of blankets and wait.

Come on, bimbo, come up for air. I know he doesn’t last that long.

Her discomfort increased as the noise from their passion became more intense.

Ugh, that’s it, I’ve had it!

She mashed her cheek and upper body against the grate.

I just need a peek to confirm.

She pressed harder, ogling the bed. Finally, she caught a tiny glimpse.

Just a little further.

She pushed and heard a chirring sound, then a scraping. She froze in place, but the grate gave way with a creaking groan and crashed to the ground. Time stood still as Sheagan realized there was nothing between her and the floor except air.

• • •

Andi Ramos grew up in central Massachusetts where she still lives today with her family, goat, and Boston Terriers. Her love for reading grew into a passion for writing. She dabbled with pen and paper for a long time and eventually stopped pushing her amusements aside and started developing those stories into novels. One of her favorite things to do is to hop into her motorhome with her family and write while traveling down the road as they journey to various destinations.

Find Andi Online:

Website - http://www.andiramos.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/andiramosauthor
Twitter - https://twitter.com/andiramosauthor
Blog - https://www.andiramos.com/blog
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Ramos_Andi

Available now: Her Only Option by Paula Martin

HER ONLY OPTION
Paula Martin

$4.99

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(99c through Sunday, 27 May)

Neve Dalton loves her job as a tour guide on a River Nile cruise ship as much as she values her independence. She isn’t ready to settle down with her Egyptian boyfriend, despite his repeated proposals and his father’s desire to see him married.

Nor is she ready to meet Ross McAllister, a compelling and fascinating archaeologist. She struggles against her growing attraction to him until she can no longer ignore what her heart is telling her.

When she starts receiving cryptic messages, and Ross’s work in the famous Valley of the Kings is threatened, Neve has to make a heart-breaking and life-changing decision which she feels is her only option.

Can they discover whose enmity is forcing them apart before it’s too late?

• • •

Neve Dalton smiled as she changed into her white bikini. Five hours of freedom, and she intended to spend at least four of them relaxing. And woe betide anyone who disturbed her.

Clutching a towel and a canvas bag with her sunscreen, e-reader, and bottle of water, she sprinted up three flights of curved stairs from her staff cabin to the sundeck of the Lady Nadia cruise ship.

The only person there was the barman, who was restocking the large fridges at the stern, and she nodded in satisfaction at the sight of the deserted decks of the cruise ships moored on each side of the Nadia. Although she loved her job, she always enjoyed this peaceful interlude between the departure of one tour group and the arrival of the next.

She chose a sun lounger near the rail, from where she could see across the deck of the neighbouring ship to her favourite view. The blue Nile and the white Theban hills on the far side of the river shimmered in Egypt’s furnace-like afternoon heat.

After daubing herself liberally with sunscreen, she adjusted the large parasol to give some protection from the burning sun, and opened her e-reader to catch up with the latest articles in the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. Once she’d done that, she leaned back, relaxed, and closed her eyes.

Less than ten minutes later, conscious of something she couldn’t quite define, she half-opened one eye. A broad chest, partly hidden by an unbuttoned blue shirt, filled her line of vision.

Squinting against the brightness, she saw strong arms and well-formed hands, which curved over the top rail of the neighbouring Lady Amirah’s sundeck. Her gaze travelled down, taking in the chest with its smattering of dark hair, the curve of slim hips in well-fitting red swimming trunks, and long, muscular legs.

Mmm, rather nice.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

Embarrassed by her survey of his body, she looked up at his face. Even though he wore sunglasses, she knew he was staring at her.

‘Oh – hello.’ She sat upright and wished she could pull her large towel around her as a shield against his scrutiny.

He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head, flattening his thick, dark hair, and her breath hitched at the sight of his amazing blue eyes. They reminded her of the shimmering ultramarine water of the ship’s swimming pool. His tanned features were as impressive as his strong physique – broad forehead, high cheekbones, the slight indent of dimples in his cheeks, a wide mouth, and a finely chiselled jaw.

Some primeval response stirred inside her.

‘I was admiring your beautiful figure.’ His deep voice held the faint trace of a Scottish accent. ‘I hope you don’t object?’

A shaft of disappointment quenched her initial spark of interest. For some reason, she’d expected him to be different from the smooth-talking posers who sometimes tried to chat her up. Instead, it seemed he was simply another cruise ship Casanova who thought flattering words in a deep, honey-rich voice would make women fall at his feet.

Politeness to guests was rule number one, however, since he was on the Amirah, one of Nadia’s sister ships. Her professional persona surfaced. ‘Not at all.’ She kept her voice casual while giving what she hoped was her best I know your type and you don’t impress me one bit smile.

‘You look lonely,’ he said.

Since her coolness hadn’t put him off, she reached for the bottle of sunscreen from the small table next to her lounger. ‘I’m enjoying the solitude. It doesn’t happen very often.’ Maybe he’d take the hint from that.

He didn’t. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘If you mean the guests, they’ve gone to the airport. The next group is due to arrive about five o’clock.’

‘Ah, you’re staff, are you? What do you do? No, don’t tell me—’ His glance slid down her body again. ‘With a figure like yours, you have to be with the Health and Fitness Club.’

‘I’m a tour guide,’ she replied, with as much dignity as she could muster.

‘Oh, one of those.’

She bristled with indignation. Not just a cruise ship Casanova, but a rude one, too. ‘One of those? What’s that supposed to mean?’

He shrugged. ‘You hear them everywhere you go. Churning out half-baked facts from poorly written and often inaccurate guidebooks.’

Her indignation flared into annoyance. ‘And that’s what you think tour guides do?’

‘Most of them, yes.’

The man was insufferable. If she wasn’t so annoyed by his condescending dismissal, she’d tell him she held a degree in Egyptology. But he wasn’t worth the effort. Anyway, he’d probably make another derogatory comment in response.

‘And what do you do?’ she asked with sugar-coated politeness.

‘I’m an archaeologist.’

‘Oh, one of those.’

• • •

Paula Martin lives near Manchester in North West England and has two daughters and two grandsons. She had some early publishing success with four romance novels and several short stories, but then had a break from writing while she brought up a young family and also pursued her career as a history teacher for twenty-five years.

She returned to writing fiction after retiring from teaching, and is thrilled to have found publishing success again with her contemporary romances.

Apart from writing, she enjoys visiting new places and has travelled extensively in Britain and Ireland, mainland Europe, the Middle East, USA and Canada. Her other interests include musical theatre and tracing her family history.

Find Paula Online:

Website - http://paulamartinromances.webs.com

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/paulamartinromances

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/RomancesbyPaulaMartin

Blog - http://paulamartinpotpourri.blogspot.co.uk

Blog - http://heroineswithhearts.blogspot.co.uk

Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Martin_Paula

Available now: The Foes Between Us by JM Robison

THE FOES BETWEEN US
The Last Wizard Series, #1
J.M. Robison

$5.99

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(99c through Sunday, 20 May)

In 1842 England, Brynn suspects Reuben's "natural death" had actually been murder. Reuben has left cryptic clues for Brynn to find to help her locate Zadicayn, an imprisoned young man claiming to be a wizard from the Middle Ages.

When Brynn frees Zadicayn, Reuben's murderers now turn their sights on her. Her life grows exceptionally harder when Zadicayn enlists her help him find his magical amulet, stolen by Reuben's murderers. But they know where to find Brynn.

Will Zadicayn's magic be enough to protect her?

• • •

Zadicayn
30 October 1518, England

I drop my armful of wood into the closet next to the kitchen. I should have done so more quietly because the clatter alerts Mother to my presence and before I can scurry away, she hollers, “Zadicayn? Would ye go down to the larder and bring up the cheese wheel?”

My shoulders ache from chopping wood for the past two hours. I almost pawn off the chore on my sister who’s sitting at the kitchen table, except Mother keeps the cheeses on the top shelf where my sister can’t reach. Most things are on the top shelf. I think on purpose.

I smother my grumble. “Yea, Mother. I shall.”

I flex my shoulders back as I walk down the corridor, passing the scullery maid who isn’t shy about eyeing me with fluttering eyelashes. I don’t return her hopeful stare. I aspire higher than to marry a servant in Father’s castle, so I’m not about to entertain her fantasies by even so much as nodding a greeting in her direction.

The temperature drops as I descend the curving stone staircase into the larder. The remains of the last hunt hang from hooks driven through its hind legs, the blood congealed in the pan beneath. With how little meat is left on its bones, I foresee tomorrow’s chore.

Two hooks driven into the stone directly above the half cheese wheel make it look like a monstrous grin. I flex my fingers back and forth. I could use magic to relocate that cheese into my hands. Father would never know.

Ye must never use magic to replace manual labor. His past lectures surface. For ye will become weak in the arms because ye no longer chop wood.

I debate long enough that I could’ve already pushed the ladder under the shelf, grabbed the cheese, and been on my way upstairs. I kick the floor with a grumble and grab the ladder.

A flurry of echoing steps on stone reaches me from the stairwell descending down from the larder. I set the ladder in place and wait.

Philowynd flies around the corner, red-faced and puffing, cloak thrown off his head and shoulders so the clasp presses into his throat, his red amulet swinging side to side wildly across his chest. He rolls his eyes back like a spooked horse.

“Philowynd?”

He sprints into the larder, but stops as I call his name as if he just now noticed me. “Where is thy father?” His voice is raspy, as if he’d been screaming.

His panic-laced question spikes fear through me. “In the village. He should have been back before sundown. I do not know what is keeping him. Mother was going to send me after dinner–”

“Where is thy mother?”

“In the kitchen.”

Philowynd shoots for the stairs faster than a bolt out of a crossbow. I abandon the cheese and follow him.

“Philowynd,” I say, “what is the matter?”

He doesn’t respond. I don’t think he’s sparing any breath for himself. He cuts corners as closely as he can without smashing into them. He darts into the kitchen.

Mother’s head rises in alarm, hand paused in mid-stir over the cauldron. “Philowynd?”

Awdrie pauses her game of knucklebones with Wybir. Wybir turns around. Wood pops in the hearth.

Philowynd inhales a massive breath. “Makrick has not returned from Valemorren?”

Her gaze shifts from him to me. “Zadicayn told ye correct. I was going to send him after dinner to look for him.”

“They took me son, Havannah.”

Mother releases her hold on the ladle and covers her mouth.

“If thy husband has not returned, then I fear they have him, too,” Philowynd says.

Mother’s habit used to be signing herself with the cross at the declaration of bad news, but her devotion soured when the church started hunting wizards.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat.

“I shall take Zadicayn with me and make sure the worst has not happened.” Philowynd’s cloak catches the door frame as he turns and sprints down the corridor. I follow. He’s faster, but he waits for me at the double doors on the other side of the Grand Hall, beckoning.

I reach him, panting, and he grabs my arm, stares across the bridge, and relocates us instantly to the other side. The October night buzzes with chilled anxiety, the half-moon spreading a white sheen across the frosted stones of the bridge. Even the night larks warble in distressed tones. I’m panting. Our breath fogs around our heads. I’m so stressed, I don’t feel the chill through my thin tunic.

He looks up the trail, focusing along with me on the white circle glowing in the half- moonlight, pressed against the side of the mountain. We use magic to instantaneously relocate across the distance to the Fae Gate, which responds to the presence of our amulets and dissolves, revealing a tunnel beyond. He lets go of me, and I sprint into the tunnel behind his whirling cloak.

Panic thunders in my chest, making it harder to breath while I run. Wizard killings started a year ago, just after Martin Luther tacked his Theses to the Wittenberg church door. The killings were only rumors from farther up north, so far north they were almost myth. If the church took Philowynd’s son in Nottingham, that myth has dived south into my reality.

We emerge on the other side of the tunnel into the canyon. He latches onto my arm again and uses magic to instantly relocate us farther down the road. It takes six relocations before we arrive in the Village Center. We walk behind the blacksmith, crouching behind his wagon, looking across to the parish.

Philowynd covers his mouth.

I stop breathing.

• • •

Born in small town Bennington, Idaho, J.M. wanted to be just like her big, story writer sister. Big sister paints now, but that initial role model was all the springboard J.M. needed to fearlessly leap into writing the novels of her heart. Getting around the world as a soldier has helped broaden J.M.'s views on cultures and personalities, and settling down as a Deputy Sheriff in Nevada for a time has helped her maintain all the fine intricacies humans are capable of which has helped define her characters into something realistic and believable. Without any prior claims to fame, J.M. is proud to showcase that hard work, even from rock bottom, DOES pay off.

Find J.M. Online:

Website - http://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/nevercease
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/608577589306606
Twitter - https://twitter.com/JMRobison
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Robison_JM

Available now: The Black Hand by Jonathan Dunne

THE BLACK HAND
Jonathan Dunne

$5.99

BUY HERE
(99c through 13 May)

In the aftermath of Ireland’s most deadly gang war, Dublin’s ruling family has scattered to the wind.

Into the void steps a criminal genius known only as The Black Hand. His organisation’s powerful grip is ruthless, bloody and barbaric.

With Europe’s biggest crime in play, The Devil needs a distraction. And The Black Hand needs Jacob Boylan to return to Irish shores. He will stop at nothing to provoke Dublin’s most lethal criminal out of hiding.

But has the wily genius misstepped? As all eyes are on Jacob, the Dublin exile carefully plans a gangland wipeout, for he is nobody’s pawn.

• • •

The Hit

The Glaswegian sat sipping his coffee as the St Patrick’s Day parade rolled on by. It always amazed him that the Irish celebrated a man who unleashed Catholicism and all its ills on Ireland. They should be burning the effigies instead of celebrating them. He let the thought linger for a few seconds, then cleared his mind of all distractions. He had a job to do.

It was just after midday and he wouldn’t move until the band marched down O’Connell Street. The Glaswegian needed the noise to disguise the carnage he was about to let loose. Half of his contract had been paid. The other half would be transferred upon completion of the assignment. Fifteen more minutes passed as he calmly ran his thumb over the edge of his cup. The coffee was good; not great, just good.

The band began their journey into the heart of Dublin as the Glaswegian ran a crisp white cloth over every surface he touched. Nothing was left to chance. He slipped off the main street and carefully shielded his appearance from every form of surveillance. His black beard, dark eyes, and protruding teeth were all false. The chances of being identified were negligible, but he was meticulous in that respect.

The old structure rested halfway down a urine-soaked back street. It had a fire escape leading to several windows. He knew the window, the layout, and the schematics of this building intimately. Quietly and deliberately, he made his way into the building and followed the carefully constructed holes that led to the basement. When he reached it, he found an old lift shaft with a long ladder leading down into the vault. From this point onwards, he listened intently as the drumming of the bands outside got louder and louder. Perfect, he thought, as he began his downward climb. The insulation confused him until he realised it was sound-proof—an extra precaution to further disguise the noise of the ongoing construction.

The Glaswegian allowed himself a rare smile. This was a team he admired. They were, like him, professional in their approach to criminality. Slowly, he unsheathed a blade and cut a section of the insulation, large enough to crawl through. As he crept into the vault, he noticed the team of four men working in perfect harmony. One was bagging the goods, another was manning the scanners, and two were emptying the strong-room. The timer was running down, and they were set to leave in exactly five minutes.

Once more he shook his head in admiration. This was like running a blade across the canvass of a masterpiece. He was momentarily saddened as he pulled the pin of the grenade and threw it into the vault. He stood left of the wide hole that had been drilled in the wall. There were slight muffles as the crack of the grenade silenced the team. He threw one more in, just to be sure.

He caught his breath, steadying his pulse before crawling into the vault. This was messy. Nevertheless, he had his instructions. He checked the vitals of each of his victims and the first three were dead. He was happy. Jimmy Boylan, whom he knew well, had a pulse, of sorts. He pulled out a snub-nose gun and pressed it against Jimmy’s temple. Judging by his injuries, Jimmy had borne the brunt of the explosions.

The Glaswegian rarely saw that type of loyalty amongst criminals. It unsettled him. Jimmy was a bloody rag. The odds were stacked against him living the next ten minutes, let alone the next three days when the bank would reopen. He placed the gun back in his holster.

The executioner stepped away from Jimmy before taking two black duffel bags. It was all he could manage, and he wasn’t about to jeopardise his assignment by being greedy. His contract stipulated two bags. He would deliver two bags.

He looked back at Jimmy once more, wondering if he should put a bullet in the man’s head. No, he thought, he’s finished.

Today was a day of rarities for The Glaswegian. He stood in front of the vault entrance with the bags resting across his wide shoulders.

‘You’re dying because of a woman, Jimmy. I owe you that much. Now, let go.’

The Glaswegian doubted the other man heard one word.

Jimmy had heard every word.

• • •

Jonathan Dunne is a native of Dublin’s north inner city. This is his second novel in the crime genre. He is also an avid sports journalist who has penned articles for some of Ireland’s biggest publications. He holds a Degree from the Dublin Institute of Technology and is a strong advocate of lifelong learning and education. Jonathan also holds a 1st Degree Black Belt in Tae Kwondo and is currently a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu student. He lives in Dublin with his wife and two children.

Find Jonathan online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/dublinauthor
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/JKDunne
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Dunne_Jonathan

Available now: Tormented by Susan Clayton-Goldner

TORMENTED
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

BUY HERE

(99c through Sunday, 6 May)

Father's Anthony's devotion to God and His Church begins to unravel the moment Rita Wittier steps inside St. Catherine’s Cathedral in San Francisco. He struggles to control his feelings, but two years later, he is a man obsessed.

In an attempt to rediscover the priest he intended to become, Anthony flies back to Delaware to visit Father Timothy. If redemption can be found anywhere, surely it can be found in the church of his childhood and in the soothing Irish brogue of his former mentor.

The months pass, 60 Minutes does a special on Father Anthony and the Shepherd Academy—a school he started for disadvantaged children. He’s become a national hero— nicknamed the Good Shepherd. But he can’t get Rita out of his mind. He wants her more than anything—even God—and can no longer deny it. Six hours after he tell her how he feels, Rita is found dead in her car from an apparent suicide. Or is it murder?

• • •

San Francisco – April 1971

Tormented by thoughts no priest should ever have, Father Anthony rose from his nightly Bible reading and fastened the buttons on his cassock. Behind the dark and rain-streaked window of his ten-by-ten bedroom at the rectory, night closed in on him. He was lonelier than he’d ever been. Anthony prided himself on being a man of principles. But nothing in his world felt principled anymore. It was as if he, the one who knew from boyhood visions he was destined to be a priest, had switched lives with an ordinary man or, worse yet, a lovesick teenager.

It was 8:30 p.m. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet her so late. Or, God help him, maybe he did know. There was still time to cancel. He could tell her to come during the day on Wednesday after the regular confessional hours. He hurried down the hallway to his office.

When he flipped on the overhead light, he found her sitting in front of his desk, her head resting in her hands. Dozens of frantic moths flapped their wings inside his chest. He took a step back. He always left the rectory door unlocked when he expected a parishioner to visit. But how long had she been here, and why hadn’t he sensed her presence?

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, and bluer than any eyes he’d ever seen. “I know I’m early, but it’s urgent. I can’t go another night without…”

He looked away. Seeing her sitting in his office was terrifying and marvelous at the same time. He glanced back again. Her bottom lip was full; the top one thinner, but shaped like a perfect Cupid’s bow. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her. She wore black slacks and a blue silk blouse that gave her eyes a deep sapphire color like Crater Lake in the sunlight. He wanted to dive into them and never resurface.

“Mrs. Wittier,” he said, unable to form any other words. Even as a boy, he’d been afraid of loving a woman, afraid of the wildness it might release in him.

“Please, call me Rita.” She stared straight at him and her eyes caught a spark of light from the ceiling lamp. “I have to confess tonight, before something awful happens to my daughter.”

The fear in her voice unsettled him. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “But we hold confessions on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. The sacraments are scheduled by the parish.” He was tempted to add, not by the whims of parishioners, but couldn’t make himself say those harsh words to Rita. She’d attended Mass at St. Catherine’s for nearly two years, but this was the first time she had asked for confession. How could he deny her so sincere a request?

Her face darkened. “This can’t wait, Father. God is going to punish me by hurting my daughter. Connie is only a little girl. What I did wasn’t her fault.”

He pulled a chair in front her and sat, their knees nearly touching. “God doesn’t punish children for their parents’ shortcomings.”

“Losing Connie would be my punishment, not my daughter’s,” she said. “Please, you have to help me. God is already tormenting me with nightmares.”

“Have you considered talking with a psychiatrist?” He knew psychiatrists could be helpful. His social worker took him to see one as a teenager when his divine visions first called him to the priesthood.

She shook her head. “This is between me and God.”

What was he thinking? Rita was his parishioner. She was suffering and needed her priest. But he had to obey the tenth commandment that he not covet his neighbor’s wife. He had to keep his vow to the church and to God. He would do what Hebrews 12:1 directed. He heard Father Timothy O’Brien’s voice, the voice of his childhood priest—the one voice he trusted above all others: “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus.”

He was a priest. The race marked out for him was clearly defined. And he must finish it. “Follow me,” he said. “I’m going to make an exception.”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online:

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Tirgearr partners with TumbleBooks

🎉🎉🎉 Join with us in congratulating TumbleBooks with the launch of their new service, Romance Book Cloud. 🎉🎉🎉

RBC is a service primarily for libraries and schools, but is also offering a subscription service for readers.

As the name says, RBC stocks only the best in the romance genre, including but not limited to contemporary, historical, paranormal, erotic, suspense, etc.

This includes Tirgearr Publishing romances!

Check out their website. And encourage your local libraries and school libraries to sign up for this service.

http://www.romancebookcloud.com