What She Never Said by Catharine Riggs Blog Tour

What She Never Said

by Catharine Riggs

on Tour August 19 - September 20, 2019

Synopsis:

How much would you pay to keep a secret? Ruth Mosby is the VP of operations at Serenity Acres, where the privileged elite go to die. For a hefty fee, wealthy retirees can live the good life in this posh Santa Barbara community—even after they outlive their money. But the savvy new boss has a new rule: if you can’t pay, you can’t stay.

Guests whisper about an “Angel” who assists with suicides. Ruth has another word for it: murder.

Ruth enlists her neighbor, an ex-detective named Zach, to discover the Angel’s secret identity. However, the two have a painful history, and Ruth has dark secrets all her own. To solve the mystery, Ruth must descend her golden tower—but can she bear the consequences of revealing her own sinister truths?

Why Readers LOVE What She Never Said:

“Riggs keeps the tension high to the dramatic climax.”
—Publishers Weekly

"What She Never Said is a fast-paced, compulsive read—and I speak as a slow-paced, easily distracted reader."
—Ashley Dyer, award-winning author of the Lake & Carver series.

“A compelling read that will keep you awake well into the night.”
—T.R. Ragan, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

Beneath the weight of metastasizing secrets, idyllic veneers buckle to reveal shocking truths that will haunt readers long after the final page.
—P. J. Vernon, acclaimed author of the debut thriller, When You Find Me 

My Review:

This is a captivating novel. The combination of solving a mystery and the revelation of secrets is interwoven well. The character development is great. Within the first few pages I knew Ruth was a cold, driven person lacking compassion. All of the major characters have flaws and I am impressed with how Riggs uses those flaws to propel the plot. Many of them are plagued with guilt driving them to actions they had not anticipated. And the suspense at the end is good too.

I like the secondary plot, the framework for the whole mystery. A high class care facility for the elderly is being taken over by a corporation and that gives the basis for much of the action. There is the issue of assisted suicide as some of the elderly are ready to pass on. Increasing profits means those destitute residents need to be evicted . . . or killed, and someone seems to be involved in causing their demise.

This is the first novel I have read by Riggs. I really enjoyed her writing style, the structure of the plot, the mystery, and the revelation of character secrets. I'll be watching for more from her.

My rating: 5/5 stars.

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Thomas & Mercer
Publication Date: September 10, 2019
Number of Pages: 377
ISBN: 1542042135 (ISBN13: 9781542042130)
Series: Santa Barbara Suspense #2
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

RUTH MOSBY

ONE

Monday, May 6

My goal each day is ten thousand steps. A Fitbit monitors my progress. One. Two. Three. Four. This morning I’ll reach six thousand steps. Only four thousand left after that. It’s nice the days have grown longer. I’ll walk the harbor loop after work. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. I speed up the slope of Orpet Park through the grove of moth-eaten oaks.
At the summit of the steepest hill, I catch a peek of ocean gray. The islands are invisible today, shrouded in waves of lowering fog. June gloom. That’s what the locals call it, although we’ve barely stepped into May. Locals? I am a local. Or should be after thirty-some years. But oh no. Not in Santa Barbara. You can’t be a local unless you’re born here. Ridiculous but true. Sometimes I wonder why I stay. But at my age, where would I go?
Cresting the final hill, I catch my first glimpse of the mission bells. They’re a sad reminder of my walks with Carlyn and the chats we had every day. She thought the Queen of the Missions was a sign of God’s blessing on our tony beachside town. I wonder what she thinks of God now. I wonder what she thinks of me.
I continue past the mission lawn, verging on parched and dry. The agaves look weathered and dusty; they’re wilted at the tips. A handful of elderly tourists snap photos of the iconic scene. Their foreign chatter disrupts the calm, so I cross the street to the rose garden and follow the rutted trail. A lone dog shoots into view, and I slow my rapid gait. The golden Lab jumps, twists, and barks, nabbing a Frisbee in his mouth.
“Morning,” his master calls to me, a smile gracing his youthful face.
“Morning.” I lock my gaze on my running shoes. How did he miss the DOGS ON LEASH signs staggered every twenty feet? Or maybe he didn’t but somehow believes he’s above the city’s rules. I make a mental note to call animal control and continue on my way.
I pick up my pace for the final ten blocks, feeling better than I have in weeks. Turning down my narrow driveway, I cringe at the sight of my neighbor standing on his porch.
“Morning, Ruth,” he calls.
“Morning, Zach.”
Zach limps down his steps and through his drought-stricken garden, a frown rumpling his grizzled face. He’s dressed in board shorts and a tattered T-shirt, mended flip-flops shielding his feet. “You hear those kids partying last night?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. “Was it loud?”
“Hell yeah. I can’t believe they allow short-term rentals in our neighborhood. We’ve got to put a stop to that.”
“Well, kids will be kids.” I fail to mention I called the police at ten sharp. That’s when the noise ordinance kicks in.
“I’m going to complain at today’s city council meeting. Want to come along?” The breeze shifts, and I catch a whiff of spoiled milk. Zach has taken to strategic bathing, which results in an occasional stench.
“I would, but I have to work.”
“Bummer. There’s a better chance if we complain together.”
I nod, thinking he’d have a better chance if he made an effort to clean himself up. When we moved into the neighborhood decades ago, Zach had been a handsome man with an easy smile and a mop of thick black hair. A homicide detective whose pretty wife, Tina, taught art at the nearby elementary school. The perfect neighbors on a perfect street of tiny Craftsman homes. Then their son died in a tragic accident, and Tina passed soon after that. A broken man, Zach took early retirement and nearly drank himself to death. He’s in recovery now and has replaced the booze with an obsession for neighborhood affairs. “What about my petition?” he asks. “You plan on signing that?”
I bite my lower lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Construction begins next week.”
“I wish I could, but . . .”
Mumbling under his breath, he eyes me with a frown. He’s also taken to talking to himself. Is dementia creeping up? “But what?” he asks.
“I don’t think it’s wise for someone in my position to take a political stance.”
“Your position?” He rolls his eyes. “You work at an old folks’ home.”
“I work in a life-care community.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
His frown deepens into a crevasse. “So, you’re okay with those homes coming down?” He nods at the four vacant bungalows located directly across the street. They’re slated for demolition, to be replaced by a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Our future neighbors are a flashy young couple with toddler twins and an army of well-groomed staff. Seems our former middle-class neighborhood is attracting the fashionable Hollywood types.
“I’m not okay with it,” I say, “but what can we do? The planning commission has made their decision. We’re not going to change their minds.”
“But if we don’t take action, it won’t be long before people like us can’t live in this town.”
“At least we’ll make a mint when we sell.”
“You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”
“Of course not.” Although I might if the price is right.
Zach sniffs and takes a swipe at his nose. “I just wish we could stop these assholes. They even complained about my new picket fence.”
I hold my voice steady. “They did?” Last month, Zach replaced his aging fence with a synthetic version that lists from side to side.
“Hell yes. City says my fence is four inches too tall, and I’ve got one month to replace the thing.
Where the hell am I going to get that kind of money? My pension only goes so far.” He searches my face with his electric-blue eyes. They’re the only part of him that haven’t aged.
“That’s terrible,” I say, dropping my gaze and backpedaling down the driveway. “Got to get to work. Have a nice day.” I hurry through the gate, swimming through waves of guilt. What if Zach finds out I turned him in? He’ll be angrier than a cornered wasp. But by the time I step out of the shower, I’ve pushed away all my self-doubt. Is it my fault his fence is too tall? For God’s sake, rules are rules.
***
Excerpt from What She Never Said by Catharine Riggs. Copyright © 2019 by Catharine Riggs. Reproduced with permission from Catharine Riggs. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Catharine Riggs lives and writes on California’s central coast. Before her dive into thrillers, Riggs worked as a business banker, adjunct college instructor, and a nonprofit executive. What She Never Said is the second novel in her loosely linked Santa Barbara Suspense series. The first, What She Gave Away, was published by Thomas & Mercer in September of 2018.

Catch Up With Catharine Riggs On:
www.CatharineRiggs.com, Goodreads, & BookBub, Twitter!

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!
Click here to view the What She Never Said by Catharine Riggs Participants.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

 I received a complimentary digital copy of this book through Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours. My comments are an independent and honest review. The rest of the copy of this post was provided by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours.

Silent Meridian by Elizabeth Crowens Blog Tour

 

The Time Traveler Professor, Book One:

Silent Meridian

by Elizabeth Crowens

on Tour August 18 - September 21, 2019

Synopsis:

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is obsessed with a legendary red book. Its peculiar stories have come to life, and rumors claim that it has rewritten its own endings. Convinced that possessing this book will help him write his ever-popular Sherlock Holmes stories, he takes on an unlikely partner, John Patrick Scott, known to most as a concert pianist, but a paranormal investigator and a time traveler professor to a select few.

Like Holmes and Watson trying to solve a mystery, together they explore lost worlds and their friendship is tested to the limits when they go back in time to find it. Both discover that karmic ties and unconscionable crimes have followed them like ghosts from the past, wreaking havoc on the present and possibly the future.

The Time Traveler Professor, Book One: SILENT MERIDIAN reveals the alternate histories of Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, Houdini, Jung and other luminaries in the secret diaries of John Patrick Scott, in an X Files for the 19th century. First Prize winner of Chanticleer Review's Goethe Award for Turn-of-the-Century Historical Fiction and First Prize for Steampunk in the Independent Press Awards. Stay tuned for A POCKETFUL OF LODESTONES; Book Two in the Time Traveler Professor series by Elizabeth Crowens.

My Review:

This is a very unusual novel. It is part alternative historical fiction, part science fiction time travel and perhaps even part fantasy dream world. This is not a genre combination I usually read so I was not surprised that I found it a bit confusing. John, the main character, does time travel but also has dreams in which he goes to different places and times. I was sometimes unclear as to how those adventures related to John's current life. I also found some repetition of information being told as if it was for the first time.

Crowens certainly has am amazing imagination. To include so many historical characters in alternative history scenes and present them in a way that agrees with or as an extension of what is known about them is quite a feat. Readers who enjoy alternative history novels will want to take a look at this one.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

Book Details:

Genre: Alternate History, Mystery, Fantasy Noir
Published by: Atomic Alchemist Productions LLC
Publication Date: June 12th 2019
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 9781950384 (ISBN13: 9781950384044)
Series: The Time Traveler Professor #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Edinburgh, 1898

Scotland was just barely crawling its way out of the nineteenth century. I was a naïve, but ambitious student studying music at the University of Edinburgh hurrying over to meet Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who would change my life forever.
“John Patrick Scott, sir,” I said and approached Mr. Doyle, who was already seated at a back corner table of the Deacon Brodie, the pub that inspired the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
I extended my hand to greet him and removed my rain-soaked hat, while my overcoat slipped out of my hands and fell on the floor by accident. It was still hard to believe that good fortune finally brought us together, but we were both nervous. “Mr. Conan Doyle, or should I call you Doctor Doyle?” I was unsure how to address him.
Doyle scrutinized me from top to bottom as he signaled the waiter. “John, call me Arthur.”
“Sir, I’m so honored that you agreed to discuss this matter. Perhaps you can enlighten me in a way that I’ve failed to comprehend.”
I wanted to ask him about my unusual turn of events straight away but he caught me off guard and was dead set on pulling me into the swift current of an unexpected conversation.
“Can I assume you believe in the transmigration of souls?” he asked.
“Until now, I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” I said, unsure as to which direction he was leading.
“Did you ever read those books about that Swiss doctor who felt his body and soul had been taken over by a Benedictine monk? That presented a curious case. He claims that he was approached by the spirit of an elderly monk before he died, and that the monk needed to rent his body to continue his spiritual mission.”
“Rent?” I choked in disbelief.
“We truly don’t take anything with us when we pass on, do we? This monk knew he was dying and therefore needed to replace his physical body with something more youthful and vital.”
“That’s incredible. It debunks the theory that you need to die and be reborn as an infant to carry on your spirit.”
Mr. Doyle had the tinge of excitement in his voice.
“John, here’s another instance. I’ve had my suspicions about a famous musician who had an obsession about a notorious and controversial mystic. You’d surmise by his overwhelming attraction to that person he might’ve been him in a previous lifetime, but facts were clear he was born three years before the mystic died. My understanding is the mystic was aware he didn’t have long in his present incarnation. Therefore he made plans for some sort of partial soul transference while he was still alive to imprint his essence upon the child. That would’ve allowed him to carry on and accomplish unfinished business, which couldn’t have been executed otherwise. Essentially he had the ability of being two places at once.”
“Sounds more like Spiritualism,” I replied.
“Honestly, John, I don’t think there are any steadfast rules when it comes to this matter. That’s what makes it so intriguing.”
I sensed he had a secret agenda.
Doyle reloaded his churchwarden pipe with fresh tobacco and continued, “This is not at all like anything you’ve ever read from H.G. Wells or Jules Verne. We’re poking holes in every treatise written on the subject — the idea of being able to reincarnate a part of yourself while you are still alive into another soul.”
Our conversation was quickly becoming like a speeding train ready to jump the tracks. Realizing this, Doyle slowed down the pace and took a deep breath. He carefully composed his next statement.
“Fiction it may seem to be but it’s not hocus pocus. Don’t you also find it strange that you somehow found yourself initiated into a mystical order on a commuter train bound from London to Edinburgh when the instigators kept on mistaking you for me? There are no accidents.”
I became silent for a moment, stalling for time as I slowly raised my glass of ale to my lips. As soon as I fished a small red book out of my coat pocket and placed it on the table in front of us Arthur eyed it intently. It had been the source of intrigue, which led me to Doyle in the first place and piqued his curiosity as much as it did mine.
“Could I have done something terrible in my youth that caused this to happen?”
“You have no recollections, John?”
“I remember so little of my childhood. I wish I could.”
“You’re a smart young man. I’m sure you’ll come up with a clever deduction.”
Mr. Doyle paused to relight his pipe. He had an unnerving look in his eye, which I vainly tried to read into, but he took me for a spin when he brought up the next topic.
“On another note, John, have you ever considered that people are capable of communicating without speech, and I’m not talking about writing letters?”
“Pardon me?”
“Imagine communicating by mere thoughts. I’ve always wanted to experiment with someone open to these concepts. God knows — my brothers at the Society for Psychical Research certainly talk enough about it. My wife, Touie, has been an unwilling subject and is not the most objective choice.”
I looked at him, somewhat perplexed. “Are you asking me to accurately guess what you’re thinking?”
“Come now. We’ll play a game. I’ll form an image in my mind, and for the next minute I will try to project it into yours. Clear your thoughts of any distractions and be as receptive as possible,” he explained.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t have been more preoccupied. Images of that fateful event flashed through my brain. My recollections revealed my rain-soaked train ticket. I kept arguing with the steward about putting me in the wrong cabin. An erroneous judgment had been made when three strangers insisted I was Arthur. We were so different in physical appearance. He was a large, athletic man with a distinguished moustache. On the other hand, I had baby smooth skin and couldn’t grow facial hair to save my life. I was nearly twenty years younger and much shorter with wild auburn hair that resembled Maestro Beethoven’s with the exception of premature strands of gray.
So why was I singled out? Was there laudanum in my brandy? Details spun like a whirlwind. I must’ve been in a drug-induced stupor but I was initiated into some secret Masonic-like society, and when it was all over those mysterious men were gone. What remained were an engraved silver ring on my finger and an ominous red book on the seat beside me.
“Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” Arthur broke my trance and realized my thoughts had been elsewhere.
“I felt like I had.” Barely able to articulate, I tried to tame my wild mane in place. Visions faded in and out. Timelines jumped. So I gulped down another swig of ale to focus on the present.
Arthur leaned in closer. “I can see you’re still worried about that event on the train. Those men have been after me for some time. Why? It’s hard to fathom. I’ll dilly dally with notions here and there about Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Watson, who fancy themselves as detectives. Me? I’m just a simple doctor and writer with interests in Spiritualism trying to find scientific explanations for the unknown.”
“Arthur, what would anyone want with an unassuming music student like me?”
“Personally, I don’t think this was A Case of Identity,” Arthur replied with a smile.
Obviously he meant to say my dilemma was not a case of mistaken identity, not the name of one of his famous Sherlock stories. He was pleased I caught the humor of his play on words.
“Perhaps it has something to do with that book,” he said pointing to the one I brought.
“I’m concerned it’s dangerous, that it’s a curse. I wish I had never found it.” I shoved it back into my pocket and drained my glass.
* * *
One week later as I was returning home from school, my landlady, Lydia Campbell, yelled from the kitchen as I trudged my muddied shoes through the front door of her boarding house. “John, a letter from Undershaw arrived for you today! I wonder whom it could be from? You don’t know anyone from Undershaw, do you?”
Oh, yes I did. I grabbed the letter and ran upstairs so fast I nearly tripped on my muffler and fell on my face. I poured myself a glass of port to calm my nerves, doffed my wet garments and sank into my most comfortable brass-studded leather chair I affectionately named my thinking chair, where I created many a melody in my head, could think deep thoughts, and drift off to dreamland.
* * *
Dear John,
I wholeheartedly enjoyed our conversation at the Deacon Brodie and kept my promise of a prompt reply. By now, you are well aware of my passion to explore the realms of Spiritualism and related paranormal phenomena far surpasses any personal interests involved with Sherlock Holmes. Public demand for my writing, however, exerts a strain on how much I can overtly reveal to even my most trusted colleagues. Whenever I indulge in any activity, be it a simple séance, investigating a revered medium or attending a meeting of the British Society for Psychical Research, it never fails to raise the eyebrows of my wary publishers and critics. It’s God’s honest truth that I believe in many of these inexplicable accounts. Even my father painted beautiful renditions of fairies, which I trust he witnessed with his own eyes. The betterment of mankind rests on embracing such theories once they are proven to exist by the scientific community. Thus, I’ll have to continue more controversial and debatable endeavors in utmost secrecy, or at least for the time being until more evidence can be brought to light.
Since you seem to be an open-minded young man who has already experienced some effects of the preternatural, this is my proposal: At midnight every night, we should conduct a variety of remote operations with the primary purpose of communicating through means of telepathy. Since I have a tendency to travel, we’ll have to make some sort of adjustment to take into account the different time zones. Of course, you must share this secret with nobody. Besides us, only my wife will know, although she will not participate.
When you shared the account of the strange commuter train incident that was enough to convince me that you would be the perfect partner for this private undertaking. Most assuredly, there was something you did in the past in the realm of the arcane to warrant such a chain of events. That was not mere happenstance, and now since you possess that enigmatic red book, I’m sure it will affect your life in ways you’ve never imagined.
My intentions have been to perform similar trial and error enterprises with Harry Houdini, a rising star whose stage performances have been astounding audiences, but his busy schedule has made it nearly impossible to coordinate such engagements with any sort of regularity. One of these days we’ll catch up. Meanwhile, I collect whatever news comes from across the herring-pond. At one point, he and I will develop a special relationship based on mutual interests.
Regarding the two of us, however, we’ll back up our observations with letters or telegrams as often as possible as proof of results, but those must be destroyed as soon as they are read. Once again, I cannot over emphasize the importance of confidentiality. Regardless, we must keep a faithful agreement, as skill will come with practice.
If you are willing to put aside any apprehensions regarding trains, I’ll pay for you to travel down to Undershaw and visit me on weekends whenever possible. My driver can meet you in London at a pre-arranged time. You’ll stay in one of our guest bedrooms, and as long as you don’t mind the children and can tolerate what our kitchen staff provides, you’ll be well taken care of. That’ll give us the opportunity to expand our repertoire and commence further psychical experimentation with ectoplasm, spirit photography and astral projection. And bring the red book. I’d like a chance to look at it.
I’ve also desired a partner to accompany me for ghost sightings and occult investigations. For all we know with the knowledge gained, we might even break through the barriers of time. That would certainly give Bertie (H.G. Wells) a shock to the senses, proving his imagination does not merely dwell in the realm of fiction. We’ve been at odds on this topic for years.
Regarding telepathic technique, I can only suggest you conduct yourself in a way as you see fit. Personally, I don’t give credence to things like magical amulets, but if it helps to have an etheric link, use this letter you hold in your hand, as it contains my heart, soul and signature with a drop of blood, which I added to the ink. You might wish to reciprocate.
Let’s raise our glasses to honor the quest of conquering the unknown.
Arthur Conan Doyle
* * *
So, Arthur was serious when he first brought up the subject. When he and I left the pub, I really didn’t know what to think. After all, he was a famous author, and I was merely a student. What possessed him to choose me for such an engagement?
I shuffled through my schoolwork to find my pen and ink and a fresh sheet of paper. Blood, I needed blood. Ah, my razor! That would work. I fetched my shaving kit and winced as I drew a few drops. I scribbled a swift, affirmative reply with the blood-tainted ink, mailed the letter the following day and looked forward to our first otherworldly encounter.
***
Excerpt from The Time Traveler Professor, Book One: Silent Meridian by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Crowens has worked in the film and television for over twenty years and as a journalist and a photographer. She’s a regular contributor of author interviews to an award-winning online speculative fiction magazine, Black Gate. Short stories of hers have been published in the Bram Stoker Awards nominated anthology, A New York State of Fright and Hell’s Heart. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America, The Horror Writers Association, the Authors Guild, Broad Universe, Sisters in Crime and a member of several Sherlockian societies. She is also writing a Hollywood suspense series.

Catch Up With Our Author On:
elizabethcrowens.com, Goodreads, Bookbub, Twitter, & Facebook!

Tour Participants:

Tour Participants:
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!
Click here to view the The Time Traveler Professor, Book One: Silent Meridian by Elizabeth Crowens Participants.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

I received a complimentary digital copy of this book through Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours. My comments are an independent and honest review. The rest of the copy of this post was provided by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours.

Gangster Prayer by Autumn Miles

If you are a Christian and feel your prayer life is stale or weak or none existent, read this book. Miles will light a fire under you, infusing passion for prayer into your very being.

The title might seem odd but is comes from the dedication a gangster has to evil. Miles wants to see that same kind of dedication in Christians toward prayer. I like her definition of gangster prayer: “intentional, tenacious, relentless communication with God that focuses on His might as the source for the answers we seek and on the gospel of Jesus Christ, which gives us access to 'that power.'” (Loc 109/2348)

I have read a ton of books on prayer but this one inspired me like no others have. Rather than an emphasis on technique, Miles writes of prayer as our means of communication with God. If we neglect it, the Holy Spirit may be present in us but we lose His “presence” in us. (243/2348) His power and influence in us will be reduced.

Her encouragement in prayer is great. Her chapter on persistence was awesome. I like her explanation of why, even though we assume God is willing to answer our prayers, He does not answer the way we expected. “Your character is more important than your request.” (1848/2348)

Miles advocates aggressive prayer. None of this “if it be Your will” attitude. We are to pray in faith, believing God will act. That was hard for this Christian with a high view of God's sovereignty. I also had a little trouble distinguishing between Miles' encouragement to be specific in our requests (not pray something general like “bless Martha today”), yet later saying we are not to be so specific (such as praying for a future husband with particular characteristics).

Nonetheless, a very good book on prayer. You'll not find specific techniques but you will certainly be set on fire to communicate with God more.

Food for thought: “The results of prayer are up to God, but abiding by the principles of prayer are up to us.” (101/2348)

You can read chapter one here.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

Autumn Miles is the founder of Autumn Miles Ministries, an organization devoted to spiritually challenging the way women think. She produces regular inspirational content for her over 120,000 Facebook followers in addition to speaking at conferences nationwide. She is also the host of The Autumn Miles Show, a radio talk show and podcast. As a survivor of domestic abuse, she has shared her story in many media outlets including major newspapers, magazines, and television programs. She is the author of two previous books. She and her husband have four children and live in Dallas, Texas. You can find out more at http://www.autumnmiles.com/ .

Worthy Books, 224 pages.

I received a complimentary egally of this book from the publisher. My comments are an independent and honest review.

Vow of Justice by Lynette Eason

This novel is a suspense filled addition to the St. John family series. This story centers on Linc, an FBI agent. He's sweet on Allie, another agent, and trouble comes to them both as they pursue a very bad guy.

There was lots of suspense in this plot but I felt that some of it was repetitive. I would hope that the FBI is smarter than some of the action in this novel, causing some of the suspense. I suspected who the bad guy was early on and was proven right in the end. The plot itself is complex, particularly the aspect involving Allie's life. We readers get information revealed to us as Allie gives it to Linc. I liked that. I did think her family story was a bit convoluted, especially as it ultimately gave reason for the current FBI investigation.

My favorite character was Daria, daughter of the very bad guy but on his hit list. She's a smart and savvy teen and I'd like to see her in a future novel. Allie was a woman on a mission. Yet when it came time to meet out vengeance, her relationship with God won out. I liked that. Linc was a bit of a disappointment, I felt. I would have liked a smarter agent. It was a good thing his family often had his back.

I like to learn something when I read a novel or at least be exposed to something new. That was not the case here. This is just a good suspense story with a little romance in it as well as mention of a relationship with God.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

Lynette Eason is the bestselling author of several Christian romantic suspense series. She is the winner of three ACFW Carol Awards, the Selah Award, and the Inspirational Reader's Choice Award, among others. She is a graduate of the University of South Carolina and has a master's degree in education from Converse College. She lives in South Carolina with her husband and two children. You can find out more at www.lynetteeason.com. Photo Credit: © Mary Denman

Revell, 336 pages.

I received a complimentary egalley of this book from the publisher. My comments are an independent and honest review.

The Ornery Gene by Warren C Embree Blog Tour and Giveaway

 

The Ornery Gene

by Warren C. Embree

on Tour August 1-31, 2019

Synopsis:

When itinerant ranch hand Buck Ellison took a job with Sarah Watkins at her ranch in the Sandhills of Nebraska, he thought he had found the place where he could park his pickup, leave the past behind, and never move again.

On a rainy July night, a dead body at the south end of Sarah’s ranch forces him to become a reluctant detective, digging into the business of cattle breeding for rodeos and digging up events from his past that are linked to the circumstances surrounding the murder of Sam Danielson.

Working with his boss Sarah, her nephew Travis Martin, and the cook Diane Gibbons, Buck unmasks the murderer, but at the cost of learning the reality of past events that he chooses to keep to himself.

My Review:

I found this mystery a pleasant one to read. The most interesting aspect of the novel was the pace of the action. It was slow and steady. While reading, I almost felt like I was following in the steps of a cowboy, deliberate in his gait. There was no intense action nor heart throbbing suspense. There was just the methodical reasoning through of puzzling events by several characters.

In addition to enjoying a steady unraveling of secrets, I learned quite a bit about the rodeo and raising bulls for the events. I had no idea of the importance of testing and DNA. That aspect of the novel definitely added interest.

This is a good book for readers who like fun mystery in a style different from the typical suspense laden ones. The characters are realistic and portrayed well. The plot is a bit complex but not confusing. The setting is interesting too. Definitely an enjoyable mystery.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Amateur Sleuth
Published by: Down and Out Books
Publication Date: April 27, 2019
Number of Pages: 216
ISBN: 1643960121 (978-1643960128)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, 9:15 p.m.
Sam Danielson slowed his pickup to a stop beside an old cattle chute, switched off the engine, rolled the window all the way down, and listened. He absentmindedly counted the cricket chirps for ten seconds, added forty to the number of chirps and calculated it to be about sixty-five degrees or so outside. A trick his dad had taught him. It was a little chilly for July in this part of the hills, but he had heard the low rumbling of thunder on the drive out. It smelled like rain; there was a storm moving from the northeast that was cooling things down. There could even be some ice in it. He checked his watch: nine-fifteen. Just past twilight. He opened the pickup door and took a deep breath. He reached over, grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, and slid out of the driver’s seat onto the soft sand.
Off in the distance, he heard a mama cow lowing. This was the life he had chosen, and he had never looked back. It hadn’t been easy working for, and then with, his dad. They had gone back and forth on the best way to select the bulls and broncos they supplied for “rough stock” events at the rodeos in the Sandhills of western Nebraska. There was only one way for Dad. “You don’t have the feel for how much the bull don’t want rode,” his dad would say. But Sam had gone to school and studied twentieth-century methods of livestock rearing. For his dad it was a way of life; for Sam it was a business. Sam liked the numbers. He liked to narrow the odds by more than just a feeling. He had tried to show his dad the value in breeding techniques and genetic tracking in estimating the probability that a particular bull would do well in the arena. His dad would just laugh it off. “Show me the ornery gene,” his dad would laugh. “I’ll have five bulls picked before you decide on one.” But Sam knew his would be a better one than the five. He could prove the temperament of a bull before anyone tried to ride it. He had never convinced his dad. The ornery gene had been elusive, but not the genetic makeup of the ornery bulls. He had been right, and he had a genetically identifiable line of stock to prove it.
During his travels from his ranch outside of Laramie, Wyoming, Sam had been made aware of a genetic curiosity in one of the cattle he purchased in Colorado in the spring. Being off in the records would end up being off in the genetic makeup of the calves. There never was just one gene that made the difference. It was a matter of multiple generations. He had traced the lines that looked the most promising, and closely followed the leaders in the industry. Discovering that curiosity had led him into this part of the Sandhills of Nebraska. Talking about it at the bar had got him into an argument with the old cowboy, and listening to the old man had brought him to this particular spot.
“You’ll find what you’re looking for out there,” the old cowboy had said. “Then you’ll know I was telling you the truth.” Danielson switched the flashlight on and scanned the area around the cattle chute. He had let himself be convinced that the old man knew a thing or two about cattle breeding. What had surprised Danielson most was that the old man had known about the science behind modern breeding at all. The old cowboy looked more like he’d been “rode hard and put up wet” as his dad would have said: a man who had spent a hard life out in the sun and the rain and the snow. Danielson expected someone like that to know less about biogenetics and more about old school solutions. Like his dad.
The excitement the old cowboy had shown assured Danielson it would be worth his time to find out if he was headed in the right direction. But as he looked around the area, all he saw was a dump site for old batteries, tires, cook stoves, windmill parts, cans, bed springs, and used up corral panels. He saw nothing that would explain the old cowboy’s intensity. Now he was more curious to find out how the old cowboy would explain the genetic anomaly that he was so passionate about. It was one of those things his dad would say shouldn’t make a whole lot of difference in his deciding on a bull. It probably wasn’t all that important to breeders either. But he was curious, and keeping careful records was important to the integrity of breeding livestock. It was a necessary component in the breeding business and his business. He was hoping he could find some answers out here as he tried to piece together the puzzle. He was determined to take some time to track it down to the source and maybe be able to verify when and where the mistake was made.
He had tried to be low-key when he was asking questions, but the speed at which the old cowboy had raised his hackles this afternoon showed Danielson just how hard that was going to be. He had touched the wrong nerve on the first try. He wasn’t sure whether he had asked the wrong question or his question had been taken the wrong way. It took a couple of beers and a good bit of time getting the old man calmed down. When it finally got friendly again, the old cowboy had told him about the spot out here in the hills. He gave directions and said he’d meet him out there around nine that evening.
As he waited for the old cowboy to show up, Danielson kicked at a broken pitman, picked it up, and used it to move around some cans at the edge of the dump site. He wasn’t terribly interested in getting bitten by a rattlesnake or a rat. It was a half-hearted effort. He sniffed the air again and caught the scent of pine and cedar trees this time. The hills hadn’t changed much from when he was a kid except the cedar trees. They were becoming a weed out in the hills. He shoved a wooden box with the pitman, then threw the stick of wood back into the pile. It was altogether possible that the old cowboy had sent him out on a snipe hunt. It just as well be. There was nothing he’d seen so far that was tied to the cattle breeding. If it were here, it wasn’t something obvious. What galled him was that he could be looking right at it and still not see it. For that matter, there could be nothing to it.
A loud clap of thunder caused Danielson to look up at the sky. In the southwest the clouds were fast turning to an ugly black. He saw the lightning streak across the sky and started counting. He reached fifty-two and he heard the thunder again. The storm was only about ten miles away. He didn’t want to get caught in the storm, and he hadn’t found anything yet. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gone on a wild goose chase.
He walked over to the rear of the pickup, pulled out a can of chewing tobacco from his back pocket, and stuffed a pinch in the back of his cheek. He put the can back in his pocket and picked up an old spur that was in the pickup box. He turned it over in his hand as he walked over to the chute—just an old spur. The old cowboy had given it to him, along with some old rodeo flyers, claiming he’d known Danielson’s dad and had got it from him. His dad had never been a bull rider, so the spur didn’t belong to him. He didn’t know whether someone had given it to his dad or his dad had simply found it tearing down after one of the rodeos they had supplied the bulls and broncs for. It reminded him that he needed to go through his dad’s things, a clutter of boxes, something he’d put off for ten years after his dad died. He tossed the spur toward the pickup box but hit the fender instead, bouncing the spur at an odd angle forward of the pickup. He walked over toward the cattle chute and battery and pointed his flashlight in the direction the spur had bounced.
Danielson caught the flash of lightning in the corner of his eye, heard a pop from behind him, then felt a sledgehammer hit him in the middle of the back. The strength drained out of his legs. He felt a sharp pain spring out from where the hammer had hit that seemed to rush through his torso. His legs gave out and he hit the ground, knees first, and then fell on his face. The pain was now a hot, burning sensation from the place where the hammer had hit and his back felt wet. He thought he had been struck with lightning, cursing himself for miscalculating the distance of the storm. He tried to use his arms to push himself up, but he couldn’t gather the strength. He dropped back down. He could feel that his back was soaked, but it hadn’t started raining yet.
From off to his right, he heard something moving cans around. It wasn’t the wind. It was deliberate. No animal would do that either. A few moments later, he felt someone kick his side. He grunted involuntarily, and then tried to roll over. His legs were a dead weight. He twisted his face away from the pickup, but couldn’t see anything. “He shot me,” he whispered. He tried to raise himself with his arms, but was light-headed now. I can’t believe he shot me. A few moments later rain poured from the clouds, diluting the blood from his back and mingling it with the sand.
***
Excerpt from The Ornery Gene by Warren C. Embree. Copyright © 2019 by Warren C. Embree. Reproduced with permission from Warren C. Embree. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

WARREN EMBREE and his wife grew up in the Sandhills of Nebraska. He did both farm work and ranch work during those years, and he still keeps track of what goes on in the hills. After leaving the area, he pursued an academic career in English, Classical Languages, and Divinity. He lectured at a couple of institutions and preached at a few churches, and he now works in Lincoln as a data analyst for the University of Nebraska. His knowledge and love of the unique culture of the Sandhills, his education in languages and literature, and his analytical skills contribute to his story telling. He and his wife currently live in Nebraska and have 3 grown children.

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I received a complimentary digital copy of this book through Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours. My comments are an independent and honest review. The rest of the copy of this post was provided by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours.

Church Reformed by Tim Bayly

A generation or two ago in the Reformed Church in America, the restrictions were clear. One could participate in communion only if you had made confession of faith before the elders as a teen (or older). People from Reformed churches in other towns could only take communion in my church if they assured the elders they were in good standing in their home church. While women could teach children's Sunday School, no women were allowed to teach adults. Nor were women allowed in any way to speak in a church service except, perhaps, to make an announcement about a women's event. Certainly no women were allowed on the ruling board, the consistory. We were never encouraged to have a personal relationship with God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit outside of the church. I know. I was there.

How times have changed. Nonetheless, Bayly desires the church return to those customs of years ago. The Church is our Mother, birthing us, in a sense, and we should love her. Citing authors and confessions from hundreds of year ago, Bayly writes, “Outside the church there is ordinarily no hope of salvation.” (15) Outside of the church, there is no protection from spiritual attack. “Alone, every man is picked off by Satan and devoured.” (17) To have the protection of the Shepherd, we must be in the Church. (17) And you can be in the Church only if you have been baptized. (23) And not baptized by just anybody but by an official of the Church. (24) No one can participate in communion without being in the household of faith and that entry is granted by the elders of the Church. (23,25)

While I know Bayly's views have been those of theologians in generations past, I wonder whether the view of the Church Bayly presents is truly biblical. He names the “Church” as the Bride of Christ, referencing Rev. 19:7;21:9 (even though “Church” (ekklesia) does not appear in those passages). He is convinced that individual believers are not the Bride of Christ, but only the Church as a whole. (14) “We are not the Body of Christ individually. No one of us is the Church.” (17) This, after encouraging us to remember that “Church” is only the English translation of ekklesia, “called out ones.” (13)

What about when Jesus said if two or three were gathered in His name, He was there? (Matt. 18:20) So can the “Church” be two people? And what about Paul saying Christ did not send him to baptize but to preach the gospel? (1 Cor. 1:17) If baptism by a Church official is necessary for entrance into the “Church” and the Body of Christ (as Bayly writes), then Paul really missed that truth. Bayly admonishes us to love our Mother, the Church. He seems to mean the organization rather than as I have taken the "love one another" command to mean, individuals.

That being said, there is much I like in the book. I like his emphasis on the solemnity of the Lord's Supper. It is much more than a mere memorial and we do not hear that so much any more. I like his desire to see more church discipline. We hardly see that at all any more either.

Potential readers who have studied Calvin or covenant theology will find familiar material here. Preaching is the center of worship. (44) Church discipline is to be exercised. (77) A particular order of worship (from the Reformers) should be used. (99) The authority of the Church should be recognized. (131 ff)

Potential readers who are not familiar with the teachings of the Reformers may be surprised at some Bayly writes. For example, Bayly says that the real test of a pastor's devotion to the teaching of the apostles “is whether we use the pulpit to call the women of the congregation to submit to their husbands.” (51)

Young pastors would do well to read this book to get an idea of how the Church functioned in generations past.

You can find out more about the book at https://warhornmedia.com/2019/07/08/church-reformed/

My rating: 3/5 stars.

Tim Bayly has a bachelor's degree in history from the University of Wisconsin and a Master of Divinity from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary. He was ordained in 1983 by John Knox Presbytery of the Presbyterian Church (USA). After years of pastoring, he transferred to the Presbyterian Church of America (PCA) in 1991. He is currently pastor of Trinity Reformed Church (previously Clearnote Church) in Bloomington, Indiana. He writes regularly at Warhorn Media and is the author or co-author of two previous books. He and his wife have been married over 40 years. They are the parents of five children and more than 20 grandchildren.

Warhorn Media, 183 pages.

I received a complimentary copy of this book through The Barnabas Agency. My comments are an independent and honest review.

Standing Together by Carlos Evans and Rosemarie Evans with Cecil Murphey Blog Tour

About the Book:

A true story of hope and courage in the face of astonishing challenges

During his fourth deployment, US Marine Corps Sergeant Carlos Evans stepped on an IED--and the loss of both legs and his left hand was just the beginning of the struggle for his life.

For the next two years, he and his wife, Rosemarie, went through the rehabilitation process together. As a nurse and mother of two young children, Rosemarie was used to caring for people, but the task of taking care of her triple-amputee husband brought new challenges every day. In addition to his limb loss, Carlos faced PTSD and developed an addiction to painkillers. He was sure Rosemarie's life would be better without him--and that it might have been better if he hadn't survived at all.

But unlike the majority of marriages put under similar strain, Carlos and Rosemarie stayed together. With the help of family, friends, and--most importantly--a strong faith, they've built a solid marriage and discovered a ministry they never expected. By the hand of God, their story, which began in devastation, has turned into one that draws in and lifts up more people than either of them would ever have dreamed.

Not only will disabled veterans and their loved ones find help here, Carlos and Rosemarie's captivating journey also speaks to those who long for stronger marriages, care for loved ones with disabilities, or are facing a new normal in their own lives, small or large. It is a powerful resource for leaning on God in the midst of life's great difficulties--and for finding ways that, through faith, profound loss can bring incredible blessing.

My Review:

This is an amazing story told well. Carlos and Rosemarie honestly share their struggles, doubts and victories. Rosemarie shares her struggle of wanting to be with Carlos during recovery yet having to be away from her daughters. Carlos shares his struggle of trying to understand who he would be after becoming a triple amputee. There was also the issue of addiction to the pain killers and the miracle of God's intervention.

This is a very good book for readers who want to understand how wounded veterans survive tragedy and make lives for themselves. The importance of their faith comes through loud and clear. Be prepared to read about the tough times when setbacks challenged their courage and faith. Be encouraged to read about the ministries coming alongside, helping Carlos and his family thrive again.

Carlos writes about his experience skiing. If you'd like to see the video, you can do so here.

You can watch an interview here.

My rating: 4/5 stars

About the Authors:

Carlos R. Evans is a minister with the Assemblies of God USA, a Wounded Warrior spokesman, and a motivational speaker. He served in the Marine Corps for eight years.
Rosemarie Evans, an experienced nurse, is now a full-time caregiver and student working toward a master’s degree in marriage and family from Liberty University.
Carlos and Rosemarie live in Orlando, Florida.

Learn more about Carlos and Rosemarie Evans at CREvans.org as well as on Facebook (CR Evans), Instagram (@crevans923) and Twitter (@crevans923).

Kregel, 250 pages.

I received a complimentary digital copy of this book through Read With Audra. My comments are an independent and honest review. The rest of the copy of this post was provided by Read With Audra.

Restored at the Root by Joseph W Walker III

When I started reading this book and found out it was about spiritual attacks, I was a little leery. Now that I have read the book, I am greatly impressed with the insights it contains. I have never read a book so revealing about spiritual attacks, how to recognize them and deal with them. I was impressed with the combination of spiritual insight, common sense, and scientific study Walker uses in this book.

Walker believes many Christians are living below what God has intended for them. Many Christians struggle with issues, never understanding the root of the problem. Resentment, exhaustion, anger and similar problems may well have their roots in demonic attack. He does a good job of helping us understand how the attacks work. He then provides thought provoking questions to help us work through the issues to healing.

Walker uses Jesus' encounter with the man with the unclean spirit in Mark 5 as a framework for his exploration of spiritual oppression. I was surprised at the insights he gleaned from that experience. Self pain and manipulation are just two of the characteristics Walker identifies. The characteristic that surprised me the most was hyperspiritualism. “Religion is often used as an escape route by people who don't want to address the deeper issues of their lives.” (100) That one made me think long and hard.

I highly recommend this book to Christians who want to investigate the possibility of spiritual oppression in their lives. While Walker says Christians cannot be possessed by demons, they can be oppressed to the point of physical problems and mental and emotional instability. You'll encounter some common sense yet spiritually insightful information to help you in the process of self discovery and then the task of successful spiritual warfare. It will not be easy work but will be well worth the effort.

You can find out more about the book, watch the book trailer, and read a sample chapter at http://restoredattheroot.com/ .

My rating: 5/5 stars

Joseph W. Walker III is the senior pastor of the historic Mt. Zion Baptist Church of Nashville, Tennessee. He also currently serves as the International Presiding Bishop in the Full Gospel Baptist Church Fellowship International. He received a master of divinity degree from Vanderbilt University and a doctor of ministry degree from Princeton Theological Seminary. He and his wife have two children.

Charisma House, 224 pages.

I received a complimentary egalley of this book from the publisher. My comments are an independent and honest review.