Join the authors of the Grandma’s Wedding Quilts series today for information about the 11 books and a trivia contest.
link to Facebook party
Frosting and Flurries, is a boxed set of five Christmas novellas on Amazon. The other amazing authors in the set are Kimberly Rae Jordan, Cecelia Dowdy, Clare Revell, and Marion Ueckermann. My book is called Moostletoe and it was a great deal of fun working with other writers I know and love! ~~Jan
BLURB of Moostletoe by Jan Elder
Rev. Samantha Evans lands in Moose Creek, Maine, a backwater town with more moose than men. One of her new parishioners chews up new ministers for breakfast, and he’s hell-bent on sending her packing.
Forest ranger Eric Palmer is done with women. With Christmas around the corner, he runs into Sammie, his best friend when they were teenagers. Unlike most women, he trusts her implicitly. But could she ever be more than a friend?
When Samantha’s career is on the line, Eric saves her job, rescuing his own shattered heart. But how does Matilda the town moose factor in?
As they headed toward the fence at the back of the large yard, the trapped moose turned her head and fastened Samantha with the longest, most distressed face she’d ever seen. Somehow, the words “there’s a moose stuck in the fence” had not prepared her for the sight of two hooves sticking to the top of tall pickets.
Poor moosie indeed!
The TV news reporter strode toward Eric and Travis, a determined set to his jaw.
Eric took charge. “Dale, you can film, but be quiet about it and keep well back. I know everybody loves Matilda, but she’s a wild animal and she’s scared. You too, Mr. Tremblay.”
“We’ll do our best to behave.” Dale smirked. “But the TV audience is going to eat this up and we’re here to serve.”
Eric grimaced. “She’s just a moose for crying out loud. People in Aroostook County see them every day.”
The TV crew moved into position. Eric glanced at Samantha. “Sammie you asked what you can do. Your job is to pray we can get this moose out of trouble, fast.”
“Will do.” Samantha nodded and clung to the fence line several yards away. Matilda puffed, her breath sending up a cloud of steam. Samantha’s heart went out to the creature, and she unleashed a silent prayer. If God cared for the lowly sparrow, He surely loved the magnificent moose.
Eric’s eyes zeroed in on the television camera as two men continued to edge closer. “Confound it, Dale, stay back. Don’t you have a zoom on that contraption?”
The cheeky, young reporter lifted his chin. “We’ll stay back as long as you give us an exclusive after the rescue.”
Eric planted his hands on his hips and huffed. “Exclusive? Dale, what do you think this is? Portland? You’re the only TV station there is in these parts. Just keep your distance. Hey, Tremblay? You have a small hatchet?”
A protest erupted from the cameraman. “Surely, you’re not going to hurt that wild animal.”
Eric shook his head. “No, of course we’re not going to hurt her. We have to break up the fence.”
Dale cocked his head. “Why can’t you just yard on it until her feet come out?”
Huh? Samantha searched her memory banks. Yard on it. Ah, yes. Pull hard.
“Do I look suicidal? I’m not getting anywhere near those back hooves. We have a crazed five-hundred-pound moose who’s not thinking straight, here.”
The cameraman grumbled and when Eric turned his back, the cameraman made a hand gesture that meant … Samantha wasn’t sure what it meant, but it couldn’t have been nice.
Matilda shifted her back feet, tried to maneuver backward and pitched a bit to the side. The wooden fence scraped against her front fetlocks and she bellowed, a terrible noise that rang hollow in the damp, night air. Terrified, her eyes flicked back and forth, the whites showing. Helpless, Samantha prayed harder and shuffled her feet to keep the circulation moving, her chest squeezing.
The cameraman hefted his camera and aimed it at the reporter. The show was about to begin.
Jan Elder is a Christian romance writer with a zeal for telling real, relateable stories. She strives to write novels that will strengthen the reader’s faith, while providing an entertaining and engrossing love story.
Happily married for thirteen years to supportive husband, Steve, the two live in central Maryland.
Bethany never imagined becoming the target of a hired killer. Her intent had been to clear her roommate of murder and get her out of jail. After a tip from a neighbor about a ski-masked man leaving the apartment and tossing something in a dumpster, she retrieves a pair of bloody gloves from the dumpster and places them in her brief case for safe keeping. On the way to take them to the police station, she is attacked and injected with a fast-acting sedative. In a desperate attempt to protect the evidence, she thrusts the briefcase at the man in front of her and begs him to take care it.
Bethany glanced behind her, heart skittering, as she hastened along the street. Though she hoped to blend in with tourists in southern Staten Island, she couldn’t escape the feeling she’d been followed. She’d told no one except the detective about the evidence in her briefcase. Since it could prove the innocence of her friend, she was eager to turn it in. Fortunately, in two more blocks she would arrive at the station. She could hand it over and stop worrying.
Someone brushed against her and she tightened her hold on the satchel. Pedestrians here were working people with a sprinkling of petty thieves. The last thing she needed was to have an opportunist steal what was valuable only as evidence and discard it in a dumpster where it would never be found and justice would never be done.
She entered the crosswalk with the throng. Half-way across the street she felt a sharp jab beneath her right rib. She grimaced as she stumbled forward, bumping into the broad back of the man striding ahead of her. He turned to study her with striking blue eyes.
Someone touched her hand and whispered, “Let go and I’ll let you live.”
She jerked her hand away as her vision began to blur. The man she had jostled turned with a frown. “Are you all right?”
She held on to the satchel. As his face became hazy, she thrust it towards him. “Take care of this please. It’s important.”
He took it from her grasp as she toppled forward. She heard a buzz of voices as strong arms lifted her, and then, oblivion.
Luke carried the limp woman across the street and cradled her in his lap while he called 911. A crowd gathered while he checked her quickened pulse. What could have happened to her? His thoughts were interrupted as a man leaned towards him.
“She’s prone to fainting spells. I can hold onto the attaché case. I’m her brother.”
Luke evaluated the man and made a quick decision. “She told me to keep it safe. It’s fine with me, for now.”
The man didn’t insist, yet continued to stand by, expressing none of the concern Luke would expect of a brother while Luke focused on the woman, making sure she continued to breathe.
The steady shrieking of an ambulance preceded its arrival at the curb. Luke moved back to allow the attendants to administer to the fallen woman. They took her vitals and loaded her onto a stretcher.
“Where will you take her?” Luke asked. Not only did he need to know where to deliver the satchel, he was curious about why it was important enough to protect.
“I’m a friend. Can I come along?”
The man nodded. “You can ride up front with the driver.”
Luke held onto the briefcase as he strode to the passenger door. What possessed him to care about what happened to this stranger? He should send the attaché with her and forget the whole thing.
He glanced into the crowd and saw the man who claimed to be her brother watching from the outskirts of the bystanders. If he had it to bet, Luke guessed the guy knew what was inside that case and had a reason for wanting it. Perhaps he had injured or drugged the victim to steal it. The possibilities ran through his mind as he climbed aboard. He thought about going after the suspect. Yet, he doubted he would catch him, given the distance between them. If he didn’t stay with the victim, it would be harder to locate her and return her property. He shut the door and buckled his seat belt. Whatever the outcome, he was along for the ride.
The driver was a stocky, middle-aged man with thinning hair who asked Luke, “You her husband?”
“No. She fell into my arms. I was complemented until I realized she was unconscious.”
The man nodded. “Sounds like my experience with women.”
Luke’s curiosity about what was in the case burned as they drove to the hospital. When they arrived, he waited for the paramedics to lift the woman from the ambulance and wheel her into the emergency room.
“How’s she doing?” Luke asked the small blond attendant who was pushing the cart,”
Once inside, he was asked her name. “I don’t know. We just met. You’ll have to get identification from her purse. Please let me know when she’s able to have a visitor.”
The rigid, vinyl chair in the waiting area poked against his shoulder blades. He resigned himself to the discomfort and the television comedy that spewed raucous laughter. His thoughts were on the woman who’d passed out in his arms.
He turned the briefcase over in his lap. If she protected something illegal, he refused to be any part of it. He studied the lock, and knew it would be no problem. He fished in his pocket and withdrew the knife set he’d carried all through his stint in the military. With a few quick twists, he had it open. He peered inside the bag to see two bloody gloves staring back. If she didn’t have a good explanation, he was going straight to the police.
Bethany awoke in a narrow bed. She squinted at the bright ceiling light, and struggled to remember why she was hooked to an IV. What had happened? She moved to sit up and her head throbbed. Then, it all came back. He had wanted the gloves. Had he gotten them?
She fumbled for the buzzer as a nurse entered the room. “I had an attaché case. Where is it?”
The young woman knitted her brow. “Don’t be upset. Your things are bagged beside your bed.”
“I need to see them.”
The nurse moved swiftly to her side. “Don’t try and get up. I’ll hand it to you.”
Bethany knew from the weight of the bag it didn’t contain the attaché case. She fought rising panic. “My briefcase is missing. Where is it?”
“I don’t know. There’s a gentleman in the waiting room who wants to see you. Perhaps he has it.”
A native of Houston, TX, Karen spent her early years enjoying life along the Gulf Coast. After high school, she attended Texas A&M as well as the University of Houston where she obtained a B.S. in early childhood education. She has written numerous articles and stories, books for children and novels for adults. She particularly enjoys writing contemporary and historical romance.
She now lives in the Southwest with her family and assorted pets.
Today I welcome Bonnie McCune who shares insight into the heroine of her latest novel titled Falling Like a Rock.
How about you introduce yourself by providing the basics?
Hi, I’m Elaine Svoboda, twenty-eight, middling height, curly reddish hair. I like to think I’m in control of my life and headed in the right direction, but something always seems to go wrong. Like especially with men. Two serious boyfriends turned out to be losers. The current one Joe (who just happens to be mayor of the mountain town I’ve moved to) is not impressed by me, to put it mildly.
Where were you raised?
Cincinnati, Ohio. Mostly lived there, went to school there, worked there. So traveling from there, first to Denver, then to the little town of Falling Rock, has been an adventure. I’ve begun to appreciate the joys of small towns, the mountains, and natural areas.
My family is back in Cincinnati. Grandparents, immigrants from what now is the Czech Republic, are flag-waving patriots. My parents are dedicated and skilled teachers. As for my older brother and sister, they always have excelled in everything they do. Over-achievers. I doubt I can match them, although I try.
Did you always want to be a communications and marketing person?
No, I first studied nursing, but for some reason, always wound up dealing with the public—publications, events, campaigns. But because I have an early background in nursing, I used that in an earlier job in Cincinnati and am applying it some in my current position. Only temporary, I’m afraid, but loads of fun. I’m running a weight-loss program for anyone in town who wants to compete.
What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?
When I got fired recently, I pulled up stakes to follow my boyfriend to Denver. On the way there, my car broke down, and I was rescued by a COWBOY! I was thrilled to be in the West and discover a real gentleman under his Stetson.
What attracts you to a man?
I’m proud to say, my tastes are changing. I used to be taken in by easy charm and good looks. With my move to Falling Rock, I’m now finding that a man’s strength—of character as well as muscles—is important. A man who’s absolutely honest and respects a woman’s opinions and talents. A man whose profile may not be perfect, in fact might be rugged, but with a lively intelligence that is irresistible. Wait! That sounds like the mayor of Falling Rock!
When you’re ‘falling like a rock,’ you’ll risk anything.
Unloved and unemployed. That’s Elaine Svoboda, after she’s sacked, then flees across country to her boyfriend who drops her flat. Teetering on the abyss of disaster, she calls an old friend who invites her to a tiny mountain town with fresh prospects. There she meets rugged, hunky Joe Richter-Leon, mayor of Falling Rock.
Maybe he can help her find a job. Maybe they can become friends, even share romance. Sparks fly immediately, but major obstacles make a new life on the ashes of the old appear impossible. Joe’s consumed with challenges like the dismal local economy and an impetuous sister. Elaine butts heads with him at every turn in the rocky road. Are her bungling attempts to help the problem? Or does she remind him of a greedy, selfish ex-wife?
Before they can build a new life on the ashes of the old, she must overcome a few obstacles like a broken ankle, an eating disturbance, his stubbornness, and her own fears. She’s smothering her hopes when a battle with a forest inferno illuminates their true feelings and desire.
Funny and frank, poignant and perceptive, when two people are “Falling Like a Rock,” they learn surrender sometimes means victory.
# # # # #
The movement now wasn’t rocking but more like a grind. A slowness. A shiver. She knew she had to leave the main road and find help. She swerved onto a pull-off that appeared as if by a miracle, turned off the motor, and sank into the seat. In all directions she saw flat monotone prairie. If spring was about to arrive, no sign of it blossomed here. An occasional bush of greenish sagebrush nodded, but most of the landscape consisted of earth-toned dirt and dirt-toned pebbles scoured by a constant wind, which threw a thin top layer of particles hither and yon.
What she knew about auto mechanics fit on a matchbook cover. She’d been shown where to fill up on gas and wiper fluid, and that was the extent of it. She flicked the ignition off and on several times, peered at the dashboard, even popped the hood. Nothing looked out of place or broken.
She returned to the driver’s seat to think and worry her tooth with her tongue. It wasn’t safe to sit out here alone, and dismal warnings from her parents to never trust a casual passerby in a situation like this darted in her mind. So she hauled out her cell phone. No service. She slumped in her seat.
The plains spread horizon to horizon around her, and an appreciation rose in her for the courage and hard work of the pioneers who had traveled one slow step at a time over an endless landscape to reach their new homes. At least nowadays an asphalt ribbon transversed the plateau. On the road an occasional semi whooshed past, rattling her vehicle as it traveled. One trucker slowed to a crawl and honked, but by the time she decided he was offering help, he’d disappeared.
She twisted her brain in knots to find some way to save herself. Surely if she were careful, stayed in her car and blinked her lights and beeped, someone should rescue her. Perhaps she should wait until a woman stopped, but another female would be as afraid to pull over as she to chance an encounter.
Clouds began to build in gray billows, flowed from west en route the east, and the sun plunged toward twilight. If anything terrified her more than an appeal to a stranger for assistance, it was spending the night out here in the open. In her rearview mirror, a battered Land Rover appeared, and almost on impulse, Elaine switched on her hazard lights and leaned on the horn.
The vehicle slowed but didn’t stop. Not until it was some yards down the road. Next a tall, lean figure climbed out, the engine still in operation. A man dressed in jeans, ski jacket, and a black Stetson. Elaine would have laughed if she hadn’t been worried about the security of the car door locks. She was in the West now. It made sense for a cowboy to show up.
He approached with careful deliberation, halting a few feet from her, and she rolled her window down several inches and studied him in case she had to describe him later to the authorities. Not particularly suave or polished, but certainly with the rugged strength typically associated with cowboy types. Dark, as if he spent time outside or had some Mediterranean or Latino ancestors. A prominent nose, off-centered, perhaps from being bashed once too often.
“Need help, ma’am?”
BIO & contact info
Bonnie McCune lives in Colorado and is the author of novels, novellas and short stories. A writer since the fifth grade, her interest in the craft led to her career in nonprofits doing public and community relations and marketing. Simultaneously, she’s published news and features as a free-lancer. For years, she entered recipe contests and was a finalist once to the Pillsbury Cook Off. A special love is live theater. Had she been nine inches taller and thirty pounds lighter, she might have been an actress. Her entire family is book-mad. Bonnie’s writing explores the highs and lows of everyday people and their unique lives with humor, close attention, and appreciation. Her blog addresses “ordinary people, extraordinary lives” and also features samples of shorter works
Blog : BonnieMcCune.com