🌷🌹Mother's Day 2026🌹🌷

💖💙💛💚💜💚💛💙💖

In honor of Mother's Day here in the US today, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential mother figures.  I say "mother figures" because it isn't always a mom, sometimes it isn't even family, sometimes it can be a stranger who steps up and fills in.  Some aren't necessarily even a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, etc.  The mother figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader.  For Mother's Day 2026, I chose 5 stories where the mother, aunt, friend, and all around motherly figure helped to shape the characters, intentionally or not, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling.  If you have any recommendations for great mother figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here.  The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.

💖💙💛💚💜💚💛💙💖

Silent Knight by Davidson King

Summary:

Can someone have both all the luck and none at all? For Ezra Acker the answer is yes. Life just is for him…until one Christmas when everything shifts and he finds out he has a silent knight who has been protecting him.

A world Ezra didn’t know existed is trying to kill both him and his knight. Can they survive the holidays and have a happily ever after or will Heaven and Hell see to it they don’t?

Silent Knight is a standalone dark paranormal novelette that was a part of the O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology. No part of this story has been changed.

Silent Knight Re-Read Review January 2025:

I originally read this King short in the O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology last Xmas and loved it then and I think I might love it even more now.  Ezra and Senon are so amazing together, despite some of the darkness of the story you can't help but cheer them on.  I have no idea if Davidson King ever intends to expand and branch this universe or perhaps connect it to another of her series, if she does I'll be like the family cat poised to pounce on discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning.  If Silent Knight is all we get of Ezra and Senon's world than I will savor it for Xmases and Xmases in July for years to come.

Original O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology Review November 2023:

(from the overall part of the anthology review): "these are dark stories would probably be an understatement.  If you're looking for Hallmark-y, Disneyesque, cute meet, cliche HEA, then this is probably not for you.  If you like creepy horror with your holiday fare then I can't recommend this anthology enough"

I said above that if you're looking for HEA this isn't the book for you but I think Davidson King's entry, Silent Knight(though more of a dark suspense than flat out horror) is probably as close to that HEA label as any horror collection can provide.  Truth is, King's storytelling star shines bright in this perfect blend of dark, dreamy, and delicious.  Destiny and holiday has rarely been darker.

RATING:

The Easter Redemption by VL Locey

Summary:

Laurel Holidays Spring Romance

On a small maple farm in Pennsylvania a man seeking forgiveness is going to find much more than he hoped for.

They say the only place to go from the bottom is up. Frank Fitzgerald Jr. has learned how fast a man can fall from grace. A mere two years ago he was insanely wealthy and the next in line to inherit a multi-million dollar company. Now he’s standing on a dirt road in some hayseed backwoods town with one bag of possessions and a shiny new sobriety coin in his pocket. Not only did he tumble from a lofty perch, he crashed and burned in epic fashion, landing right on his pride and breaking it into tiny bits that he fears he may never be able to glue back together, no matter what his sponsor says.

Knowing he had to start over clean—both spiritually and physically—he goes to his younger brother Decker for help. Their first conversation isn’t pretty. Frank knows he has a lifetime of slights to make amends for. Amazingly, his brother and his husband open up their barn to Frank for free lodging while he sorts out his life. Part of that life is a new job which he finds at the Stallard Maple Farm just across the pond from the farm rescue his brother now calls home. While Frank works among the maples he finds himself drawn to the eldest Stallard sibling, Maalik. A friendship forms when he discovers that Maalik has his own demons to contend with. Frank is soon feeling things for Maalik he has never felt for anyone before, especially a man, but he’s willing to test those wild new feelings even if they scare the sap out of him.

The Easter Redemption is a slow burn, bi-awakening, small town romance with two men working to better themselves, goofy farm critters, stately trees, a tiny welcoming community, family lost and found, and a sweet as syrup happy ending.

Original Review April 2025:

Another lovely tale from VL Locey and her Laurel Holidays series, I haven't read them all but each one I have experienced, entertained from beginning to end and Easter Redemption was no different.  The author wrote this story nearly 2 years ago and I'm not sure how it went unnoticed that long, especially factoring in the Easter element which I don't think is explored nearly enough in fiction.

Having been raised on a farm, I loved seeing how the farm and animals play a part in Frank's starting over and dealing with his recovery.  I say "animals" but it really is down to little Hugo the pig Frank unofficially adopts as his own, or perhaps I should say Hugo is the one who adopted Frank😉.  However you look at it, the connection Frank develops with the little guy is special and the scene where a name is chosen made me laugh at loud.  I had a pet pig when I was about 5 while she grew before taking her to the stockyard and I named her Holly for my favorite doll, Holly Hobby. The relationship Frank has with Hugo brought all those happy memories back.

Some authors might have taken a dark turn putting Frank and Maalik together as they are both recovering and starting over(though in different places in their respective journeys) but the author didn't go there.  Don't get me wrong, had she taken this story on that route, it would have been equally entertaining but it was nice to see a starting over story without a high level of over the top negative baggage.  That statement makes it sound as if the men had it easy, that there journey of healing was all unicorns and rainbows, it certainly wasn't but the author didn't throw in every cliche speed bump and in doing so the reader is more able to connect, relate, and empathize with all those involved.

The Easter Redemption is an entertaining and enjoyable blend of drama, humor, friendship, family, healing, and romance.  Simply put, this spring holiday story is just such a delight.  I look forward to going back and catching up on the author's Laurel Holidays Xmas stories.

RATING:

Jurassic Measures by Davidson King

Summary:

Jason McPherson loves his job and his life. There’s no drama, he has the love of his parents, and an assistant that gives him all the friendship he needs. Yeah, life is good…calm.

That is until Landry Astor storms into his tailor and design shop making demands and unknowingly steals Jason’s heart.

Landry isn’t all he seems to be and soon enough, Jason’s once quiet life turns upside down. It’s going to take some Jurassic measures to make sense out of everything…but that’s okay, because together, they’ll have forever to figure it out.

Jurassic Measures was part of the Cretaceous Crushes Charity Anthology which is now unpublished. This was my contribution to that anthology. Nothing has been added or changed from it’s original version.

Original Review October 2025:

This was originally released as part of the Cretaceous Crushes Charity Anthology(which is no longer available) but I never got an opportunity to read it at the time so when the author released it as a short story, it was completely new to me.  You don't often see, or at least I haven't come across it before, dinosaur shifters in any genre. I imagine in a way that left a pretty shallow pool for the author to dive into and she certainly dived head first filling it with all kinds of unusual awesomeness.

Could Jurassic Measures have been better as a full length novel? Perhaps, but it plays very well as a short novella. World building can be difficult in a short story but Davidson King really paints the picture here letting us know how dino shifters survived all this time.  We get to see how the whole fated mates works when Landry introduces Jason to his parents, in doing this she is able to blend brevity with details. 

I'm going to stop here so as not to spoil anything. I will say this isn't the dark, action-packed suspense stories we tend to associate the author with, is it outside her comfort zone? No, because she has given us lighter stories around the holidays before but just not what she typically creates. You'll laugh, you'll smile, you will definitely want to know more but you don't need to know more to pull you in and want to see the HEA for Jason and Landry. On a personal note, October has been a difficult month for me as it was my first birthday without my mother and she loved Halloween and all the gore and scare that goes with the holiday.  I love the dark stuff, especially this time of year but King's Jurassic Measures was exactly the right amount of lightness I needed.  For that alone I want to send a huge thank you to the author, for that moment of light.

RATING:

Love Story by RJ Scott

Summary:

Harmony Lake

Love wasn’t on Sam Caldwell’s agenda until a city boy with haunted eyes and no coat crashed into his world.

As a fourth-generation maple farmer in Caldwell Crossing, New Hampshire, Sam is rooted in tradition, family, and a quiet life filled with woodsmoke, laughter, and loyal friends. But everything changes when he finds Ben Marshall half-frozen on the side of the road. Ben is sharp, guarded, and running from his past—yet there’s a pull between them that Sam can’t ignore.

Ben never expected to end up in a snowy New Hampshire town, especially not after losing everything in Boston. Forced to leave his career and reputation behind, he retreats to the one safe place left—his great-aunt Harriet’s home in Caldwell Crossing. But safety doesn’t mean peace, and the last thing he needs is to catch feelings for the grumpy, gentle farmer who rescued him.

As winter thaws and maple flows, so does something deeper between Sam and Ben—trust, laughter, and the terrifying possibility of love. But when Ben’s past threatens to drag him back under, can two men who’ve built walls around their hearts find the courage to create something together?

Love Story features a city boy starting over, a maple farmer rooted in tradition, found family, best friends, early mornings that turn into something more, and the kind of love that feels like coming home.

Original Review June 2025:

What a lovely opener to the 4-story multi-author series, Harmony Lake.  From Ben's need to escape legal threats to Sam's unexpected chemistry in the middle of his busiest time during syrup season, Love Story has a little of everything.  Okay, not everything, there's no sci-fi(although there are a few references to his friends' love of Star Wars which only strengthens my love of the group😉), horror, or apocalyptic threats BUT otherwise a little of everything.

Ben's need to leave Boston spoke to my love of mystery.  I won't go into too much of that element, it doesn't play a huge part in a who-done-it sense but we are left wondering what role he'll face in the fraud case he uncovered and watching that play out is perfectly layered into this tale of love and friendship.  If you're at all familiar with RJ Scott's work, you know she's all about the HEA, but she also likes to put her characters through a stress-heavy gauntlet.  Ben is no different, I couldn't help but want to reach inside my kindle and give him the biggest MamaBear hug possible and tell him to have faith, but we just have to let the characters find it out for themselves.

Sam, well, his heart is still feeling the pain of betrayal from his last boyfriend and has no plans to go after love anytime soon.  We all know where that's headed😉.  He may be on the threshold of his busiest season in the syrup business but that doesn't mean his heart won't reach out when Ben enters his life. This may be Ben and Sam's romance but I really love the friendship Sam has with Haider, Conor, and Ryan.  Their scenes may not be large in quantity but they are high in quality and you can just feel their connections to each other throughout the story.

Putting Ben and Sam together is chemistry on fire, their actual first meeting will be a cute meet story for them to share with their loved ones for years to come.  Now it may not have been so cute in the moment, Ben's car going off the road and getting stuck in the snow completely unprepared for the elements and Sam happening on him as he drove home from a night with his buddies, and taking him to the ER, but in the aftermath the cuteness grows.  I really loved Ben's discovery of letters Sam's ancestors wrote, that spoke to my love of genealogy and family history, truth is I wouldn't have minded had there been a little more of it but it's a perfect way for the pair to connect beyond Ben's borderline clumsy-magnet ways.

Whether there is enough humor in Ben and Sam's scenes to label it rom-com or dramedy, or flat out as the title says, Love Story, with the humor being more in the friend scenes, whichever way you view it, it's 150% enjoyable.  Time may not be on my side at the moment to read Haider, Conor, and Ryan's quest to find love, I do look forward to discovering them as they have already earned a spot on my TBR list.

RATING:

The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Some truths can’t be left buried.

The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, there’s a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fate’s been cruel.

A chance meeting with Patrick’s sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his father’s motives and long-unanswered questions around the death of Fergus Jackson. The worst of a group of disreputable pre-war friends, Fergus was a manipulative rake who allegedly fell on his own knife in a training accident. An accident for which Patrick was apparently the only witness.

Leslie’s persuaded to meet Patrick again, and the pair easily fall back into their old dynamic. They uncover connection after surprising connection between their hedonistic old friends and not only Fergus’s murder, but Mr. Cadmore’s abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrick’s bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasn’t Fergus’s killer.

Original Review July 2024:

I'm going to say it: Charlie Cochrane is a Queen of British Mystery.  How she can throw in so many curveballs(sorry I don't know much about Cricket so the sport metaphors, despite being a British mystery will be American😉) and keep everything straight, well no amount of post-it notes cluttering one's laptop can negate the talented storytelling.

I love a well developed amateur sleuthing mystery but I find it rare where both MCs are the amateur which is exactly what Leslie and Patrick are.  Yes, Leslie's reasonably hush hush role on the homefront during the war probably elevates him to semi-amateur but you get the idea.  Trying to decide just what went down when one of their younger years acquaintances died a few years earlier, the old flames hope to repair their friendship while putting their heads together and wrinkle out the truth.  Turns out there appears to be a long list of possibilities with motives considering the dead man's behavior and personality, problem is the list of possibilities with the means to do so is not nearly as long and yet long enough that there is no clear cut without a doubt suspect.  By all accounts Fergus was not the nicest of men but did someone kill him? Was it a training accident? or Was it self-inflicted?  So many questions, will the renewed friends find enough evidence to turn theory into fact and will it be enough to bring the truth out or just enough to satisfy their curiosity?  

These are all questions I won't spoil but boy is it fun riding along on Leslie and Patrick's armchair detecting.

Leslie and Patrick's previous falling out should have been one to easily rectify especially when so many lost so much during the war and made what's truly important first and foremost in one's life.  HOWEVER, stubbornness is a plenty between these two and it takes a phone call or two in subterfuge from Patrick's twin sister, Marianne, to get them face to face.  Sometimes it's that first step that is the hardest and with that out of the way, their chemistry is once again enflamed although both parties(reluctantly yet honestly IMO) decide not to act beyond friendship and detecting until an answer is found or all possibilities have been exhausted.  Certainly doesn't stop Patrick from flirting though😉😉.

Their "friend's"(and I use that termly loosely) death may be the main arc of The Deadliest Fall but Leslie is also dealing with his father having abandoned family life for a monastery with no reason given.  It's the "no reason given" that spurs Leslie into some personal snooping as well.  Will he accept what he finds? Will the answers even be given? And are the two cases connected somehow?  Once again, you have to read yourself to find the answers but I promise you will love every minute of it.

The Deadliest Fall has so much to offer the reader with emotions all over the place.  Some might use the term "convoluted" due to all the questions that keeping popping up but you really can't have an armchair detective story without a certain amount of convulsion, it goes with the territory.  It's how an author manages it that makes it messy or not and trust me Charlie Cochrane, a Queen of British Mystery, presents not a mess in sight.  I was left guessing up until nearly the our-evidence-points-to reveal but even then I had fluttering flags of doubt. As it turns out I was correct in my guessing. Steven Spielberg, while discussing Jaws, said he learned you can only truly shock an audience once but I don't believe that, an author can shock the reader as many times as they like if done properly and Cochrane does it properly.

One last note: I don't often comment on slangs and quotes in a book but I had to in this case.  I've been watching/reading British shows/books most of my life and I gotta say I don't recall ever hearing this one before, "If 'ifs' and 'ans' were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers."  I imagine there are variations of this saying in all parts of the world but here in the US(at least to my knowledge) we say "If 'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts, we'd all have a wonderful Christmas." Just wanted to put that out there and to thank Charlie Cochrane for teaching me something new😉.

RATING:

Silent Knight by Davidson King

EZRA ACKER: AGE TEN 

The first time it happened, I was ten. I was living with the Kimbers, my fifth foster family. I got off the school bus and started walking the five blocks to their house. It wasn’t in a great part of town and, Natalie, my foster-for-now mom, always said to keep my head down and walk fast. So, I did and never had a problem… until today. 

I’d made it three blocks when I crashed into something solid. I fell backwards, my school bag flattened on the ground under me. 

“You should watch where you’re walking.” I didn’t recognize the voice but when I looked up, I did recognize the face. Morris Fieldman. He was sixteen and loved bullying younger kids. He’d never bothered me before but likely because I stayed off his radar. Until now. 

“Sssorry, Morris. I was trying to get home; dinner will be ready soon and I have to be on time.” 

Morris’s laughter was cruel and that was when I noticed two other people with him. Them I didn’t know but it likely didn’t matter. 

“It’s not really your home though is it, Ezra? You don’t have one, or a real family for that matter. Mommy and daddy didn’t want you and left you on the doorstep of a church like an afterschool special. Only, there’s no happily ever after for you, is there?” 

I swallowed down my sobs as Morris taunted me and his friends laughed. When I made to get up, Morris pushed me down with his foot.

“Stay down there, that’s where dogs belong.”

A sound in the alley behind Morris made us all jump and when the three of them turned to see what it was, I didn’t pass up the opportunity. I grabbed my bag and ran faster than I ever had before.

The Easter Redemption by VL Locey

Chapter One 

“Thank you, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the booming exhaust system on the rusty red Studebaker pickup. 

The old man in the John Deere ball cap yelled something at me then sped off, speeding in this instance being a roaring twenty miles per hour. A black ball of choking exhaust exploded out of the rotted muffler. There I stood in the middle of a dirt road, my old Yale duffel bag on my shoulder, hacking up a lung. Thankfully there was a soft breeze moving past and it lifted the fumes away. I stared at the lone mailbox sitting on the right hand side of the road and had to smile a little. The black box sat atop half an old telephone pole, which was about as rural as one could get, you’d think. But no, someone—and I suspected I knew who that someone was—had painted little farm animals on the sides of the battered postal box. 

I stood in the spring sun, chilled in my thin jacket, staring at the black mailbox as if it held some ancient secrets. I even went so far as to open it and stare inside. The damn thing was cavernous. The flag a little weak. There were bills inside waiting to be picked up by the mailman. Mailperson. Postal carrier. Ugh. Being PC was tiring. Life was so much easier when I was cranked up on coke and plastered on Jim Beam. I could just be a raging asshole and everyone was willing to accept it because I was ripped. And since I had been high on something since I was in boarding school, I’d had lots of practice being a raging asshole. Which meant lots of amends to make. Starting with the most important one. 

“You’re stalling,” I said, closed the box, and turned to face the long dirt drive that would lead me to Happy Laurel Farm. Hefting my duffel higher on my shoulder, I took a few steps, pausing at the foot of the drive to cock my head and listen. There was no traffic noise. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a cool wind moving through trees about to bud and the distant blats and moos of farm animals. 

Farm animals. I still could not wrap my head around the fact my younger brother, Decker, lived on a farm. If ever there was a man who was not cut out for farm life it was my baby brother. He was the picture of urban gay chic. Or had been. I’d not seen or spoken to him for close to two years. Fifteen or so months to be precise. A lot had gone down in that time. My brother had left the family business, punched my father in the face—Christ, I wish I had been there to see that—and had moved out here to Hick Town, Pennsylvania, to settle down with a vegan liberal. Of all the things. Father had been outraged. Mother had been mildly upset and so had gone out to get a new lover on the side. Which was how she handled things. Sex and booze to numb the misery of a life unfulfilled. 

Sound familiar, Frank? 

Oh yeah, it really did. The only difference was that Mother had enough sense to keep her addictions well-hidden whereas I kind of made a splash with mine. Maybe splash was the wrong word. More like I did an Icarus and flew so high and close to the sun that my wings melted and I crashed back to earth with such a resounding thud that the tremors were felt from Pittsburgh all the way to a certain resort in Florida where my father had been playing golf and whoring. Oh, sorry, not whoring. Spending time with clients. 

“Whatever,” I mumbled then began the walk up the driveway. Fencing ran along the drive, and several muddy goats came waddling to the woven wire fence to gape at me with their funny goat eyes. They were all colors and incredibly fat. None of them seemed to like me, which was pretty judgmental on their part but, to be fair, I had enjoyed chevon a few times. My lower back and thighs ached. I’d walked for I didn’t know how long to reach the end of this road. Then my cell service died off. I mean, what the hell was wrong with this county? How could there be places in America that didn’t have cell phone service? What the hell was the government spending money on if not for infrastructure? 

Since when do you care about internet service for the rural folk? 

“Point to you,” I mumbled to my inner Frank. Sometimes I really hated my inner Frank. He made me drink. No lie. Of course that was just one of many reasons I soaked in a bottle or sniffed up anything able to be sniffed. Monty, my sponsor, had told me I shouldn’t hate that inner voice as it was my conscience trying to tell me to wake the fuck up. Which, yeah, it was probably that. I’d spent over thirty-five years trying to bury that little shitty whisper inside my head because facing the truth it spoke was simply too damned painful. 

A big black goat trotted up to the fence and made rude noises at me. The spring winds carried a funky musky smell. A stink that had not been there before the big black goat had arrived to flop his lips at me. 

I paused, took a step closer, and stood on this side of the fence, a half-melted bank of snow keeping me from getting any closer. 

“You don’t scare me. I grew up in the Fitzgerald mansion.” I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the goat to reply. He blatted and gave me another round of rubber lips. Then it hit me I was having a conversation with a goat. A. Goat. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I sighed to no-one in particular before stalking back up the drive, my sight touching on the abundance of trees everywhere. Not just pines either. All kinds of trees and big blue skies. What I knew about trees could fit into a thimble. Mr. Willings had taught us trees made oxygen so that was good. And yeah, that was about all I knew about trees. 

My feet ached. They were cold and wet. The walk from the bus depot outside Miller’s Lake had been rough on a body that only knew how to laze around and get glazed like a damn donut. My stomach rumbled at the thought of a doughnut. I’d not eaten since last night when the bus from Charlotte had pulled into Philly and we’d had to change companies. Seemed the big bus lines didn’t travel this far into the boonies so I’d had to hop a smaller bus after a quick stop at a gas station. I’d dropped the last ten bucks to my name to buy a bottle of water and a questionable tuna sandwich that had a blurred best before date on the back. I’d not shit myself on the ride from the City of Brotherly Love to the tiny drop-off by a lake in town, so all was good on that front. 

The back of my neck was sweaty despite the chill in the air. March was iffy still on the east coast. Spring was trying to force its way to the fore but winter wasn’t sure if it was done being a cold-hearted bitch yet. There were signs of both seasons everywhere. Snow plowed up along the drive for instance while a patch of purple crocus pushed through the lingering frost to brighten the otherwise wet and sloppy ground. 

Coming up on the barn, I felt a flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with a lack of food. Decker was somewhere around here with his new husband, Acosta Melios, the owner of the rescue. I’d not been kind to my brother the last time we had spoken. After stopping dead in the center of the drive I stared at the old barn. Red chickens were out in the yard, digging in the mud. A big ginger rooster crowed, the sound carrying down the valley and bouncing off the thawing mountains. It really was quite nice here. I situated my duffel bag nervously, wondering if I’d be greeted by a loving family member or a shotgun. It could go either way. Rural folks were known to have guns for hunting and shooting bears. I threw a fast look around at all the woodland surrounding me. Shit. I’d not thought about bears as I’d been wandering along country roads with no means of self-defense besides half a stale tuna sandwich. I should hang onto that. I could use it as a means to distract the bear or clobber it over the head, although the bread was too soggy to make a good bludgeon. 

“You lost, friend?” a man called from the door of the barn, shaking me from my bear concerns. 

I blinked and took a slow step forward. This man had longish hair, a lean face, and was eying me with careful concern. I’d seen him on the rescue website standing with my brother, arm-in-arm, with a goat in a racing harness or some sort of contraption. They’d both appeared to be crazy in love and I’d felt a tiny thrum of pleasure knowing my brother was happy. God knows I’d not done much to bring him any joy. 

Amends, Frankie. We’re here to make amends and find a better life. A clean life. 

There were times my inner Frank was okay. Like right now. One day at a time. Right. I could do this. 

“No, I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Decker?” That made him tense up just a bit. “Decker Fitzgerald? Well, I guess he’s not using that last name anymore not that I blame him.” 

“What do you want with him?” my brother-in-law asked, folding his arms across a green and blue checkered flannel shirt. 

I mulled that over before speaking. Something that rehab and AA had been quite helpful in teaching me. Actions and words matter so think before speaking or doing. I bit back the snarky answer that popped to life on my tongue. It was a tacky quip so it really didn’t need to see the light of day. I shoved my hands into my front pockets to find my hard-earned tokens. Rubbing them when I felt anxious helped me center. Centering. Also a new thing rehab and group meetings had taught me. You’d think a man with an Ivy League education would be super smart, but nope. 

“I’m his brother,” I called as I held my ground. 

A tractor sat by the barn; some big cart thing backed into the second floor. The smell of animals was growing richer the closer I got to the building. 

“I know who you are,” Acosta shouted back, his legs now braced for a scuffle maybe? Yeah, probably. I sighed but held my ground. 

“I’d like to talk to him if I could,” I yelled as a cat and duck walked past, the duck giving me a dark look. Who knew ducks could glare? 

“I’m not sure that you really should,” Acosta called, his tone firm. “From what I hear you’ve been nothing but a rotten bastard to my husband for most of his life.” 

“Yeah, I have been,” I replied, fingers moving over my tokens so quickly they were starting to warm from the friction. “And I want to make amends. I need to. It’s part of the journey.” 

Acosta eyeballed me just like that big black goat had. He began shaking his head when Decker walked out of the barn, cradling a tiny baby goat.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Decker said, the little brown goat in his arms trying to suckle on his chin. It was really pretty cute and I wasn’t an animal person. “Why are you here, Frank?” 

That was a long and heavy tale to tell. One that required a good stiff…ginger ale. 

“Because I’m working a twelve-step program and making amends to those I have wronged is the ninth step,” I replied candidly. No point in trying to gild the lily. The whole world had seen my descent from the heavens. Might as well let my brother in on my plummet. Decker, Acosta, and the baby goat were staring at me, weighing my words. I blew out a breath. “I know my addictions and actions had a bad effect on you. I have a list in my bag of things that I want to apologize for, if you’ll let me?” 

Decker shared a look with his husband. I waited, trembling inside, praying my brother would be the better man and let me talk with him. Just for an hour. Then I’d leave if that was what he wanted. 

“Follow me to the cabin. It’s time for Prissy’s bottle,” Decker said then walked off, following a muddy path leading away from the barn. 

I let out a huge breath. Acosta glowered at me as I shuffled along behind my brother. I kept my eyes on Decker’s stiff back as we made our way to their home while I rehearsed my speech in my head. The list of apologies in my duffel was as long as my arm.

Jurassic Measures by Davidson King

PROLOGUE

Deep breaths.

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.

Okay, I do love it, but honestly, my father is like a rabid dictator. He doesn’t let me be my own creator or have my own ideas.

Ever since I was a little boy, all I ever wanted was to be like my father. He wasn’t just an amazing tailor, he designed suits, gowns, and anything the human body could wear. When I was fifteen, I had the nerve to ask him why his shop was called McPherson Tailors and not Tailor and Designs? He smacked me on the back of the head and explained he wasn’t some namby-pamby designer. Which also told me he had no idea what namby-pamby meant or that designers were artists.

When I graduated high school I still very much wanted to work beside my father. I truly believed I could convince him to expand on the title and maybe even travel.

At twenty-one, I took the risk and asked, “Maybe we should travel and promote the shop and your…our work?”

Another slap upside the head and a stern, “People come to me not the other way around.” At least he didn’t say namby-pamby.

Now, I’m thirty-three, my father’s arthritis has slowly been getting the better of him and he’s coming up on his seventieth birthday. Many nights as we closed, he’d announce he’d be retiring and leaving all this to me one day. A part of me longed for the day I could turn McPherson’s into something more, but on the other hand, I would miss working with the old man.

As we locked up one clear and still brisk March evening, my father gripped my arm and turned me to face him.

“Jason.”

His eyes were full of worry and suddenly I was no longer chilly, but instead sweating. “What’s wrong?”

He snorted and shook his head. “Nothing is wrong. I wanted to tell you all day, but I kept stalling.” His sigh was heavy, weary. “I’m officially retiring. My hands…” The way he held them up, visibly stiff and slightly swollen at the joints, it was easy to see he was in pain. “You’ve had a vision for this shop and I’ve held you back.” I had my own set of keys to the store but he handed me his. Symbolism maybe?

“Your time has come.”

“Dad, I…”

“You’re so talented, Jason. You’ll bring McPherson Tailors into the future, and I…” He wiggled his fingers. “I’ll rest.”

My heart ached realizing this was the last time I’d be closing the shop with my dad, and at the same time excitement bubbled in the pit of my belly.

“I love you, Dad.”

His smile was wide and bright and when he laughed, it was as contagious as ever. Yeah, he was a dictator of his craft, but one hell of a father.

“I love you too, Son. Now let’s go home. Your mom told me I wouldn’t get any pot roast if I didn’t finally tell you tonight.”

“When were you supposed to tell me?” I quirked a brow.

He shrugged. “Maybe two months ago.”

“Jesus,” I mumbled under my breath. “Let’s get you home then. I’ll have some pot roast with you before I go to my place.”

Love Story by RJ Scott

Chapter One

Sam

Samuel ‘Sam’ Caldwell

I WAS LATE, which was unheard of for me. Ryan was typically the late one, losing track of time when he was buried in one of his projects, not me. But something had gone sideways at the farm—a busted sap line, of all things, just when I thought I’d finished the week’s maintenance—and by the time I’d wrangled it back into working order, I was thirty minutes behind schedule.

The snow fell thick and fast as I trudged down the narrow path leading to the trailhead. The Caldwell covered bridge loomed ahead, its red timbers dusted with white, picture-perfect in the way it always was after a storm.

And there they were, waiting for me under the old sugar maple at the trail’s entrance. The three men—my best friends—were bundled up against the cold, hats pulled low, scarves wrapped high, like a mismatched set of snowmen. Conor was the tallest, and his firefighter’s build was unmistakable, even under layers of winter gear. Haider was easy to spot, too, bright red gloves flashing as he gestured at something Ryan had said. And Ryan—well, our resident craftsman was easy to pick out because he was standing a little off to the side, examining a branch of the tree they were under as if imagining the things he could make with it.

“You’re late,” Conor called out when he saw me, his grin wide enough to be heard in his voice.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I shot back, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets as I approached. “I didn’t think Ryan would be on time.”

Ryan glanced up; his face half-hidden behind his scarf. “I set an alarm. Haider said he’d kill me if I were late for his birthday again.”

“Damn right,” Haider said, crossing his arms and squinting at me. “And you—Mr. Reliable—what’s your excuse?”

“Farm stuff,” I muttered, kicking at the snow. “A line broke, and I had to fix it.”

Conor’s eyebrows shot up. “In this weather? You really love those trees, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” I said, rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“Come on,” Haider said, gesturing toward the trail. “It’s my birthday, and I’m not spending it standing here in the snow waiting for you to explain your maple emergencies.”

We fell into step together, the four of us walking along the familiar path. It was tradition to meet here on our birthdays and take this walk. From the trailhead, we’d follow the bend in the path curving through the woods, past the covered bridge, and loop back to town. I didn’t know who had suggested it first, but it stuck. Some traditions were worth keeping.

Haider’s cheeks were red—not just from the cold but from his excitement when he told us one of his dating stories. He was marching ahead, his red-gloved hands flailing as he talked, and Ryan and Conor were already howling with laughter. I had no idea what I’d missed, but I didn’t want to be left out. I really hated being late.

“Wait, wait, start over,” I called, catching up to them. “What happened?”

Haider spun around, walking backward to ensure I saw his full level of exasperation. “Okay, so I matched with this guy on the app—Benji. Cute. Seemed normal, you know? We decided to meet up at that coffee shop by the bookstore. You know the one.”

“Sure,” I said, grinning. This was already promising.

“So, I get there first, right? Order my latte, sit down, whatever. He shows up, and—” Haider paused, throwing his hands up dramatically. “The first thing out of his mouth is, ‘Wow, you look taller in your photos.’”

Conor let out a loud laugh. “Classic. Always a great start to a date.”

“Right?” Haider groaned. “And I’m just sitting there, thinking, What the hell do I even say to that? So, I’m like, ‘Uh, okay, thanks?’ And he shrugs like it’s no big deal. Strike one.”

“Wait, wait,” Ryan interrupted, grinning. “Was he shorter than you?”

“Of course, he was shorter than me,” Haider said, gesturing to himself. “And I’m not even that tall! Anyway, we’re making awkward small talk, and I’m trying to steer the conversation toward literally anything normal. Then the waitress brings his drink, and he looks her dead in the eye and says, ‘Thanks, but I don’t tip.’”

A collective groan went up from all of us.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”

“Oh, yes,” Haider said, eyes wide with mock horror. “I wanted to crawl under the table. The waitress just gave him this look like, ‘Really?’ And then I ended up tipping extra because I was so embarrassed.”

“Strike two,” Conor said, smirking.

“Strike two and three,” Haider shot back. “But no, it gets worse. He starts talking about how he’s ‘working on a screenplay’—because of course he is—and goes on this whole rant about how no one understands his vision and how he has this ‘intense connection’ to cats.”

Ryan frowned. “Like, he likes cats. That’s not bad.”

“No, no,” Haider said, waving a finger at him. “Not like he ‘likes cats.’ Like he thinks he was a cat in a past life. He literally said, and I quote, ‘I think my soul resonates with feline energy.’”

I almost choked on my laughter. “What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea!” Haider threw up his hands. “I sat there, nodding like an idiot because I didn’t want to be rude. But then—then!—he says, ‘Do you ever feel like people just don’t understand your meows?’”

Conor lost it, doubling over with laughter. Ryan wasn’t far behind, his laugh so loud it startled a flock of birds out of a nearby tree. I couldn’t help myself, either. I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

“So, what did you do?” I managed, wiping my eyes.

“What could I do?” Haider said, shaking his head. “I excused myself to the bathroom, told the waitress good luck, and walked out. Blocked him on the app before I even reached my car.”

“You abandoned him?” Conor said, grinning. “Cold.”

“Oh, please.” Haider snorted. “The guy deserved it. And I’m pretty sure the waitress gave me a thumbs-up on my way out.”

“See, this is why I don’t date,” I said, still laughing. “It’s too dangerous out there.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Maple Boy,” Haider shot back. “At least I’m trying. What about you?”

I shrugged, dodging the question. “I’m not the one resonating with feline energy.”

The teasing continued as we walked, the cold forgotten for a while as Haider’s disastrous date story turned into the best entertainment we’d had in weeks. I should have expected nothing less from him. It wouldn’t be a Haider birthday without a story like this one.

“Thirty,” Haider groaned, dragging the word out as if it were a life sentence. He kicked at a clump of snow on the path, sending it flying. “How am I thirty and still single? It’s pathetic. I mean, come on. I’m a nice guy, right?”

He looked at us, waiting for validation. Conor did this weird laugh-snort thing, while Ryan stayed quiet, biting his lip as if he were trying to decide how serious he needed to be.

“You’re a great guy,” I said, rolling my eyes at his theatrics. “But maybe tone down the pity party. It’s only been your birthday for fifteen hours, so the day is young.”

“Fifteen hours is plenty of time for introspection,” Haider shot back, hands on his hips. “I just think it’s ridiculous. I own my own business. I’m charming. I’m romantic. And I make the best damn chocolate in this town. Why am I still single?”

Ryan, who’d been lagging behind to brush snow off his boots, caught up. “I’d date you just for the chocolate,” he said, deadpan, his breath visible in the cold air.

We all stopped walking for a second, staring at him, and then burst out laughing. Haider crossed his arms, feigning offense. “Just for the chocolate? Wow. Real flattering, Ryan.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Ryan replied, shrugging with a grin. “Your truffles are, like, next-level. And you’re not bad-looking, I guess.”

“‘Not bad-looking’, he guesses,” Haider muttered, rolling his eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Ryan said, smirking. “But for real, stop beating yourself up. You’ll find someone. Probably someone who’ll also date you just for the chocolate.”

Haider huffed but didn’t say anything, and Conor clapped him on the back, almost sending him stumbling into the snow. “Ryan’s got a point, though,” Conor said. “You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, we’ll keep eating your chocolate and pretending we’re supportive.”

I chuckled, falling into step with them again as the trail stretched ahead. For all his complaining, Haider wasn’t wrong. He was a nice guy—one of the best, actually. And yeah, his chocolate was amazing, but we all stuck around because he made life better, even when he was being dramatic. Someone would figure that out eventually. They’d be lucky to.

“Anyway,” Haider said with a grin, and I just knew what was coming. “I’m not the one who made a pact with my best friend to marry him at thirty.” He whirled in the snow and pointed at me, and then Conor. I groaned. I’d been drunk. Scratch that—both Conor and I had been drunk. We exchanged eye-rolls.

“Your birthday’s up next, Joker,” Conor said.

Joker. Yeah, because my birthday is on April 1, and isn’t that the most fantastic nickname ever for an April Fool’s baby?

Not.

I glanced at him, my stomach tightening. “Yeah. It’s coming, and May the fourth’s not far behind, Jedi.”

The pact we’d made years ago, half-joking and half-serious, suddenly felt as if it had claws, digging in the closer we got to thirty. And I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the idea of going through with it or that part of me that didn’t hate the thought of not worrying about finding a date when I had more important things to think about.

Like the farm.

Haider clapped his hands. “Sam-you-ell and Con-noor sitting in a tree—”

I pushed Haider into the snow, Conor sat on him, and Ryan lost his shit, laughing so loud he was bent at the waist.

My friends.

I loved them all.

We finally let a grumpy, icy Haider up, and snow fell around us, muffling everything but the sound of Haider’s cursing. Which didn’t last long because he was perennial sunshine, and he laughed as he regaled us with another one of his dating horrors.

Another year, another birthday, and the same thought gnawed at the back of my mind—how did thirty sneak up on me so damn fast?

“I might have a new guy to look at anyway,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated nonchalance.

Conor groaned. “Here we go.”

Ryan, always the slower one to pick up on Haider’s antics, tilted his head. “A new guy? Where?”

“In town,” Haider said smugly, savoring the moment like one of his chocolates. “Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew is moving to Caldwell Crossing.”

Harriet was the town librarian and ran the local crafting group, which meant she heard and saw everything and discussed it with her friends while knitting. She also frightened me at school whenever I was late returning a book.

“Harriet has a nephew?” I repeated, frowning.

“Great-nephew,” Haider corrected. “Apparently…” He paused, letting the word linger in the air as if he were announcing the winner of some dramatic reality show. “He’s super-sweet and cute, coming here to unwind after some big-city burnout. Boston, I believe.” He halted abruptly, planting his hands on his hips like a diva mid-performance. Snow swirled around us, but Haider was in his element. “And I call dibs on the new guy in town.”

Ryan groaned, throwing his head back. “You can’t call dibs on a person, Haider. That’s not how it works.”

Haider spun on his heel to face us, waving dismissively. “Of course I can. It’s efficient. Saves everyone time and energy.”

I smirked. “He might not even be into you, Haider,” I pointed out. “You ever think of that?”

“And he might not be into guys at all,” Conor added, shrugging.

Haider gasped as if we’d just insulted his very existence. “You don’t think so?” he said, gesturing to himself with a dramatic flourish. He tossed his head back, flipping an imaginary mane of hair. “I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t be into this?”

I snorted, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Haider said, flashing me a grin. “But seriously, Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew—Ben, I think?—sounds like a catch. He’s a big-city escapee, and she says he’s cute, but I bet he’s all broody and sad, but in a sweet way. I’m into it.”

“You’ve met him then.”

“No, but Ben is a sexy name, right?”

“So, based on a name, you’re already planning your future together,” Ryan said dryly, brushing snow from his coat.

“Someone has to plan,” Haider retorted. “Otherwise, how will it happen?”

We all laughed, the sound echoing through the snowy forest. Haider’s theatrics were nothing new, but they made our meetups feel special. Still, as we continued walking, I couldn’t help but wonder about this guy Ben. Burnout, Harriet’s family—he didn’t seem like someone who’d fit into Haider’s usual circle.

Not that I cared. I didn’t. Really.

We split up at the trail’s end. “Don’t forget my presents at the party,” Haider called after us.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Conor teased. “Deal with it.”

Haider rolled his eyes but grinned as he turned toward the parking lot. I watched the others go, their laughter fading into the distance as the snow muffled the world around me. I tucked my hands into my pockets and headed back to my truck, the thought of home pulling at me. I had so much to do today, which wouldn’t be achieved by hanging around here.

First, I needed to stop at Lakeside Inn, with its weathered stone facade and green shutters—venue for Haider’s party later. The inn sat nestled beside the lake, where the frozen water stretched smooth as glass mirroring the dark clouds in the overcast sky. I stayed long enough to drop off maple products for their guest baskets. Then, it was back to the farm.

The drive was quiet, and there was a stillness around me that could allow me to let my mind wander if I wasn’t careful. Snow still fell, light and steady, blanketing the trees and fields on either side of the road. The fencing running along the edge of our property was in my sight when I noticed it—a car pulled off to the side of the road and half-hidden by the snow.

I eased off the gas, my grip tightening on the wheel. It could’ve been abandoned, maybe left behind when the late winter storm rolled in over the weekend. But something about the angle—its nose tilted forward—didn’t sit right.

I pulled over, my tires crunching over the compacted snow as I flicked on my hazards and killed the engine. The icy wind cut through my coat when I stepped out, biting at my cheeks and numbing my fingers. The car before me had seen better days—a battered scarlet Prius with a front end half-buried in a slushy mix of mud and snow. A layer of frost and grime dulled its paint, and as I approached, the wind whipped around me, the snowflakes stinging like tiny needles.

Leaning closer, I squinted through the frosted driver’s side window, my breath fogging the glass.

There was someone inside.

A man slumped over the wheel, his short dark hair sticking up in uneven tufts. For a second, my stomach dropped. He wasn’t moving, and for a heartbeat, I thought—

I knocked on the window hard enough to startle myself. “Hey! You okay in there?”

The figure shifted, groaning as he turned his head toward me. Relief hit me fast and sharp. He was alive, thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” I knocked again, this time with less force, my voice cutting through the muffling quiet of the snow.

The man blinked, his jade-green eyes glassy, as he tried to focus on me. His face was pale, and his lips were tinged with a bluish hue that didn’t look right. He squinted as if it took effort to lift his head, his breath fogging the window, and then he opened his eyes wider as he tried to focus on me and failed.

“Hold on,” I said, more to myself than him, as I yanked at the car door. It was locked, of course, and I tapped on the window. “Hey, unlock the door if you can.”

His hand fumbled for the lock, shaking as he managed to hit the button. The door gave a click, and I pulled it open, the cold air rushing into the small space. He shivered, and that was when I realized how badly off he was. He had no coat, just a thin hoodie and jeans, and with the engine off, he was sitting in an icebox. His hands were bare, his fingers trembling on the steering wheel.

“Shit, should I try to move you? What if your neck…” I reached in to touch his shoulder, and he winced. “I need to call paramedics,” I told him, but more for myself. “What the hell are you doing out here dressed like that?” I asked, crouching down to get a better look at him. My tone was sharper than I intended, but I was rattled. He didn’t answer. He leaned back against the seat and rolled his neck—okay then, no neck injury. Or would he still move if he was paralyzed?

“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm. “Stay there, and I’ll get a blanket.”

I headed to my truck, scrambling up the small bank, but a noise behind me—a groan—had me turning back—the idiot had climbed out of the car and fallen to his knees in the snow.

“Jesus… what are you… We need to get you somewhere warm. Can you walk?”

He shook his head a little, his gorgeous eyes drifting shut.

“Hey, no. No sleeping. Come on.” I slid an arm under his body to support him. He was too light, worryingly so, and his legs refused to cooperate as he staggered against me. His breath hitched, and for a moment, I feared he might pass out again.

“Easy,” I said, practically carrying him to my truck. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t planned to end up here, not in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. And judging by his state—pale, shivering, a bump rising on his head—he wouldn’t last much longer in this weather if I didn’t do something.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice steady despite the growing knot of worry in my chest.

He groaned, his voice barely above a whisper. “Huh.”

“Your name?”

He closed his eyes, and I poked him. “Open your eyes!” I ordered, and he blinked at me. “What’s your name?”

“B-b-Ben,” he managed. At least he was coherent.

“Okay, Ben,” I said, glancing at him as I reached into the back seat and grabbed the emergency blanket I always kept there. He was so small, curled in on himself, his breath coming in shallow puffs of white. He blinked at me, green eyes bright with emotion and it struck me like a fist to the chest.

“You’re safe now,” I murmured, buckling him into the passenger seat and wrapping the blanket around him. My fingers brushed his as I tucked the edges in, and I felt how cold he was—too cold. His trembling only worsened, and something fierce and protective rose inside me.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the heating controls as I blasted warm air into the cab. Was that the right thing to do? It wasn’t as if I was stopping to consult the internet. The vents roared to life, and I adjusted them to point toward him. He shivered harder, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, his teeth chattering.

“Hang in there, Ben,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I reversed onto the road and focused on steering us back to solid ground.

As the truck found traction, I glanced at him again. His head lolled against the seat, the bump on his forehead looked worse out from beneath the shadows of the pine trees lining the road. I debated my options. I could take him to my parents’ place—Mom would know what to do. She’d fuss over him, get him warm, and ensure he was okay. But that bump on his head… What if it was more serious? What if he needed more help than Mom’s fussing and hot soup could provide?

I decided before I could second-guess myself. I tightened my grip on the wheel and turned onto the main road, heading straight for the hospital. The snow continued to fall thick and fast, but the thought of getting Ben somewhere safe kept me focused.

“Almost there,” I said, more to myself than to him as I pressed the gas pedal gently, the truck humming steadily beneath us. He didn’t respond, his head lolling again, but his breathing was steady, and that was enough to keep me going.

I glanced at him one more time, my chest tightening at how vulnerable he looked, swaddled in the blanket, small and fragile in my truck. Whatever had brought him here or left him like this didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting him to safety.

He was mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out at first. Then bits and pieces made sense—a name—Harriet.

And he said he was Ben?

I put two and two together—was this Harriet’s great nephew—big-city-burnout Ben?

Too much of a coincidence not to be.

If it was him, he’d picked one hell of a way to make an entrance.

The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane

Chapter One

Hampshire, 1947

“Come back, you menace!” Leslie Cadmore broke into a run, but his dog was fleeter of foot than him and absolutely determined, it appeared, to stay at a distance from him. He shouldn’t have let the hound off the lead, although wasn’t it easy to be wise after the event? “Max! To heel.”

Leslie might as well have tried to catch the wind in his cap. The black Labrador was evidently under the impression that this was an incredibly enjoyable game, given the way he repeatedly looked back to encourage him to come closer, before setting off again. Thank God the common was wide, provided good visibility and was always kept clear of livestock at this time of year.

“Max! If you don’t come here, so help me, I’ll—” He never managed to finish the threat, a pair of young women having come into sight. They’d rounded a stand of trees and would soon be within earshot. Damn it.

The dog, still capering about, spotted the newcomers and made for them, slowing to a respectable trot and no doubt putting on his most friendly expression, the devious little sod. The swing of his tail gave every indication of a happy, amenable hound.

“You swine,” Leslie muttered, annoyed that the women had clearly worked the kind of magic he couldn’t, although grateful that Max’s interest in making new friends might allow him to be put back on the lead.

By the time Leslie reached them, Max had transformed into the most well-behaved pet a man could wish to own, sitting compliantly at the women’s feet and letting himself be stroked.

“I’m so sorry.” Leslie raised his cap. “He’s such a pest. Oh.” He paused, breaking into a grin and holding out his hand towards the taller of the women. “I didn’t recognise you, Marianne. How lovely to see you again.”

Marianne warmly clasped his hand in both of hers. “I thought it was you, Leslie, although this fellow made me think I had to be mistaken. Where’s Towser?”

“Gone to his long home, I’m afraid. Four years ago.” He turned to the other woman, who was owed an explanation. “He was my retriever, Miss . . .?”

“Geraldine Simpson.” Marianne’s friend extended her hand. “So pleased to meet you. I’ve heard about Towser already and the fun you all used to have walking him on the common, although Marianne told me less about his owner.”

“She would.” Marianne Sibley had always given the outward impression she was fonder of Towser than she’d been of him, although for a while Leslie had suspected that had borne an element of subterfuge. “I’m far less interesting than my dogs. Leslie Cadmore, late of this parish and a very old friend of the family Sibley.”

“Your mother still lives here, I believe?” Geraldine made such a contrast to Marianne. Compact where her friend was willowy; cheery faced where Marianne always seemed so cool and aloof; brightly dressed in contrast to the autumnal shades the other young woman had always favoured. Leslie had valued his friend’s calmness in those younger days and how different she was to many of the local young women.

“Mother does live here,” he replied. “In Larkspur House, where I was born and grew up. Marianne knows the place well. Do you remember the tennis parties?”

“I do. Towser always had to be tied up, poor lamb, because he wanted to join in. I hope this chap is better behaved.” Marianne bent to pat Max, who was wearing a saintly expression.

“He’s an absolute scoundrel, although I couldn’t guess how he’d conduct himself at a tennis match, as he’s never had the opportunity to experience one. He’s a town dog, Miss Simpson, so doesn’t know country manners.” Strange, though, that Marianne wasn’t aware of what had happened to Max’s predecessor, because Leslie would have expected her and his mother to pass the time of day on occasions. Had the Sibleys also moved away—his mother hadn’t mentioned it, if so—or was there something else that had prevented the doings of Leslie Cadmore being passed on to her? And Geraldine knowing that Mrs. Cadmore was still a local proved she must have been discussed. Marianne’s expression was no help, her face, as it had been from a child, proving unreadable.

“Did I hear you calling him Max?” Geraldine asked.

“Yes. After a distant cousin who once came to visit Larkspur with his family. It’s proved an apt name.”

Marianne burst out laughing. “I remember him. He was what my mother would call a spoiled brat. If he was my child, he’d have spent more time confined to his room than out of it. Any idea what he’s doing now, Leslie?”

“Working his way through the ranks at Scotland Yard, believe it or not. Perhaps he’s seen the light, or it’s a case of poacher turned gamekeeper.”

“He could be paying off the sins of his childhood. All I have to do is think of him pulling my pigtails and my scalp hurts. Worse than your brother was, Geraldine.”

“Oh, George isn’t that bad. Settling down with Victoria and finding himself articled has bridled any wild tendencies.” Geraldine cast her friend a sidelong glance that could only be described as sly. “Like Patrick.”

“How is your brother, Marianne?” Leslie had anticipated Patrick would be mentioned sooner or later and was pleased he hadn’t had to raise the topic. Despite being twins, Patrick and Marianne were as different in personalities as any siblings could be. Chalk and cheese didn’t come near it.

“Working too hard. Throws all of his time into his practice.” She patted the dog’s head. “He’d like you, boy. Prefers his patients with a bit of character.”

Leslie nodded. Patrick had always liked dogs to be dogs and not pampered lap pets. He’d also appeared to prefer animals to the majority of humans. “You can trust them,” he’d say, “unlike much of the human species.” Even as a child, Patrick had seemed to be a veterinarian in the making. He’d no doubt have a successful practice and that wouldn’t simply be a testament to his skills or training. Patrick had the same lean, dark, handsome looks his sister was blessed with. Looks that would see a stream of female clients bringing their pampered pooches to his door.

“You’re right about the hard work. He never seems to be available, that’s certain.” Geraldine’s voice bore a distinct hint of annoyance. “My mother has invited him to a number of events, but he pleads pressure of time. She’s rather given him up as a lost cause.”

“Many people have.” Marianne tossed her head.

“He’ll settle down one day,” Leslie said, not sure that he believed that any more than Patrick’s sister would do. They both knew him too well. Had known him, in Leslie’s case, given how long it was since they’d last spoken. Suddenly, Leslie was filled with a fleeting memory of the three of them as children, the last time they played hide and seek: him, Marianne, Patrick, all of them around twelve years of age. She’d said afterwards they were getting too old for such childish things, possibly because she’d taken umbrage at Patrick being so slow at finding her. Best not to mention that, since it probably still rankled, and the day itself had ended sadly, with a tramp being found dead of exposure in the church porch. Mr. Cadmore had been called on to handle the affair, being churchwarden and with the vicar away on holiday. Still, such rare instances apart, those had generally been very happy days.

“Give my very best to your mother. I do feel guilty for not having kept in touch with her as I should.” Marianne fixed her eyes on Max. “Like you, Leslie, I don’t get down here as often as I would like.”

That provided a partial answer to some of his questions, although moving away from an area didn’t mean she couldn’t send a letter if she really wanted to. Perhaps, like Patrick, Marianne was simply busy. Leslie’s mother had told him that she worked as a legal secretary in Winchester, and he’d assumed—evidently mistakenly—that she travelled there from the Sibley home.

“I will pass on your regards, with pleasure. Are you here for long?” Leslie added. His mother might be pleased to have Marianne over for tea in order to talk over old times.

“Until Monday morning, when my nose goes firmly back to the grindstone. Albeit returning to work will make a pleasant escape from Father’s hunting stories. His enthusiasm hasn’t dimmed over the years.” Marianne gave the dog a final stroke, then took her friend’s arm. “We must get back. Terrible trouble if we come in late for luncheon.”

“Blame me and my wretched hound.” Leslie tipped his cap again. “Nice to have met you, Geraldine. Fond regards to your parents, Marianne, and to your scapegrace of a brother.”

“I’ll tell them all that I spoke to you. Although I’d always assumed you’d have kept in touch with Patrick.” Marianne waved her hand airily. “It shows how mistaken we can be.” She set off slowly, pausing after a few steps to turn and say, “It really is lovely to see you again. We shouldn’t have let it be so long. All of us.”

“Indeed.” Leslie watched the women go, momentarily unable to move himself and not only because he was thinking about the assumption Marianne had made about him and Patrick keeping in touch. Her gait bore the same easy grace as her brother’s, bringing to mind the last time Leslie had seen him. At Waterloo station. Walking away and out of Leslie’s life.

 

“We’re back,” Leslie called, entering the hall of Larkspur House and letting Max off the lead from which he was clearly anxious to be freed.

“In the drawing room, dear.” His mother’s voice sounded as sweetly as a woman’s half her age.

Alexandra Cadmore was still a handsome woman, despite the events of the past few years. Not for her, however, the lot of so many of her friends during wartime, a telegram bringing the news no wife or mother would wish to receive. Leslie had been based at home, doing something he could never divulge the details of, apart from hinting that it had been vitally important. “Logistical and extremely boring if crucial to the war effort” was how he’d described his work, and that was what his mother had told her friends. He wasn’t convinced she believed the “boring” part, although she’d always kept up the pretence. So, he’d remained physically safe, returning to civilian life tired but intact, if a touch emotionally battered.

It was his father, Jerome Cadmore, who’d been torn from her and not by death. Unless finding a vocation and entering a Benedictine monastery could be defined as crossing into—or having one foot on the doorstep of—one’s eternal rest. It was marginally better, she’d confessed to Leslie when the news had broken, than his having run away with a WAAF, which had happened to one of her old school friends. Worse in some ways, though, because anybody could understand the attractions of a woman in uniform; the attractions of God weren’t so obvious. It had been the third year of the war, so Leslie hadn’t been on hand much to give her support, but she’d coped, as she always did.

“Did you have a nice walk?” His mother glanced up from her knitting.

“Very, apart from Max exhibiting wanderlust. I ran across Marianne, out taking the air with one of her pals. I didn’t realise she no longer lived here with her parents.” Leslie flopped down into his favourite chair.

“I’m sure I told you. I daresay you weren’t listening at the time.” She grinned. “How is she?”

“Not a jot different from how she was at nineteen. Or indeed nine. I was surprised that you haven’t kept in touch with her.”

“I see her parents at church. They keep me abreast of all things Sibley. Marianne’s doing splendidly at work and has a little flat of her own, now.” She paused to count her stitches. “They worry about her living alone, but that’s a cross all parents bear. Which friend was with her?”

“A girl called Geraldine something-or-other. Simpkins. Simpson. Max was most taken with them both.” The dog, who’d sprawled himself on the fireside rug, glanced up at the mention of his name. “Thank goodness they came along or I’d still have been out on the common, trying to get this wretch back on his lead.”

“Marianne always had a knack with animals. Her father’s daughter, every bit, although she’s a better hand with a rod and fly than he is.”

Leslie chuckled. Mr. Sibley had been continually vexed at the fact. “She’s better at taking a trout than most of us. Some zoologist chap once told me that women have a natural unfair advantage when fishing. A natural aroma they produce that attracts their prey.”

“Does it work with men, dear? Is that why some women appear to be irresistible?” She held her handiwork up to the light, nodding approvingly at it before resuming knitting. “Although in Marianne’s instance, I’d say it’s likely a case of her not rising to the male fly. Not yet, anyway.”

Leslie wasn’t sure she ever would. Not every mare had a hankering for the stallion.

“Should we invite her and her friend to tea today?” She continued, with an air that was a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing. Was this a repeat of the getting-my-son-in-a-room-with-eligible-women ruse? “I’m sure that young Edwin would take an invitation across, on his bicycle. Would sixpence be over-generous as payment?”

“I couldn’t say, not having a housekeeper’s son to run errands for me and so being oblivious to the going rate.” It wasn’t spoken unkindly: Mrs. Edwards was an absolute treasure, a war widow without whom the running of Larkspur House would no doubt grind to a halt. Leslie’s mother was lucky to have her and to be able to keep her. At least his father had only dedicated himself to God and not included his considerable worldly wealth, so his wife had been left with enough to live comfortably.

“But should I invite her? I noticed that expression of disdain at the suggestion, dear.” How his mother could have seen any expression on Leslie’s face, given the way her eyes were fixed on her knitting needles, was a mystery of the arcane maternal arts.

“I wasn’t aware of feeling disdain. Perhaps it was indigestion. Invite her by all means. It’s not like she’ll have that rogue of a brother with her, to drop a teacup or trip over the rug.” Leslie wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to mention Patrick. Maybe it was simply to divert his mother from any further discussion of Marianne and her matrimonial prospects. It was a topic she’d aired on many an occasion over the years, and one that had subtly featured Leslie as a possible candidate for the woman’s affections, although not so often recently. Could this be her idea of reviving a notion that was always doomed to fail?

“Patrick was certainly the clumsiest child I ever met. He must have grown out of it, or else he’d not have anyone bringing their animals to him. With the exception of women of my age who should know better.” There was very little that escaped the notice of Leslie’s mother, despite the fact that she didn’t do much socially anymore, outside of the church or the local causes she supported. “Is he staying with his parents too?”

“Not that I’m aware of, although to be honest I didn’t ask Marianne the question.” Nor had she offered the information. “I don’t think he works locally.”

“He’s based in Surrey, I believe. Near Epsom, so he can work with horses as well as his beloved dogs. I’d have thought you’d have known that.” That remark was evidently worthy of a direct glance, over the top of her spectacles.

“I haven’t spoken to Patrick in years. Same as I’ve not spoken to Marianne.” Leslie shrugged. “You know what it’s like. People knock around together and are great pals, then they go off in different directions and suddenly find they’ve not spoken in ages. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to get out one’s pen and paper to jot down a line. It takes an errant hound and some good fortune, like this morning on the common, to re-establish communication.”

It wasn’t just a matter of the length of time. Somehow, the closer you had been to somebody, the trickier it was to make that first move and the more awkward that reconnection might prove. The conversation with Marianne had felt stilted, to say the least.

“Then perhaps a chat over a pot of tea and a scone is exactly what’s called for. I’ll compose a note to Marianne. Was the friend called Geraldine? I shall invite her too.”

Leslie confirmed the name, accepting his fate. He excused himself, saying that a short turn around the garden would be pleasant, before luncheon, although he insisted Max should stay inside, as punishment. The dog snored happily, oblivious of what was being said about him.

 

Leslie lit a cigarette, hands cupped to protect the match’s flame from the wind. No sooner had he taken the first draw than he heard Edwin leaving the house, heading for the garage where he kept his bicycle. Once Leslie’s mother got an idea in her head, she lost no time on it. Marianne would no doubt accept the invitation, unless she had another engagement that couldn’t be broken. Leslie should use the next few hours preparing himself to be a welcoming host, which was longer than he’d had to gather his wits on the common.

He strolled along the path, glancing with pleasure over the rolling Hampshire countryside. Whoever had laid out the gardens at Larkspur House had known their business, making the most of the south-facing aspect. People were said to have lived in this area for thousands of years, probably enjoying the same view from their villa or roundhouse. When Leslie was a boy, he’d turned up pieces of pottery in the local mole hills, pieces that his father had assured him were Roman. He’d believed it at the time and it might have been true, although Mr. Cadmore did have a plausible way about him.

It was a skill that he’d developed further in the running of his business, gently planting ideas in other people’s heads when it would prove useful, such as the time he’d employed a young man only to find him unsuited to his role. Via a couple of seemingly innocuous conversations, focussed on the young man’s ambitions and happiness, they’d soon reached the point where he’d decided he’d made the wrong choice and would be joining a local brewing company. Leslie grinned in remembrance of the tale.

He’d reached the Larkspur orchard—if half a dozen apple trees and a similar number of both plums and pears could be given that title—which was the place where he’d always been happiest. Sitting in a deckchair in the dappled light or swinging in a hammock, when reading, dozing, studying for exams, or simply enjoying the thrill of being alive in a world untouched by the fingers of war. As a small child, carefully scribing his name and address in his little notebook. Leslie Simon Cadmore, Larkspur House, Kinebridge, Hampshire, England, The World. That world had changed, as so many had warned it would, although some people had still retained the over-optimistic view in 1939 that this time it really might all be over by the first Christmas. Would people ever learn from the past?

The hammock had long since been taken down, and as Leslie wanted to rest his limbs, he had to make his way to the rose garden, where a sturdy wooden bench had been well placed to benefit from any sunshine. Today’s light was watery but bore a hint of warmth to come, and though it would be too early in the year for buds or blossoms on the roses, it wouldn’t be unpleasant to finish his cigarette there, coat wrapped around him.

The bench seemed to fit his shape. When younger, he’d found it too hard, smacking of self-punishment, but now the solidity of it was better suited to his tastes, after years of getting used to discomfort. Bletchley chairs in Bletchley huts. Strange to think how he’d assumed back then that he could easily put the war years and all they’d brought behind him, to return as quickly as possible to his previous life, only to find that the time he’d spent in that place couldn’t be unspent. It would always be part of him.

Be grateful you made it through in one piece—thousands of men and women would have given their right arm to be home for another spring. Some of them did.

It could have been Patrick’s voice in his ear, saying those words, rather than the voice of conscience, but he hadn’t spoken to Patrick in ages and couldn’t even say with certainty when the man had last visited Larkspur House. Yet his presence somehow still seemed to fill the garden, this place where they’d played so often as young children and later as boys on the cusp of manhood. The mentions of Patrick that morning rang accusatorially in Leslie’s ears. How the hell could they have let so much time pass without making contact?

Because you’re a coward. One who didn’t have the guts to ask Patrick either of the two questions you wanted to, afraid that the answers would be too hard to bear.

How easy it should have been to frame the first. “Do you really love me, Patrick, as I really love you, despite everything?” Seeing Marianne had brought that more clearly into focus, had reawakened the need to have Patrick at his side again, whether it was out on the common walking a dog or sitting in the orchard or lying in a bed between cool linen sheets.

The other question would have been trickier, as impossible to ask Patrick as it would have been for Leslie to tackle his father about why he had gone into Combe Abbey. Either question would have risked receiving an answer full of peril, in terms of how it might have irrevocably changed a relationship. Leslie often wondered if he’d somehow driven his father into leaving, perhaps unconsciously forcing the man to consider what it would be like to live a family life in the knowledge that his son was different, and all the disgrace that might bring were it made public. It might have been a safer choice to cut himself off from continually dealing with that. It was easy to love your neighbour—or your family—if you didn’t have to live with them.

But if that hadn’t been his motivation, what had? He must either have been running towards a life of contemplation or running away from something in his secular life that could no longer be borne. Leslie couldn’t shake from his mind the great scandal of 1938, when there’d been an attempted strangling in one of the nearby hamlets. A farmer had given himself in at the local police station, confessing that after fourteen years of constant nagging, he’d snapped and nearly killed his wife. Surely that sudden outburst of violence could never have happened with Leslie’s parents?

There had only been one instance when Mr. Cadmore had shown real aggression, and that had been when on a holiday. He’d killed what had appeared to be an otter with a heavy blow to the skull, much to young Leslie’s horror. It had turned out to be an escapee from a local—illegal—mink farm, about which Mr. Cadmore had been warned.

“Evil creatures, Leslie. Best to get rid of them quickly, before they can cause any harm.” Most anglers would have agreed with him.

More comically, there was a family story about him having boxed the ears of a rival for the love of Leslie’s mother. Yet Mr. Cadmore could be so soft he’d wept at a sermon about the massacre of the innocents.

On the way home he’d explained his distress. “If it’s true—and you take all these Bible stories with a pinch of salt because men wrote them down—then it’s beyond wicked.”

He’d always shown a similar desire to protect his family from harm. Until, of course, he’d broken their hearts by his act of retreat into the life of the cloister. That decision had been so out of character—assuming they had really understood what the man was like and what he wanted. Maybe some part of his father was, and always would remain, hidden and unknowable. Leslie had spent many hours brooding on the subject, having nobody he could discuss such personal things with. Had his father harboured a self-denied yet lifelong devotion to God, one that he was always going to manifest at some point or else be driven mad? He’d left no clue behind when he’d made his abrupt departure, his final note to them, I’ve left you well provided for money-wise. I can’t let you suffer, ringing hollow. Emotional anguish was as hard to bear as financial.

If Leslie was unclear about his father’s motives, he had still less clarity in his thinking about Patrick. The other question Leslie had left unasked was more serious by far. It was almost unthinkable to air, no matter how close the two men had been. Leslie whispered it now, the calm of the garden—as well as the knowledge that nobody could hear—bringing him courage.

Did you murder Fergus Jackson? And how the hell did you pull it off?

Davidson King

Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.

VL Locey

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.

(Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.

RJ Scott

Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards

USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.

She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.

Charlie Cochrane

As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.

Davidson King

FACEBOOK  /  BLUESKY  /  WEBSITE

NEWSLETTER  /  FB FRIEND  /  FB GROUP

RB MEDIA  /  AUDIOBOOKS  /  CHIRP  /  PODIUM

INSTAGRAM  /  AUDIBLE  /  LINKTREE

BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com

VL Locey

FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE

NEWSLETTER  /  FB GROUP  /  PINTEREST

SCOTT/LOCEY MM HOCKEY ROMANCE  /  CHIRP

FB MM HOCKEY GROUP  /  AUDIOBOOKS

BOOKBUB  /  B&N  /  INSTAGRAM  /  AUDIBLE

KOBO  /  SMASHWORDS  /  GOOGLE PLAY

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com

RJ Scott

FACEBOOK  /  BLUE SKY  /  FB FRIEND

WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  INSTAGRAM

SCOTT/LOCEY MM HOCKEY ROMANCE

FB MM HOCKEY GROUP  /  RB MEDIA

AUDIOBOOKS  /  GOOGLE PLAY  /  CHIRP

AUDIBLE  /  FB GROUP  /  TUMBLR

B&N  /  PINTEREST  /  PATREON  /  TIKTOK

BOOKBUB  /  KOBO  /  SMASHWORDS

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk

Charlie Cochrane

FACEBOOK  /  BLUESKY  /  WEBSITE

NEWSLETTER  /  KOBO  /  RIPTIDE

FB DEADLY DAMES  /  FB FRIEND

BOOKBUB  /  TWITTER  /  AUDIBLE

CARINA  /  B&N  /  GOOGLE PLAY

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  / GOODREADS

EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com

Silent Knight by Davidson King

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

BOOKBUB  /  GOODREADS TBR

The Easter Redemption by VL Locey

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  BOOKBUB

WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Jurassic Measures by Davidson King

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

BOOKBUB  /  GOODREADS TBR

Love Story by RJ Scott

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  BOOKBUB

WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

B&N  /  KOBO  /  RIPTIDE

GOOGLE PLAY  /  BOOKBUB

iTUNES  /  GOODREADS TBR