👴⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine(Grandparents Day Week)⏳👵: His Grandfather's Watch by NR Walker

Summary:

It was just an ordinary day for Alex Harper at Harper's Antiquities, until Callum Winters walked in with a watch.

"It was my Grandfather's. I was hoping you could tell me something about it."

A love story of two couples, generations apart.

***Second Edition. Earlier edition released in 2012. No additional content has been added.***

Original Review July 2015:
This novella may be a short quick read but it is more powerful than many full length novels I have read.  I was sitting in my front yard under the shade of my maple tree and was so glad I had sunglasses on because otherwise I probably would have scared the children playing across the street when the tears started running.    The blend of contemporary and historical is perfect for the emotional buildup for the story the watch represents.

The historical part of the watch's tale touched my heart a bit more but I am a bit of a history buff so stories of the past usually do.  As my mother's 24/7 caregiver for the past 20 years, when Callum said "My life hasn't been about me in a long time" really struck a chord because in those 10 words she summed up what every caregiver lives not to mention the kind of man Callum is and the fact that Alex understands it also goes a long way in describing his character as well.

I rarely give novellas a full 5 bookmark rating just because my heart prefers full length stories but this is such a powerful emotional ride that nothing short of the full 5 is fitting.

Re-Read Review September 2018:
I really can't think of a single thing to add to my original review that would express how wonderful this novella is other than, it's shortness may be in the number of pages but not in the quality of the story.  His Grandfather's Watch had me even more teary-eyed now than it did when I first read it three years ago.  It is rare that you get two heart felt love stories in a novella but that is exactly what this little gem brings to the table.

I chose to re-read this now in honor of Grandparents Day but whenever you decide to pick it up you won't regret it and I highly recommend reading this one because not only will you be entertained but you might also learn a thing or two about understanding your family's past.  I know I can honestly say that had I not already been deeply invested in my family genealogy this story would have had me itching to discover my family's past.

RATING:

Chapter One
Sitting in the back room at my desk, with a dismantled 1901 Newman's clock, I heard the bell that chimed every time a customer walked through the door. My dad was behind the counter, and I heard him greet the customer, making small talk, discussing whatever antique it was they'd brought with them.

It's what we did.

My father's love of all things antique grew into this business, Harper's Antiquities. Dad was the expert and Mom did the research, but they both traveled, scouring the globe for their life's passion. My brother Scott did antique furniture restoration, but it wasn't something I ever saw myself doing. Then I started helping out when I was a kid at school, and I found a love of clocks.

It’s my specialty.

I could hear Dad talking to the customer, but didn't pay them any mind until I heard my name.

"Alex?"

Putting down the part in my hand, I walked through to the showroom where I found my father and the customer he was talking to. Very different from my pale skin, black hair and grayish eyes, he was a good looking guy, similar age to me, but with sandy brown, kinda longish hair, tanned skin and blue eyes. He was holding a pocket watch in his hand.

"This is my son, Alex," Dad explained. "He's the expert on watches like yours."

I extended my hand in professional courtesy. "Hello."

"Callum Winters," he said by way of greeting, putting the watch on the counter before shaking my hand. There was an accent, Southern I thought, but I wasn't sure.

Dad waited for us to let go of each other's hands, then he looked at me and smiled. "Callum was just telling me he'd like to know more about this watch."

I looked at the silver watch casing and fob chain, then at its owner. I reached my hand toward the watch, but before I touched it, I asked, "May I?"

"Sure," he nodded.

Picking it up, I could tell a few things from a visual inspection. "This casing was a popular design in the 1940's," I told him. Gently, I opened the casing to reveal the quartz face. "The dial is Hamilton, but I won't know dates or maker for certain, unless I take the back off and look at the movement."

"Could you do that?" he asked. His accent was definitely southern. "I was hoping to know as much about it as I could."

I smiled. "Sure. I'll need to grab some details, and I should be able to look at it in about two days. Then I can tell you everything I know."

Callum nodded. "That'd be great." We looked at each other for a little too long, and I couldn't help but wonder if this cute, Southern man was gay.

Dad seemed to think so, because with a cheeky smirk, he handed me the register log, looked between us and not-so subtly said, "Callum, I'll leave you in Alex's very capable hands." He pointed behind us, "I have... stuff... I need to do out the back."

Callum politely thanked him, and I considered kicking my father in the shins. We were behind the counter, so it's not like Callum would have seen me do it. But Dad must have picked up on the look I gave him, because he smiled, turned quickly and disappeared through the door.

I grabbed a pen, handed Callum the register and asked him to fill in his details. I picked up the watch, turning it over in my hands. It was a nice piece, and I couldn't help but ask, "What do you know about the watch?"

He looked up from the paperwork. "Um, it was my grandfather's. That's about all I know."

He handed me the completed form, and I told him as procedure, I required some ID. Taking out his wallet, he handed me his driver's licence. His Texas driver's licence.

"I just moved here," he said. "I've got my change of address receipt here somewhere."

He started looking through his wallet, and I stopped him. "No, its fine. I just need to sight photo ID, that's all."

He smiled kindly and nodded. "So, two days?"

"Yeah. I'm half way through another job. Then I can look at this, and I'll give you a call when I'm done," I told him. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

He shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. "No, not really. Just dates, make, model... to be honest, I'm not really sure."

As I was putting the watch and paperwork in a paper envelope, I asked him, "Would you like a valuation?"

"No," he said simply. "Monetary value isn't important."

He thanked me, I told him I'd be in touch and he left. When I walked back into the workshop, Dad grinned at me. "He was a nice young man," he said.

"Mom!" I yelled to the upstairs office, where my mother would have undoubtedly had her head in a catalogue. "Dad's trying to set me up again."

She yelled back, "Was he cute?"

Oh for crying out loud.

He was actually, but that's not the point. Dad chuckled at me.
Ignoring him, I sat the pocket watch on my desk and turned my attention back to the clock I was working on.

I managed to ignore both my parents and their comments about cute, brown-haired watch owners until they got bored and left me alone. And I managed to push the thoughts of the pocket watch and its handsome Texan owner out of my mind until it was time to go home.

*****

I arrived back at work a little before nine in the morning and headed straight for my desk, which was more like a workstation, when the paper sleeve holding the pocket watch caught my eye.
I picked it up and took the watch out, feeling the cool, heavy weight of it in my hand. I didn't hear my dad come up behind me, and his voice startled me. "How's Mr. Yeo's clock coming along?"

"Oh, shit! You scared me," I said with a laugh, clutching my heart. Then looking back to the clock I had half done, I told him, "Um, it should be ready by lunchtime tomorrow."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I think you should do the watch instead."
I looked at the pocket watch I was still holding. "Why?"

"Because Mr. Yeo is a collector," he replied with a shrug. "To him that clock is just something else he acquired. Even old Mr. Yeo will tell you that. But this," he pointed to the watch in my hand, "this means something."

Dad smiled at me. "Mr. Yeo can wait a day or two. He won't mind. I'll even phone him myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

He nodded. "He wants me to go with him to look at an 18th Century hand-carved Italian rococo centre table he'd seen at an auction house anyway, so I need to speak to him."

"Okay," I agreed. Within twenty minutes, I had Mr. Yeo's clock itemized and put away and the silver pocket watch in front of me.

I made my usual notes as I proceeded detailing. There was nothing remarkable about it, until I removed the back casing.

Because what I found hidden in the back of the pocket watch was unlike anything I'd encountered before.

I took out the client form with Callum Winters' details on it and picked up the phone. "Callum Winters? It's Alex, from Harper Antiquities. I'm calling about your watch."

"Yes?" he answered, unsure.

"Can you come into the store?" I asked. "There's something you need to see."

NR Walker
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.

She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.

She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.

She’s been writing ever since...

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📚Saturday's Series Spotlight(Back to School Edition)📚: Love Across Time(Student Edition) by Jackie North

Heroes for Ghosts #1

Summary:

Soulmates across time. A sacrifice that could keep them apart forever.

In present day, near the village of Ornes, France, Devon works on his master's thesis in history as he fantasizes about meeting a WWI American Doughboy.

In 1916, during the Battle of Ornes, Stanley is a young soldier facing the horrors of the battlefield.

Mourning the death of his friends from enemy fire, Stanley volunteers to bring the message for retreat so he can save everyone else in his battalion. While on his mission, mustard gas surrounds Stanley and though he thinks he is dying, he finds himself in a peaceful green meadow where he literally trips over Devon.

Devon doesn't believe Stanley is who he says he is, a soldier from WWI. But a powerful attraction grows between them, and if Stanley is truly a visitor from the past, then he is Devon's dream come true. The problem is, Stanley's soul wants to finish his mission, and time keeps yanking him back to relive his fateful last morning over and over, even as his heart and body long to stay with Devon.

Will Stanley have to choose between Devon and saving his battalion? Will time betray their love, leaving each alone?

A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, French coffee, warm blankets, fireplace kisses, the angst of separation, and true love across time.

Hemingway's Notebook #5

Summary:

Soulmates across time. Two souls connected by destiny.

In present day, Jake, lonely and cut off from his parents, travels to the Chamberlin Inn in Cody, Wyoming to work on extra credit for his college seminar.

In 1932, Sebby labors at the Chamberlin Inn for pennies a day, wishing with all his heart for a better life.

While taking photographs in the room where Ernest Hemingway once stayed, Jake is flung back in time to the year 1932. There he meets Sebby who is living on the edge, half starving, a victim of the Great Depression. He’s been dodging rent collectors, getting behind on doctor's bills, trying to care for his ailing Pop.

Sebby falls hard for Jake with his movie star smile, but knows something is different about him. Jake wears strange clothes, talks too fast, and doesn’t look like he’s gone hungry a day in his whole life. He’s also the handsomest boy Sebby has ever seen.

Jake is drawn to Sebby’s dark eyes, shy smile, and gentle heart. Sebby is like nobody Jake has ever met. And though the year 1932 scares him to his very core, he needs to decide. Go home? Or stay and weather the Depression with Sebby, whom he has grown to love.

A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, true confessions, a shared bed, first time romance, the angst of separation, and true love across time.

Heroes for Ghosts #1

Original Review February Book of the Month 2021:

This was brought to my attention when I asked in a FB M/M book rec group for stories with a similar concept to the movie Groundhog Day, the whole repeating the day over scenario.  When I also learned this had a WW1 element, I was all kinds of grabby hands.  I was not disappointed.

I have to start off by saying this: I don't often make mentions of details in stories because I'm a spoiler-free reviewer but this isn't a spoiler, this is more of a feeling, a reason why I'm a history lover.  When Devon is wobbly about his thesis, about telling the story, wondering if anyone will care, Stanley's answer is spot on how I feel about history and why it's an important subject and why everyone needs to learn it.

“The whole thing is stupid,” said Devon. “After everything you’ve been through. After hearing about it from you and having you show me the trenches, telling me about that guy who lost his leg—which isn’t in the records anywhere—because you were there, and you suffered for it. For me to write a paper about it, it’s like I’m benefiting from that without having paid the price.” 

The twisted feelings that had started when Stanley had shown up on the green grasses that were all that was left of a disastrous battle had risen to the surface, and he’d said them aloud. He could barely look at Stanley with this confession ringing in the air. His constant awareness about the futility of war was only the half of it. The other half was the loss that war brought, inexplicable and never-ceasing, and Stanley had been the one to go through that. Not Devon. 

“But you’re telling the story,” said Stanley as he stood up and came over to Devon, so close that as he took a step forward, Devon found himself against the wall. “You’re telling all of our stories, mine, Isaac’s, everybody’s.” 

“Nobody will care,” said Devon. His voice broke on the last word because he realized that it was true. None of his friends cared, and his thesis advisor had strongly suggested he focus on another aspect of the Great War. In the end he was alone, except for Stanley, who could be dragged back through time at any moment. 

“I care,” said Stanley. “And you care. You can put the stuff that I told you in your paper, and then one day, somebody will read it. It’ll matter to somebody, someday.” 

Now, I know the whole time-travel sub-genre gives this historical a fantasy twist but this moment in time, this exchange the author gives between the two men is so important, it really resonated with me, it's how I have felt whenever someone says "why do I need to know, it happened years ago to people I don't know".  Their actions had a bearing on life today, time is what connects us all but most importantly, those souls of yesteryear, be it on the world stage or your own family tree, lived, they mattered and those stories need to live on.  In these few paragraphs that I shared the author put voice to the importance more than anything I've ever read before.  For that alone, I have to say a huge "Thank You" to Jackie North.

Okay, off my soapbox and onto the story.

HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How have I not seen this series before?  How did it not cross my reading path?  Heroes for Ghosts is a brilliant tale of history, fantasy, science fiction, romance, and drama with characters that are likeable, loveable, wanting-to-know-able, I'll be honest it ticks every single one of my reading boxes.  I've read historical paranormal/supernatural/fantasies before but too often the historical element gets lost in the world of fantasy so for Jackie North to combine all these factors AND keep the historical accuracies is just pure . . . well it's magical(and I'm not talking about the time-travel bit😉).

Devon is a history lover after my own heart, thesis or not if I didn't have family keeping me grounded now, the idea of going to the place history happened and living in a mostly state of seclusion to do the research sounds absolutely heavenly.  I can also honestly say, if I came across Stanley the way Devon did, my mind would be a bit teeter-totter as to believing him and worried he escaped from an institution too.  I don't see how anyone couldn't love either of these men, they are just so real and wonderfully written, there is no doubt to this reader they have to have their HEA.  If you follow me you'll know what my next statement will be: to see how the men get there you'll have to experience their journey for yourself.

And what a journey it is! You won't regret it, historical lover or not, if you love an old fashion journey of storytelling than this is for you.

I'll add that this is my first Jackie North and it certainly won't be my last because if her backlist is only half as good as Heroes for Ghosts than it will still be a pleasure to dive in.

Original Audiobook Review November 2023:

It's been nearly 3 years since I first read Heroes for Ghosts and I'm a little ashamed to admit I have yet to delve into the rest of the Love Across Time series even though the next two already sit on my kindle.  One of these days I'll explore the other time-travel stories by Jackie North but for now I knew it was the perfect time to re-visit Devon & Stanley for Veteran's Day.

As so often the case, I can't think of a single thing to add to my original review as to how amazing this story is, if anything I loved it even more this time around.  As for the narration, Greg Boudreaux does a wonderful job bringing Devon and Stanley's journey to life.  Followers of my reviews may recall that one of the highest honors I can bestow on an audiobook is when I'm left with the feeling of expectation of hearing Harlow Wilcox or Don Wilson jumping in with a sponsor's commercial during one of the old radio shows I collect. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, I get so involved in listening that I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story laying on the floor staring at the radio listening to Little Orphan Annie.

Anyway, that's the benchmark for a brilliant audiobook for me and between Boudreaux's voice and North's words, Heroes for Ghosts completely hooked me in and I can easily see this being an annual Veteran's Day re-listen.

Hemingway's Notebook #5

Original Review October 2024:

Once again I've broken my read-in-order rule but that's okay, Love Across Time is a standalone series.   So brilliant, such a great blend of humor, drama, paranormal, historical, sci-fi, and of course heart.

I really don't want to spoil anything and there is always something about time-travel that can be so easily spoiled by even the tiniest detail getting out, so this review is going to be shorter than others so as not to dampen others enjoyment .

I couldn't possibly imagine how Jake and Seby would find a HEA in this story or to be more precise, where and when it might occur.  I needn't have been anxious because Jackie North pulled it off and brought the reader safely to that happy place, also known as HEA Universe😉.  I will say that once again as it was with For the Love of a Ghost(#6 - and again the whole "read out of order" came into play), I expected a certain thing to happen but didn't and I'm kind of glad.  Yes, had the author went where I feared it would have been equally entertaining but not going there just added to the adrenaline rush that can only come from the first time read. So it's all good! I know that's a bit ambiguous, some might even say "cop out" but just know it's entertaining to the highest degree.

Three down and three to go but with the next dozen weeks being some of my most hectic, reading, blogging, and holiday-loving time I am predicting unfortunately it probably won't be until 2025 that I get to the remaining entries.  Instead of being sad about it I see it as having something to look forward to in the new year already and that's never a bad thing.  However you read Jackie North's Love Across Time series, I highly recommend doing so and you won't be disappointed in all the emotionally charged entertaining time before you.

**I gotta send a HUGE THANK YOU to Jackie North for the inclusion of old radio shows(or current radio programs in 1932😉).  My parents got me a cassette tape of Fibber McGee & Molly's first hall closet routine episode for my 10th birthday and I completely fell in love with it.  When I got in to high school, I started collecting a variety of shows on cassette(and eventually CD), and I've purchased a few digital ones but my love of the format is the sole reason I have a script for SiriusXM so I can listen to the OTR channel in the car.  The radio shows are often the pedestal I gauge a good audiobook narration on, if I feel the narrator creates an atmosphere that makes me feel like I'm listening to one of my fave old shows and expecting the sponsor to break in with a commercial than it's a winner.  Anywho, I just want to say Thank You, Jackie North for adding that part of the era to the story, it's not something that authors often feature.**

RATING:

Heroes for Ghosts #1

Chapter One

A mortar shell exploded at the far end of the trench, spraying black debris that slammed into the mud and sent up the acrid odor of burnt tar and hot, damp earth. Stanley hunkered down with mud up to his ankles, his backside pressed against the broken end of a mortar gun, his hands on his helmet as his body shook with the force of the blast. He tried to stem his tears as Lieutenant Billings stabbed at the radio with a bit of metal wiring to see if he could get it to work again. Between the mortar rounds, the radio responded with squawks and low pitched shrieks and then went quiet. 

If the radio had been even six feet to the left, it would have been safe from being torn apart by the shell that had directly hit the trench mid-morning. And if Bertie, Isaac, and Rex had been on the other side of Stanley when that shell had hit, then they would be alive. Then he would have had someone to worry with, someone who would bolster his courage so he could respond to Lt. Billings’ earlier request.

He missed his friends, but he wanted to be brave for them now. Lt. Billings needed a volunteer to run across the trenches and the misty, frost-bitten fields to contact the major in charge to get the final message for retreat. The battalion needed a retreat or all of the 200 men were going to be smashed to bloody bits and their families would not hear from them come Christmas. 

It was horrible. Stanley wondered how he ever imagined that signing up and shipping off would be an adventure worth having, something he could tell everybody about back home. There was no way he could convey the tragedy of it, the futility of a radio that didn’t work, of trying not to look at the bodies of his friends that were currently beneath a tarp for decency’s sake. 

Whether there would be a break in the shelling so that they could be buried was anybody’s guess; the way it had been going, they would likely get frozen in place, spattered with mud and bits of shrapnel, and nobody would be able to bury them till spring. By which time, the war would be over, or they’d all be dead. Or both. 

Stanley was shaking all over, and told himself it was because he was trying to warm his body up, but that was another futility, a lie he could barely hold on to. The Germans were coming closer with each passing hour. The shells were louder and more on target, and soon they would die. All of the battalion’s efforts would come to nothing, and Stanley would be another body beneath a tarp, and nobody would have the energy to bury him.

He would become part of the landscape, part of the stretch of brown mud and red blood, decorated with torn limbs. The uniform he wore so proudly would turn into the tattered remnants of desire to do good, to fight for one’s country, and to keep families and children and grandmothers safe. At least that’s what the recruitment posters had stated, and behind every one had been the American flag, rippling with patriotism and an overwhelming urgency. 

Stanley had signed up alone, but had soon met his three friends during training. They’d stuck together, sharing the burden of fear, bolstering each other up, proud to fight and do right. Only it was wrong, so, so wrong because what was happening seemed to be for no reason at all, and everything they did as a battalion felt like they were merely going through the motions. 

Men kept dying, though the sudden silence across the top of the trenches indicated that the Germans seemed to have let up for the moment. Which left Stanley alone with Lt. Billings, and on the verge of blubbering. He was shaking with the effort of not crying, though his face was hot with tears he kept having to blink away as he tried to focus on what Lt. Billings was doing. 

“The wire goes under,” said Stanley with a croak. “Under on the left.” 

“Oh, yes?” asked Lt. Billings. His voice was gruff. 

He didn’t look at Stanley, all of his attention on the radio. He moved the wire as Stanley had suggested, and while this brought a sound from the transmitter, it ended in another ineffectual squawk.

The worst of it was that Stanley had previously thought the radio was too much in the open and ought to be moved, just in case. He’d not wanted to step on Lt. Billings’ toes, though, as the lieutenant had only just taken over from Colonel Helmer, and had not said anything. 

Helmer had been the worst commander anybody had ever seen, and the muttered comments among the enlisted men had almost grown into a roar. Though Stanley might have given him some leeway, due to his age, Colonel Helmer had taken the coward’s way, run off in the night, and had not been heard from since. With the tenseness among the men, Stanley hadn’t wanted to point out that the radio was in harm’s way. It might have been seen as a challenge to the order of command, which was the last thing that Stanley wanted to do. 

He’d refrained from talking about Helmer, and had generally kept his mouth shut. But if he’d not done that, if he’d given into his natural proclivities to think with his mouth open, they might have a radio now, might already be in an officially sanctioned retreat, and Rex, and Bertie, and Isaac would not be dead. They’d be beside him as they all scuttled to the rear of the battle and clambered into trucks to be taken to somewhere a bit safer than where they were. 

It was all his fault, then. All of it. His lungs felt as though they were running out of air, and his belly dipped so hard he thought he might shit himself in fear. The only thing for it was to do something so that it didn’t get worse. And that meant answering Lt. Billings’ question from earlier that morning.

“Sir?” asked Stanley, though he realized that his voice was too soft to be heard. “Sir?” he asked again, more loudly this time. 

“It just sparked,” said Lt. Billings, completely focused on the radio. “If I move that wire again, I’m going to fry this fucking thing.” 

Stanley scrambled up from where he was, his boots slipping on the mud as he surged forward to land on his knees at Lt. Billings’ side. 

“Sir, I’ll go,” said Stanley. “I’ll take the message and bring the code back.” 

Lt. Billings’ hands froze in the midst of what he was doing, and then he slowly turned his head. The lieutenant’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was be-grimed with smoke and mud that seemed to have pushed its way into his skin. He didn’t smile as he looked at Stanley, and his expression was grim. 

“You might not come back,” said Lt. Billings. “In fact it’s a death sentence. Do you want that?” 

Lt. Billings was so unlike Commander Helmer in every way; Stanley knew that it was a death sentence, so Lt. Billings, not one to suffer fools, was making sure that Stanley knew exactly what he was getting into. A zigzag run across a field of dead bodies, horse carcasses, guns, gouged earth, and barbed wire, all the while dodging bullets and shrapnel and mustard gas. 

“There’s no other way,” said Stanley. He wiped his hand across his upper lip, and took a hard breath, feeling his metal ID tag like a circle of cold ice in the middle of his throat. “You said so this morning. If we don’t get the order to retreat, we’re all going to die. Right here in this trench.”

He did not add that they could retreat anyway, without the order, and save a whole lot of lives. But Lt. Billings was a seasoned army officer, and while he might take it upon himself to take control of a battalion that was currently officer-less, it was not in his makeup to call such a command without a direct order. 

Stanley could try to convince Lt. Billings to overstep his authority, but that would only get everyone irritated, and as they were all so edgy already, it would be the worst way he could contribute. The best thing for him to do, besides throw himself on a land mine, was to step up and volunteer. It wouldn’t bring his friends back, but it would give their deaths meaning. Or would it? At any rate, it would be better than sitting with his ass in the mud watching Lt. Billings mess with equipment in a way that was probably making it worse. If only Stanley had spoken up and told him to move the radio. 

If only Stanley had told his friends to sit someplace other than where they had. If only Stanley had been born at a different time, and had missed this stupid war entirely. One hundred years ago or a hundred years from now, it made no difference to him. But he was here now, and he needed to do his best for the sake of his friends’ memory. 

He stood up and made an ineffectual pass at the front of his wool sweater vest. He winced as his fingers touched dried blood, the source of which he didn’t want to identify, but which had been the spatter from Rex’s head as it exploded. Rex would have gone with him, big and silent and close as they crossed the field of battle to carry the message. 

“I’ll go,” said Stanley.

Lt. Billings stood up too, though he didn’t reach out to shake Stanley’s hand. Stanley was glad about the lack of the gesture because that would have truly meant that Lt. Billings did not expect him to return, but was only sending him out because there was nobody else who would go. 

“Find Major Walker,” said Lt. Billings. “Give him half the message, and he’ll know I need the other half. He’ll tell you what that is, and when I have the whole message I can call retreat. Tell him I sent you, you got all that?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Stanley. His heart was thumping in his chest, threatening to push its way out, and his knees started to knock together. “I’ll bring the message back, I promise.” 

“It’s a foolish thing to make such promises,” said Lt. Billings. He shook his head, and looked down at the busted radio before looking up at Stanley. His expression was so deep and serious that Stanley knew he was going to die the minute he stepped out of the trench. The alternative, however, was to stay in the trench and watch while his friends’ bodies froze in the mud, taking his heart with them as they became one with the earth, and that he could not bear. 

“Here’s a canteen and here’s your rifle,” said Lt. Billings. “You might need to kill some Krauts, and you won’t believe how thirsty you can get when you’re running hard, terrified enough to piss your uniform.” 

Stanley took the canteen and looped it over his neck and shoulder, then hung the rifle across his chest in the other direction. He wasn’t exactly armed to the teeth, but he had a pouch of bullets and could give somebody a run for their money. After that, he’d be out of bullets and dead in a ditch somewhere. 

He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to go over the top and start running. The major would be in a trench at the back of the field, at least that was the general idea in most battles. 

“That way, right?” asked Stanley. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. 

“More over that way,” said Lt. Billings. “Straight across and then over. He’ll be in the right quadrant. You won’t see any flags, but it’s going to have more sandbags and look a damn sight tidier than where we are now.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Stanley. 

He straightened up and gave Lt. Billings the most efficient salute he’d ever managed, out of respect. Then, not allowing himself one last glimpse at the pile of bodies at the end of the trench, he pushed his way past the three soldiers who were manning a Howitzer that was almost out of shells, and climbed up the ladder. 

Stanley slipped at the bottom rung, and was tempted to call it done then and there. For the memory of Isaac, Rex, and Bertie, and all the others, he made himself go up and up till he was standing on top of the ridge, looking over the dip in the earth that ran next to the ruined castle and the small cottage whose roof was half gone. 

The sprawl of barbed wire along the top of each trench was intertwined with the dark flags of smoke that twisted and moved as though it was alive. The sun was a smudge through the brown and black haze, and the smell of hot oil and human excrement shot itself into his lungs with his first breath. The air was cold and it seemed as though frost speckled the air like little bits of diamonds made half yellow by the smoke from fires and the general exhalation of despair and gloom and death. Stanley watched a shell explode a hundred feet to his left, turned the other way, and started running.

The idea was to get out of the line of fire, for that was where the major was to be found. The easiest way was to follow the line of trenches, to run inside of them, along the bottom, and make his way there. He started to run, his canteen bouncing, his rifle banging into his thigh the whole while. 

At the edge of the trenches were the round tops of helmets. Beneath those glimmered the exhausted, tired eyes of soldiers who saw him go, who knew where he was headed, and who had no hope that he would make it. A few soldiers stood up and fired beyond Stanley to draw enemy attention away from him when he had to cross over the top of a trench to get to the next one. The shots zinged around him anyway. If he slowed down, he was going to take a hit, so he kept low in the trenches and kept running. 

His boots slipped as he headed down a small hollow, and he almost fell to his knees as he went up the other side; it was like trying to run up a waterfall, only this one was of mud, with bits of shell and hunks of rock. Just as Stanley got halfway to the top, he heard the high-pitched pop of a canister as it opened, and even before he smelled the bitter tang, a yellow cloud of mustard gas descended around him like a blanket of pure poison.

He brought his hand to his mouth, and staggered to the top of a trench, and though he kept his breath shallow, he felt his lungs collapsing, and fell to his knees, coughing up spit, his hands in the mud, his eyes closed. The yellow swirl filled his brain until there was nothing left but an empty ache and the sting in his lungs. He barely felt his head hit the mud and then sighed, thinking that it would be good to stay right where he was, for what did it matter anyhow? And then it became blackness, so, so much blackness.

Hemingway's Notebook #5

Chapter One

When Ernest Hemingway checked out of the Chamberlin Inn, Sebby was on duty to take his luggage to the motorcar that was waiting for him. This included carrying a rod and reel case, a rifle case, two leather suitcases, a hefty steamer trunk of lures and gear, and a thickly-packed leather briefcase, all of which were heavy or bulky or both. But that didn't matter, Sebby was happy to help as Mr. Hemingway had been nice to his Pop yesterday and had sat on the back steps with him to talk about Babe Ruth and the Yankees. The day had been sunny, and Pop had taken the opportunity to get some fresh air and, tucked inside his pea coat, had been able to chat with the great man.

Now, of course, the day was howling wind and cold. Pop was safe in the apartment, though it was chilly without enough coal to heat the place. Sebby had been up since six, hauling luggage, washing dishes, gathering dirty laundry, all the while getting yelled at by Mr. Blair, the hotel's cook and manager, who always thought Sebby was too slow.

"You got those bags, boy?" asked the uniformed driver as he waited by the rumbling Studebaker motorcar that was big enough and sturdy enough to carry seven people and everything they could think of to bring with them. The trunk was open and the driver pointed to it. "You're taking your time, eh? Mr. Hemingway doesn't have all day, I'll have you know."

"Leave him be," came a voice from behind Sebby as he struggled with the two suitcases. "The boy is doing what he can. We have time. It'll only take a couple of hours to get to Clark's Fork anyhow."

Placing the suitcases next to the car so the driver could load them into the trunk, Sebby turned to see Mr. Hemingway waiting on the sidewalk. He stood beneath the grey eggshell sky, hands in his pockets, wearing his broad brimmed felt fishing hat, sturdy jacket, and brown woolen trousers. With a scarf around his neck, he looked plenty warm, though his breath fogged out before him in the cold air, speckling his dark mustache with frost.

"That package go out, Sebby?" asked Hemingway, using Sebby's first name, like he did with everybody, making it sound like the two of them had been friends for years. "I'd have taken it myself, but we've got to get a move on."

"Mrs. Chamberlin took it to the post office this morning, Mr. Hemingway," said Sebby. "First thing, right after breakfast."

"She's a good woman," said Hemingway. He eyed Sebby up and down with his dark blue eyes as if measuring him for a fight. "You're good to carry my luggage. Is this all of it?"

"Yes, sir," said Sebby, counting the items in his head. "I double checked the room, and this is all of it, every last piece. And I think the weather should get warmer soon."

"I hope so," said Hemingway, slowly, as if giving the few words his full consideration. "If it gets any colder, those trout'll drop too deep in the pools of the river to catch." After a pause as he puffed a breath and watched the frost form in the air in front of him, he looked at Sebby again. "When did you last eat, son?"

Feeling as though he'd stepped in front of some very unwelcome headlights, Sebby froze. He'd had breakfast, it was true, but it had consisted of a single cup of tea. There was no sugar and no milk. Sebby had made Pop take the last slice of bread, and then said he wasn't hungry. This was a lie, of course, as he was always hungry, only there was nothing he could do about it. The money he'd earned over the last few weeks only went so far, and there was the doctor's bill to pay on top of everything else. While he knew that other twenty-year-olds probably didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders, there was nothing he could do but struggle on.

"This morning, sir," said Sebby, though it was terribly hard to lie to Mr. Hemingway.

"I told you to call me Ernest," said Hemingway, the irritation plain in his voice, though it was easy to see he meant the words to be a joke. "How many times did I tell you?"

"Several times," said Sebby, smiling, though he was shivering as the wind whipped past him as he stood there in his shirtsleeves. "Yes, Ernest."

"You and your Pop aren't going to last a Wyoming winter." Hemingway lifted his chin as he looked at Sebby.

"Excuse me?" asked Sebby, stopping himself by sheer force of will from rubbing his arms to keep warm. He didn't want Mr. Hemingway to think he was weak at all.

"With that cough your Pop's got, and you without any meat on your bones, you won't last the winter. It's too tough up here for both of you." Settling his hat on his head, Hemingway nodded at the driver, who was practically dancing with impatience to be away. "You ought to get out while you can."

"Yes, we will." Sebby nodded to reinforce the words, but they were a lie too. The whole conversation was settling in his belly like unwanted rocks.

"Here," said Hemingway as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out a shiny fifty-cent piece. "Thank you for everything, and tell your Pop I'm sorry for what I said about the Babe."

"I couldn't." Blinking fast, Sebby tried to keep the horror of accepting charity from showing on his face.

"It's a tip, son," said Hemingway. "It's not for nothing. You helped get my package mailed. You carried my luggage. I had a great conversation with your Pop. All in all, you deserve it, so take it."

If Sebby didn't take the money, Mr. Hemingway might get irritated, or there might be an argument. Then Mr. Blair would hear raised voices and come out, and find Sebby at fault for all of it. The coin glinted in Hemingway's hand. Sebby's mouth watered at the food that it could buy. There didn't seem anything else he could do but take it.

"Thank you, Mr.—I mean, Ernest." Sebby clasped the coin in his hand, still warm from Hemingway's touch, and thought, in spite of himself, that there were a million uses for the money, even though fifty cents wouldn't go very far. "I appreciate it."

"That's good, then."

With a tip of his broad-brimmed hat, Hemingway got into the waiting motorcar and waved at Sebby as the driver steered the car into the road. In a chuff of exhaust fumes, the motorcar went up the street, then turned on Sheridan Avenue, headed towards the mountains and the road that would take him north to Clark's Fork to go fishing. He'd invited Pop to go with him, but with Pop's bad cough, it would be impossible for him to be fly fishing in the middle of a swiftly running, icy October river.

Going back inside, Sebby shivered at the relative warmth of the lobby. Down the hall that led to the kitchen, he saw Marie, the youngest maid, carrying a sack of dirty laundry.

She was headed to the stairs that led to the basement, where the laundry was stored out of sight until Sebby could take it to the laundromat, except Mr. Blair, with his large shoulders, was blocking the way. He was dressed in his cook's apron and hat, his black-dyed hair slicked back with Brylcreem, as though he imagined he'd be going to a fancy dress ball later, and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes.

He said something to her in a rough tone. Sebby could hardly hear her response, but her hunched shoulders and blushing cheeks were enough for him to know Mr. Blair was being his rude self. It was one thing for him to order Sebby around, it was another for him to proposition a young lady who only wanted to get on with her work.

Though he wasn't big enough to take Mr. Blair in a fight, Sebby knew he needed to do something about it. Fists clenched, shoulders tight, he strode down the hall like he had someplace to be that required him to not look where he was going.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sebby as he bumped, hard, into Mr. Blair's back. "Didn't see you, Mr. Blair. Are you taking that laundry to the cellar for me, Marie? Thank you."

With these words, Marie was released. Going as fast as she could, black skirts and white apron flying, she headed with her bundle to the kitchen where the door to the cellar was. There, her mother, Janina, the assistant cook, was busy at work, and maybe her sister Serena was as well. All of whom would help to protect her, but left that Sebby standing in the hallway with Mr. Blair glowering at him. He couldn't get away fast enough for Mr. Blair grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"What do you think you're doing, you clumsy idiot?" asked Mr. Blair, shaking him. "Why don't you look where you're going?"

"I only meant to—" Sebby stopped, as yet another lie was rising before him, and he was heartily sick of it. "You shouldn't talk to her that way, Mr. Blair, it isn't right."

"What are you saying?"

"She hardly speaks any English at all, but she knows what you're saying to her." Sebby stood his ground, shoulders back, chin thrust out. "You need to have better manners around her, her and her sister Serena both."

"I'll do as I damn well please with either of them. They're just fucking Polacks, taking good jobs from people who deserve 'em. And as for you—"

Before Sebby could even blink, Mr. Blair hauled back and backhanded him, hard, flinging Sebby against the doorjamb of the communal bathroom. Eyes watering, ears ringing, face on fire, he struggled to stay on his feet and stand up to the man who'd been his constant tormentor almost from the day Sebby and Pop had arrived at the hotel.

"Another word out of you about this and I'll give her twice what I just gave you. Hear?"

Gasping, Sebby couldn't answer. When Mr. Blair raised his hand again, Sebby pushed back against the doorjamb as hard as he could and then ducked low. Which only made Mr. Blair even angrier, but since Mrs. Chamberlin had come out of her office, perhaps to find out what the ruckus was, there was nothing Mr. Blair could do but back down. And nothing Sebby could do but wipe the blood from his chin with the back of his shaking hand and pretend nothing had happened.

"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chamberlin, running her fingers down her string of pearls. "Only do keep it down, Mr. Blair, and Sebby, you too. Some of our guests are still waking up and checking out of their rooms. Make some room in the hallway, if you please. Sebby, that laundry will be ready for you to take in another hour or so. Are you set for work?"

Mrs. Chamberlin, the owner of the hotel, meant this in a kindly way, or at least it seemed so. She didn't think he was lollygagging, but, more, wanted to know if he knew what task needed doing next.

"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby. "I'm going to wash the dishes while the girls finish up the rooms, and then I'm going to wipe the tables and sweep and mop the dining hall." Both of these were big, messy tasks. It was better for the hotel, as Mrs. Chamberlin had explained to him, if the girls, who were in public view, looked nice and tidy while they cleaned the rooms.

"Very good," said Mrs. Chamberlin. "Would you tell Janina that if she needs more cabbage, or any onions and such that she needs to give me a list before I head to the post office in half an hour."

"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby, but his heart sank. He'd told Mr. Hemingway specifically that Mrs. Chamberlin had taken his package of letters and whatnot to the post office right after breakfast and here it was almost ten o'clock. Or maybe she'd already gone and come back and was going again? No, that wasn't right. She seemed pretty organized and would only make one trip. Thus what Sebby had told Mr. Hemingway was yet another lie, one more to stack up on top of all the others.

"And Mr. Blair, be sure Barbara counts those keys correctly after checkout. Yesterday she lost track of one, and they are expensive to replace."

"My daughter didn't lose any of the keys," said Mr. Blair, barely able, it seemed, to keep the growl out of his voice. "One of the guests must have taken it."

As Mr. Blair glared at Sebby, he seemed to be saying without words that perhaps Sebby was to blame. But since Sebby only watched the desk sometimes during lunch and maybe after all the guests had checked out for the day, and hadn't at all for the past few days it couldn't have been him. He didn't say anything, though, because that would only start Mr. Blair up again, and give Mrs. Chamberlin more to cluck over as she stroked her pearls.

"If it happens again, I'm afraid I'll have to take it out of her pay."

Mrs. Chamberlin seemed firm about this, but Sebby wondered whether Mr. Blair would be able to sweet-talk her out of it, or maybe threaten her out of it. Or perhaps she would forget, because all in all, Barbara Blair seemed to think she'd been born with a spoon of gold in her mouth, and didn't want anyone to forget it, even though she had to work like everybody else at the hotel.

When Mrs. Chamberlin went back into her office, hopefully to get Mr. Hemingway's mail to take to the post office, Mr. Blair was distracted and Sebby was able to slip down the hall to the kitchen. There, in the warm, steamy room, Janina, the assistant cook to Mr. Blair, was at the counter, slicing potatoes. She was a slight woman with dark hair and eyes, and always wore a sensible black dress and plain white apron that came down to the dress's hem.

When she heard him come in, she turned, and her face was white, her eyes dull. Obviously Marie had told her what had happened, but just as there was nothing Sebby could do, there was nothing she could do, either. Mr. Blair was a bully through and through and any word against him brought down the threat of losing her job, and she knew it.

"I'll take care of these, Janina," said Sebby as he went to the sink, where a pile of pots and pans and dishes and silverware and all the rest of it waited for him. "Then I'll get on the dining room and clean up from breakfast, okay?"

"You watch, yes?" she asked, and while her English was broken it was a damn sight better than Sebby's Polish. "I go to Marie now."

"Sure," said Sebby as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was glad to do it, if it meant that Janina could go comfort her daughter. "I'll say you just stepped out for some fresh air."

With a nod, she opened the door to the cellar and disappeared into the black depths.

Sebby got to work, doing his best to shave off the thinnest slivers of soap into a sinkfull of hot water. There wouldn't be many bubbles, but with elbow grease and good can-do attitude he knew the work would go fast. And maybe Janina would loan him a bit of ice for his jaw, which, as he bent over the sink, brought a low-grade pounding up to its fullest degree.

Living over the hotel's garage and working in the hotel was hard, and the pay wasn't much, but it was a job. It was an arrangement that kept them off the streets, and he was glad to get it. It meant that he could take care of Pop.

Just as it began to rain really hard, coming down like shards of ice, he was finishing up with coal deliveries to Mrs. Chamberlin's office, the reception area. His last stop was the kitchen, where he washed his hands at the sink, relishing the hot water and soap. It made him angry to see Janina at the stove, putting in a sheet of sugar cookies in the oven, her mouth curved down, eyes dark and sad.

They were all in a bad spot because Mr. Blair was a bully who said what he liked and did what he wanted, and all the while Mrs. Chamberlin seemed oblivious. None of them, not Janina or her daughters, or Pop and Sebby could do a thing about it without risking losing their jobs. Thus nobody said anything about it, and every day seemed to go on as this one was, with Sebby having a quick wash before going back to the apartment. There, Pop would working hard to cut strips for Mrs. Johnson to make her braided rugs with. He wanted to stay in the kitchen, but he couldn't, as it wasn't his place. And besides, he couldn't leave Pop on his own.

"Yes, Serena?" asked Janina, as Serena came into the kitchen, holding out a small blue notebook.

"This things," she said waving the notebook at her mother. "It is left. The man with the—" She stopped to motion at her own mouth, drawing her fingers down as if she'd suddenly sprouted a growth of hair. "Bushy face and the eyes, blue."

"Which room?" asked Sebby, even though he felt he already knew, as there was only one guest who'd checked out that morning who might have cause to carry a well-used, hand-sized notebook with a denim blue cover on it.

"The 18," said Serena. She gestured with her hand as though to indicate that the notebook had been beneath something else. "Near the bed."

Both Janina and Serena looked at Sebby for the solution to their problem, which was to find a way to return the notebook to Mr. Hemingway, the proper owner.

"I'll take it," he said, holding out his hand. "He's coming back after his fishing trip, though Pop mentioned he might stay at the Irma Hotel."

"Good," said Janina, her gratitude seemingly way out of proportion with the very small good deed.

It was only a second later he realized the issue. If Mr. Blair saw her or one of her daughters with it, he might accuse them of stealing it, possibly with the hope of getting a reward. The worst part of this was not that Sebby was now on the hot seat, but that he could so easily figure out how Mr. Blair would handle himself. Being able to see into the heart of such an evil man made him feel wounded and sore. He longed to be far away from Mr. Blair but it just wasn't possible. Everything, every bit of their survival, was reliant on what they had at the Chamberlin Inn: the small apartment, the meager pay Sebby brought in, and the kindness of a doctor who was allowing them to pay him a little each week.

Hurrying, he went outside and crossed the small alley between the hotel proper and the outbuilding where, upstairs, he and Pop had been living for the past few weeks. The rent was free, on account of Mrs. Chamberlin's charity, but there was no heat, barely any hot water, and only a pot-bellied stove to make tea on and heat their potato peel soup.

As quietly as he could, he snuck up the narrow staircase and let himself into the apartment as though he was a burglar of some kind, closing the door with a silent snick.

Pop was in his armchair, which was as close to the pot-bellied stove in the corner as it could possibly be. Not that it made any difference, as they only had one lump of coal a day and it had to last through the night, all the way to morning. Still, they had the semblance of being near a warm fire, and could make do if they wrapped themselves in blankets and pretended to be of good cheer.

At night, they put the lump of coal in the pot-bellied stove, lit it, and slept on blankets on the floor in front of it. It was a damn sight better than the alternative, which was being homeless and on the streets in such foul weather, but it broke Sebby's heart every time he thought about his Pop and his bad cough and the number of strips he had to cut for a penny apiece, just to help pay the doctor's bills.

As he thought, Pop was asleep, so Sebby straightened the blanket around Pop's shoulders, and put the scissors on the table, the box of cloth and strips on the floor. The more rest Pop got, the faster he would get better. Besides, Sebby had fifty cents so he could buy them a little food. It couldn't be all bad as long as they could eat. As to what Sebby would tell Pop about taking Mr. Hemingway's charity, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was headed out to pay the doctor's bill and, with what was left over, buy them a little food to eat.

Saturday Series Spotlight

Student Edition

Heroes for Ghosts  /  Heroes Across Time

Hemingway's Notebook  /  For Love of a Ghost

Jackie North

Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.

Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)

She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.

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EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com

Heroes for Ghosts #1

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Hemingway's Notebook #5

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Love Across Time Series

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🎡📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🎡: Autumn in the Vineyard by Marina Adair

Summary:

St. Helena Vineyard #3

Now a Hallmark original movie

Frankie Baudouin has a hundred--and growing--reasons to despise Nate DeLuca. Reason one: he’s a DeLuca. Reason two: he kissed her in front of the entire town and then vanished like a bad magician. Reason three: he wants her land. Sorrento Ranch is Frankie's last shot to prove to her family--and herself--that she’s more than just a pretty face in a vineyard. And she’ll do whatever it takes to succeed… even if it means tolerating the most infuriatingly charming Italian this side of Tuscany.

Nate DeLuca doesn’t do “easy.” He does legacy, ambition, and apparently chaos in the form of one stubborn, gorgeous winemaker. Sorrento Ranch was his father’s dream, and Nate intends to see it flourish. But living under the same roof with Frankie—who’s equal parts brilliant, fiery, and ridiculously distracting--might just teach him that some things are worth breaking the rules for… like a certain woman who insists on wearing lace to breakfast.

CHAPTER 1

It had taken three years, some tricky negotiating, her entire life savings, and a lot of ball busting—but Francesca Baudouin was finally a vineyard owner. Well, she was the owner of ten acres of prime St. Helena appellation soil, which would take another five years of sweat and, quite possibly, selling off a few of her vital organs before it fully became a quality producing vineyard.

But Sorrento Ranch, the most sought after property in the valley, and all of its belongings, was hers. She bought it right out from under the DeLucas’ noses. In part because the owner, Mrs. Sorrento, had played darts with Frankie and Frankie’s great aunt every Friday night for the past fifteen years, so her loyalties were clear, but mostly because Mrs. Sorrento knew that selling the land to either family involved in the great DeLuca-Baudouin feud would piss off her ex-husband.

“One more inch and I’ll shoot,” Frankie said to the alpaca in front of her, a four-legged garbage disposal whose mouth was currently wrapped around the plastic casing of the water tank. She stomped her ball-busting, steeled-toed combat boot in his direction for added emphasis.

The alpaca’s beady eyes narrowed and dropped to her feet. Extending its lips in her direction, it made a loud raspberry sound, stomped an aggressive hoof and then went back to nibbling. Yeah, ball-buster or not, hooves beat boots.

But Frankie wasn’t about to let some hardheaded alpaca with shaggy hair and buck teeth stick it to her on her first week in business. As the youngest of four, and the only girl, Frankie was a pro at dealing with stubborn males who excelled at ignoring her completely, while messing with her life wholeheartedly.

She cocked her rifle.

“The only thing separating you from becoming a pair of next season’s mittens is my trigger finger, Camel Boy.” Because the only thing separating them from ten-thousand gallons of well water was the thin plastic seam-binding on the water tank, which “Mittens” had managed to chew loose. She didn’t want to deal with the cleanup and couldn’t afford a new irrigation tank. “I mean it, one more bite and the only identifying male trait you’ll have left is stupidity.”

That got his attention. In fact, the animal straightened and fluffed out the fur around his face, making him look like a cross between a camel, a koala, and Clifford the Big Red Dog. When he wasn’t destroying her property, he was kind of cute. In a big, dumb, oafy kind of way.

Mittens was the sole remaining alpaca from Mrs. Sorrento’s farm. The rest of his hooved brethren were living it up at Alberta’s Paradise Alpaca Farm and Pet Sanctuary. Mittens hadn’t even set one hoof in the back of the moving truck when the rest of the heard gathered their spit and took aim. Poor Mittens had been kicked out of his own family and before Frankie or Alberta had been able to catch him, his fluffy butt disappeared, and Alberta had left instructions to call when Frankie secured the runaway. That had been four days, two patio chairs, and a motorcycle tire ago.

“See?” Frankie lowered her rifle to the ground, picking up the cushion from Mr. Sorrento’s old recliner in one hand and a rope in the other. “That wasn’t so bad. Now just come over here and I’ll give you a treat.”

Eyes glued to the nubby avocado-green cushion, the alpaca took a tentative step forward.

“Then you can go to your new house.” Another step. “Where they feed you gourmet hay and mud tires, and there are kids around all the time to play with you.” Step. “And you’ll get to see your family.”

The alpaca stopped, squared its body, and let out an ear-piercing bleat, which sounded like a cross between wark and Chewbacca screaming, right before he sank his teeth into the plastic casing and pulled. Hard.

“Mittens!”

“Wark!”

“No—”

The tank split at the seam and before either of them could move, a wall of water came crashing out with enough force to topple Mittens into Frankie and send the two of them skidding back several feet.

When Frankie stopped moving and the water had receded into a pool of mud, she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took stock. She was flat on her back, with a stick poking into her right butt cheek and a drenched Mittens sprawled out over the top of her.

“Move.” She shoved at the animal.

“Wark-wark!”

“I warned you! But did you listen?”

Mittens let out an apologetic nicker and dropped his head to Frankie’s chest, his big brown eyes looking up at her through long lashes.

“You could be halfway to Paradise right now,” she said, giving him a little rub behind the ears. “Just think, in a few months it will be grooming season and all the ladies will be prancing around in nothing but sheared skin. Plus, you’ll have your family.”

This time the nicker was almost sad. Ignoring the alpaca’s wet dog smell, Frankie called a temporary truce and dug both hands in his thick fur to scratch his cheeks. “Yeah, I get it. Family sucks, but I can’t let you stay here. Come spring, I’ll start planting my vines and you’d eat them.”

Mittens huffed, a burst of hot air hitting Frankie in the face.

“Liar.” She worked her fingers around his temples and behind his ears. The animal’s eyes slid closed in ecstasy. “You already cost me a water tank, which I can’t afford to replace by the way.”

His only response was to nuzzle Frankie’s chest and hum loudly.

“So, there is no way I have the budget to keep replacing everything you decide to sink your teeth into.”

Hum. Hum. Hum.

“I hope he bought you dinner first,” a voice said.

With a groan, Frankie turned her head and, wishing she were standing so she could glare at him without having to shield her eyes, swore. Upside down or not, there was no mistaking the man who was currently towering over her—or the way her stomach gave a lame little flutter when he lifted his mirrored glasses and delivered a heart-stopping wink.

“Afternoon, Francesca,” he said with enough practiced swagger that it made not rolling her eyes impossible.

Nathaniel DeLuca was six-plus feet of solid muscle, smug-male yumminess, and he smelled like sex. He was also extremely Italian, annoying as hell, and, for whatever reason, every time he entered Frankie’s space she felt all dainty and feminine. Which pissed her off even more because at one time she’d trusted Nate with her heart and a promise of keeping her deepest secret.

And he’d broken them both.

Thank God she had on her ball-buster boots today. Too bad they were currently covered in mud, alpaca fur, and pointing at the sky.

“Go away, Nathaniel,” she said by way of greeting.

Mittens hummed louder, arching into her hand as Frankie scratched down his spine.

“And leave a lady in need?” Nate asked, coming forward and squatting down to pluck a maple leaf off of Frankie’s forehead. “Nonna ChiChi would have my ass.”

“I know you’re used to your women poised and proper. But I’ve got this handled.”

“I didn’t know you paid that much attention to my women, but now that you mentioned the difference…” He plucked a branch from her hair and flashed his perfectly straight teeth in her face. His smile, like his personality, was lethal and his entitled attitude was one-hundred percent DeLuca. “That’s great,” he continued, “because I won’t have to worry that you’ll cry when I tell you to stop exciting my alpaca and get the hell off my property.”

His property?

He plucked off another branch, this time from her shirt, his fingers leaving a heated trail and stirring up all kinds of fire—and not the good kind. The last time she remembered being this close to killing him had been at the Summer Wine Showdown three months ago. He’d hard-balled her into sitting on the Tasting Tribunal, they argued over the winner, then he’d kissed her—right as her grandpa, a tsunami of irate old man, showed up.

No one had forced her to sit on that tasting tribunal, or to run her hands up his hard chest and into his hair when she’d kissed him back, but she blamed Nate anyway.

Frankie looked up at Nate and pinned him with her best bring-it glare. This land was hers. Her dream. Her fresh start. Her everything. And no one, especially not a DeLuca, was going to mess with that.

“Last time you threatened me, I think I promised to rip your face off,” Francesca said, her voice eerily calm.

The calm before the storm, Nate thought, standing up and taking a large step back.

“With. My. Teeth.”

One minute she was on the ground under a pile of wet alpaca, the next she was standing with her torn hip-huggers and black tank top plastered to her body, leaves stuck to her shapely butt, and enough curves and pissed off female vibes to level a guy. She was also clutching a shotgun, making her armed, sexy, and untouchable as ever.

It was no secret that Frankie hated Nate. Or that they argued all the time. She tried to fight with him about winemaking—which only continued the stupid-ass feud that had divided their families for over six decades—while all he fought was the idiotic urge to kiss her until she shut up.

Not that he’d give into the urge again. Even if hot-headed ball-busters with something to prove were his type—which they definitely were not—Nate didn’t fight with people. Ever. It was a gigantic, ineffective energy suck. He was more the mild-mannered arbitrator. Always had been. And he was damn easy to get along with, even-tempered too—until he was nose to nose with Frankie.

Her temper was one of the many reasons on his ever growing WHY TO AVOID FRANCESCA BAUDOUIN list. Although, as of—he looked at his watch and smiled—two minutes ago, irritating her had him reevaluating said list.

“Beautiful—” he said, smiling as his gaze went from the barrel of the gun to her tank top, which was drooping with water and giving him an inspiring view of her breasts—“day, don’t you think, Francesca?”

Clearly seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her aim—dangerously low. “Since I’ve been waiting months for a good excuse to shoot you, I’d have to say my day’s looking pretty damn good.”

Not for long, Nate thought, waiting for the sweet zing of victory to kick in. When it didn’t, he had to wonder why.

Frankie’s family wanted this land as much as his did. It wasn’t just about the prime twenty-acre parcel. It was about righting a sixty-year old wrong that waged a feud between the two founding families of St. Helena. Back then, Charles Baudouin had won. Today, the DeLucas had. But when Nate imagined this moment, and he’d imagined it plenty over the years since his parents died, he hadn’t expected victory to feel like shit.

“Look, Francesca,” Nate sighed, taking a small step toward her. This was going to be hard on her, and that bothered him. “Why don’t you drop the gun, and let’s go inside where we can talk?”

“I’ll drop the gun as soon as I see your starched ass disappear over that fence.” She waved the double barrels at the white fence that separated his family’s vineyard from Sorrento Ranch.

Nate looked up at the sky and took in a calming, mild-mannered breath. “Unless you want to end up in cuffs, I suggest you put it down. The sheriff might be able to ignore the trespassing charge. But threatening a man with a gun brings this to a level even your brother can’t make disappear.”

“Well, since Mrs. Sorrento moved out, handing me the keys to the place, that would mean that you’re the trespasser, so I think it would play out more like me protecting what’s mine. So for old time’s sake, I’ll give you and your—” her eyes dropped and she grimaced—“loafers a two minute head start before I start shooting.”

 “Your property?” he asked, wondering what was wrong with his loafers.

“As of Monday,” she clarified, a smug smile tilting up those luscious lips.

There were only a few things that could have made Nate’s day any shittier. And that was one of them. Proof that Saul had officially screwed them over.

A crisp autumn breeze kicked up, rustling a leaf loose from Frankie’s hair, but doing nothing for the suffocating feeling Nate had pressing at his chest. The only thing he had going in his favor was that they had started escrow last Thursday, giving him a two business-day lead on the Baudouins. A man couldn’t sell the same property to two people, and since it seemed like Nate had purchased it first, Francesca was two days too late.

“Look,” he tried again. “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”

“Oh, I’m done talking. All I ever get from listening to your dribble is a headache and a world of trouble with my family.”

“Yeah, about that—” Nate ran a hand down his face, not wanting to think about her family or how many times he’d made her standing with them even more difficult and complicated.

Three months ago, Charles had boycotted the Summer Wine Showdown with the sole purpose of canceling the hundred year old fundraiser. He would have succeeded too, if Frankie hadn’t agreed to fill in as the official Baudouin judge.

Nate hadn’t seen much of her since—avoidance being something they had both mastered living in the same small town—so he didn’t know what went down afterward. But that look on Charles’s face when he saw Frankie sitting on the Tasting Tribunal was enough for Nate to understand that Frankie had gone too far over that line.

Judging by the dark smudges under her eyes and her taut, pale skin, these past few months had been hard on her. Guilt, and something he didn’t want to acknowledge, shifted from his gut up to his chest, forming an angry knot.

He studied her face. “Frankie, about the—”

“Don’t worry, golden boy,” she interrupted, racking the gun’s slide and obviously misunderstanding his attempt at an apology. Not that he blamed her. Apology wasn’t something they had much experience with. “I won’t shoot. Yet.”

Nate sighed. He needed Rambo over there to put the gun down and be reasonable, just for two days, two freaking days and then escrow would close and the land would be his. Maybe if he approached Frankie with a generous enough offer he could salvage this screwed-up situation. He knew that her grandpa was having cash flow problems. If he—

Shit!

A police car’s red and blue flashing lights sped down the dirt road, kicking up gravel and dust as it skidded toward them. Frankie raised her hand and squinted into the sun.

“Really?” She spun around and hit him with a very hostile glare. “You called my brother?”

“No,” he said, confused as to why that would be an issue. If anything, her brother would find a way to haul his ass in while Frankie got away scot-free and his deal fell apart. “I called the sheriff. Your brother just happens to be the responding officer.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Frankie rolled her eyes, going for annoyed, but he saw the way her gaze kept darting back to the passenger in the cruiser as it pulled to a stop.

“Afternoon, Nate. Frankie,” Sheriff Bryant said, maneuvering his belly around the steering column and stepping out of the cruiser. “Got a call about an armed intruder.”

“Armed intruder?” Francesca laughed, sliding Nate an amused look before lowering the gun and smiling up at the sheriff—who smiled back. “I was just walking my property, Sheriff.”

Frankie’s grin faded as her mountain of a brother, Deputy Jonah Baudouin, slid out of the passenger side of the car. He was impressively dangerous looking and, Nate reminded himself, packing. On a normal day, when unarmed, Nate could hold his own against the deputy. But he knew that when it came to protecting baby sisters, men could be ruthless. Hell, he’d do just about anything to make sure his sister Abby was happy and safe.

So when Jonah stood there, silently watching Frankie with a total lack of emotion on his face, Nate found himself wondering just what their relationship was like.

“Frankie,” Jonah said tipping his hat as though she wasn’t his sister. Then he turned to Nate with the same expressionless look. “What’s going on?”

That’s exactly what Nate wanted to know. Why did Frankie look like she’d been busted? And why was Jonah asking Nate when Frankie was the one holding the gun?

“I’m sorry,” Frankie began, her voice shaking with something that did stupid things to Nate’s chest. “I was going to tell you about the property, but I wanted to make sure—”

Frankie trailed off because—holy shit—Miss Bad Ass looked close to tears and Jonah wasn’t even reacting, just patiently waiting for her to continue.

Two former childhood sweethearts are forced to work side-by-side on a vineyard during a legal dispute.

Release Date: October 8, 2016

Release Time: 84 minutes

Director: Scott Smith

Cast:

Rachael Leigh Cook as Frankie Baldwin

Brendan Penny as Nate DeLuca

Jill Teed as Glow Sorrento

Jeremy Guilbaut as Jonah Baldwin

Laura Soltis as Carla DeLuca

Tom Butler as Charles Baldwin

Ali Liebert as Hannah

Nathaniel Middleton as Gabe DeLuca

Marcus Rosner as Marco DeLuca

Lucia Walters as Susan Jones

Julian Christopher as Judge Pricket

John Emmet Tracy as Tony Commisso

Leslee Achorn as Marilee Weeks

Malcolm Boddington as Mel Turner

Autum  /  Summer

Marina Adair

Marina Adair is a #1 National best-selling author with over a million books sold. She holds a Master of Fine arts in creative writing and her St. Helena Vineyard series was the inspiration behind the original Hallmark Channel movies, Autumn in the Vineyard and Summer in the Vineyard. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is also the author of the Heroes of St Helena series, the Eastons, and the Sequoia Lake series. She currently lives with her husband, daughter, and two neurotic cats in Northern California.

As a writer, Marina is devoted to giving her readers contemporary romance where the towns are small, the personalities large, and the romance explosive. She also loves to interact with readers and you can catch her on Twitter or visit her website. Keep up with Marina by signing up for her newsletter.

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Autumn in the Vineyard #3

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