Thursday, April 17, 2025

🐰⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🐰: Bunny Hop Beau by Lacey Daize



Summary:
Holiday Surprise #5
Saint Patrick's Day was the best day of Avery's life, the day after was the worst.

Avery left home for Valle Granja at the insistence of his instincts, and the urging of his mama, who'd always supported him. When he meets his fated mate, Cam, at the Saint Patrick's Day Dance he understands why. But joy is soon replaced with grief when only hours later he learns that his parents were killed in a car accident—having never heard that he met his mate and leaving Avery's five-year-old brother behind.

Finding his fated mate was like a dream come true for Cam, but their bond is immediately put to the test.

Cam knew that Avery was his fated mate as soon as he saw him, and he was excited to begin their lives together. However an early-morning phone call shatters the peace of their new bond. Suddenly he finds himself as the surrport for his grieving mate and orphaned brother, a position which brings up memories of his own.

Can new love survive grief and loss, and can they come together as a family?

Bunny Hop Beau is a 23K word , non-shifter, M/M, mpreg, omegaverse romance

Content note: Loss and grief play prominent roles in this book.


Original Review March 2024:
First off I'm going to say I found Bunny Hop to be a companion piece to Lucky Dance Date(Holiday Surprise #3) as the first chapters are a recap of Lucky but from Cam and Avery's POV.  If you haven't read Lucky, I highly recommend doing so, not because you'll be lost in regards to what is going on but to some degree I would say it has spoilers for Lucky, not word-for-word but enough that I would not enjoy Lucky as much knowing what we see here first. For those who think the first chapters are wasted as "rehashing" they aren't, I was excited to see those events from Cam and Avery's POV as the friends of the MCs, not something you often get to see.

As for Bunny Hop, it goes from unbelievably happy happy to devastatingly saddy saddy in a heartbeat, which life tends to do once in a while.  As heartbreaking as the death of Avery's parents is, the flip of a coin change in emotional fortune for the pair was in a way refreshing because of the reality of it.  Hard to think in terms of reality when dealing with mpreg and omegaverse genres & tropes but the heartache leaves you even more emotionally attached to the characters than one often finds themselves.  Let's face it, Cam has been handed the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card(for lack of better phrasing) but he doesn't bite and he shows Avery just how all in he truly is, yet another reason Bunny Hop is a heart grabber.

Once again Lacey Daize has once again proven mpreg can be both realistic and fantasy all at the same time.  Can't wait to read more of her awesome stories.

RATING:




Chapter 1 - Avery 
 ~January~ 
I side-eyed the fax machine as it picked up a piece of paper and started printing. The thing was a constant thorn in my side, but no matter how often I tried to convince my bosses that it was obsolete, they insisted that we keep it. 

Apparently some people still preferred to fax documents, no matter how secure and convenient the web portals we offered. 

I blinked as it picked up a second sheet. The spam adverts that it usually printed always fit on a single page, which meant that it was one of the rare real faxes. I snagged the cover sheet and noted the number of expected pages, and whom in the office I needed to hand it over to. 

I smiled when I saw that JosΓ©—a handsome alpha mortgage broker—was the intended recipient. It gave me an excuse to talk to him.  

I’d met JosΓ© six months earlier, when I first arrived in Valle Granja, and my instincts had immediately insisted that I get close to him. The urge was almost as strong as the one that had made me move there. 

I didn’t question it at first. My mama had always stressed that the universe knew what it was doing, and that it guided us through our instincts. But after months of flirting, and him seemingly oblivious, I was starting to wonder if that inner voice had been wrong. 

Once the fax finished printing I checked to make sure that it had all arrived properly, then took it to JosΓ©’s office. 

Unfortunately, several minutes—and even an invitation to lunch—later, he still seemed as immune to my flirting as ever. 

I forced a smile as one of the other mortgage brokers, Morgan, headed towards me, and passed him as I walked to the break room.

I was almost there when I realized that I’d left my cell phone at the front desk. I turned around to grab it, but stopped when I heard something that stopped me in my tracks. 

“...I ran into my old highschool boyfriend, and… I’ve still got it bad for him,” Jose said 

“From high school?” Morgan asked. “Man, you’ve gotta move on. It’s been more than a decade, right? Why not give Avery a chance? He’s obviously interested.” 

I plastered myself against the wall. Listening was wrong, but I needed to know. 

“No omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice,” JosΓ© replied. “They deserve a mate who looks at them, and knows that there could never be another. We owe them that much since all the consequences of a failed mating falls on them.” 

“I didn’t say mate him, just date him.” 

“That would be leading him on, and I’m not down for that.” 

“Whatever man. Your loss, but maybe you should let him know so he can move on too.”

Jose sighed. “You’re probably right.” There was a pause, then he continued. “So what did you need?” 

I stepped away and decided to return to the break room without my cell phone rather than walk past the open office door and give away that I might have heard the conversation. 

I needed to think. How had my instincts been so wrong to lead me to a man who was in love with somebody else?

 ∞∞∞ 

I flopped on the couch and removed my glasses. I rubbed at a spot with the hem of my shirt until I was satisfied that whatever it was was gone, then I started to put them back on. It was then that a lock of blond hair decided to fall in front of my eyes. I huffed and smoothed it back into place, making a mental note to get a haircut, then put my glasses back on. Finally I picked up my phone. It was time for my weekly call with my parents, and I really wanted to talk to my mama. 

JosΓ©’s words had echoed in my head for days. “No omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice…”

There was a finality in the statement. He would always love his high-school boyfriend, and it would never change. Anybody else would be the backup option. 

I knew in my core that the universe wouldn’t pair me with an alpha who would forever carry a torch for somebody else. But I still had a strong urge to be near him. 

I blew out a breath and tapped my parents’ number from my contact list. 

“Avery! Sweetheart!” my mama said as she answered. “How are you doing?” 

I smiled. Somehow just hearing Mama’s voice always lifted my spirits. “I’m good, Mama. How about you?” 

She laughed. “Busy as always. You know how it is.” 

“I know. But you’ll have to slow down at some point.” 

“Ridiculous!” she replied. “Only death itself can slow down your dad and I.” “Somehow I’m not surprised,” I laughed. “How’s Eric?” 

Mama sighed happily. “He’s good. He’s at a birthday party for one of his classmates right now.” 

I chuckled. “And you were worried that he wouldn’t make friends.” 

“All the other parents are your age or younger!” Mama protested. “Your dad and I are in our fifties.”

“I don’t think anybody cares about that,” I argued. “What they care about is Eric, and what they see is a happy and healthy five-year-old.” 

Mama sighed happily. “He reminds me so much of you at that age. Full of energy, and so kind to everybody. I bet he’ll even look like you when you grow up. He’s got the same blond hair and slight frame. Just missing the glasses, though the pediatrician’s keeping an eye on his vision.  I just wish you’d have been born closer together.” 

“Life does funny things. It just decided that I needed a baby brother to keep you busy until I have kids of my own.” 

“That it does, and we’re happy to have him around.” Mama paused. “Did you want me to call in your dad?” 

I licked my lips, trying to decide. 

“Ave? Honey?” 

“Mama?” 

“Yes dear? 

“Do you remember when I moved out here, that I felt that my instincts were pulling me?” 

“Of course.”

“Did I tell you about the alpha at my work?” 

Mama hummed as she thought about the question. “You mentioned that there was a handsome alpha there, but that was all. Are things going ok?” 

I sighed. “I don’t know. My gut says to stay close to him, and I thought that meant that I was going to end up with him at some point. But I don’t know what to think anymore.” 

“Oh honey, what happened?” 

I took a deep breath. “I overheard him talking to another mortgage broker at the firm. Apparently he’s still in love with an omega he dated in high school.” 

Mama hummed. “Ok…” 

I paused. “Mama… he said something that I can’t get out of my head.” 

“What was it?” 

“He said that no omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice.” 

Mama sighed softly. “He’s right.” 

I blinked. “Mama?” 

“He’s right. But it goes both ways. Nobody should ever be the second choice, alphas or omegas. You want a partner who looks at you and can’t imagine anybody better.”

“What’s it mean though? Why are my instincts insisting that I get close to him if I would only be second best?” 

“Just because the universe says to get close, doesn’t mean they’re supposed to be your mate. I don’t think it’s ever really discussed, but if we can have fated mates, then surely we can have fated friends.” 

“Fated friends?” 

Mama laughed. “Why not? If the universe wants people to be close, it doesn’t have to limit it to romantic partners.” 

I was silent as I thought about it. Was I meant to have JosΓ© as a friend, not as a mate? Somehow it felt right. 

“Did that answer your question honey?” 

I smiled. “It did. I feel better now. Thanks Mama.” 

“I think you already knew the answer, but sometimes it helps to talk things out.” 

“You’re probably right.” 

Mama laughed. “Only on good days. Let me call in your dad so he can talk too.” 

“Ok.”

She set down the phone and I closed my eyes, running over our conversation while I waited for my dad to join her. 

Mama always knew just what to say to make me feel better about myself, and I couldn’t imagine life without her.



Saturday Series Spotlight

Cutie  /  Cupid  /  Date
Beau  /  Flame  /  Crush



Lacey Daize
Lacey lives in New Mexico with her four critters. She’s a Jill-of-all-trades by day, but loves writing in her spare time. She dabbles in a variety of pairings, but jumped feet-first into the deep end of omegaverse the first time she read it. She loves the play on social expectations and the different ways to express romance.


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Bunny Hop Beau #5



Monday, April 14, 2025

🐰Monday's Memorial Moment🐰: Easter, 1929 by Frank W Butterfield



Summary:

Nick & Carter Holiday #8
Sunday, March 31, 1929

Mrs. Wilson Jones (Louise) of Albany, Georgia, wakes up on yet another Sunday morning to discover her husband didn't come home after carousing down at Louray's by the river.

But she doesn't have time to worry. Easter dinner will be at her sister's house and Mrs. Jones has biscuits to bake. So, she turns on the radio, begins to sing with The Chambers Family Quintet, broadcasting over WSJ in Atlanta, and gets the buttermilk out of the icebox. There's work to be done and Mrs. Jones is a good cook, keeps a clean house, and always delivers on her promises.


Original Review April 2022:
Although this is an entry in the Nick & Carter Holiday series, Easter 1929 is a snapshot in the life of 8 year old Carter, long before meeting Nick.  Having yet to read the Nick Williams Mystery series, I have only seen snippets of the characters both as a pair and individuals through these short stories so I imagine, like the other 3 I've read, we see reasons why Carter, in part at least, feels the way he does in regard to family and childhood.

As for Easter, 1929 I can't help but be reminded of my own grandfather who would also have been 8 that year(though only 7 at Easter) and a year later his mother died from breast cancer and his aunt moved in to help his dad raise him and his 2 sisters.  From the stories I've heard, I can see similarities between Carter's family members and my grandfathers'(although my grandfather utterly adored his mother and took her death very hard and his dad was an uber Dutch Reformed Church member not a drunk) and I couldn't help but picture a young Berdean Vande Vrede in Carter's place.  So not only is this short a very intriguing and I imagine telling peak into events that helped shape Carter into the man who falls for Nick Williams but it also helped me play out that moment in time in my grandpa's life in my mind's eye.  I find stories that help the reader connect on a personal level and absolute treasure and that's what Easter, 1929 is for me.

I don't know just when I'll get to read the original Nick Williams Mystery series(I will though and I already have the first 2 on my kindle) but believe me with each new holiday short, it moves up a few notches on my TBR list.

RATING:



Chapter 1 
736 West 2nd Avenue
Albany, Ga.
Sunday, March 31, 1929
Half past 6 in the morning 

Mrs. Wilson Jones (Louise) opened her eyes just as the sun began to flood the windows of her modest bedroom. Without looking, she tentatively reached out with her left hand and discovered that her husband was, once again, not in bed beside her on a Sunday morning. This was no surprise to Mrs. Jones, but she was disappointed that he hadn't bothered to show up before dawn on Easter Morning. 

With a sigh, she threw back the covers, which consisted of a thin cotton sheet, a thin summer blanket, and her grandmother's handmade quilt. Granny Carter had made a quilt for each of her three granddaughters. Mrs. Jones happened to possess the one that was mostly green and blue, and she was always grateful it was that one and not the one that her sister Maria had insisted on which was an awful red and black pattern. 

As she stood, she pulled on her cotton nightgown and cinched it tightly around her waist. She loved the feeling of security that the extra hard tug on the belt would bring her. Walking into the small bathroom that was included with the bedroom, she took care of her morning business. Once she was done, she picked up the new cake of Ivory soap and vigorously washed her hands. She'd read in The Atlanta Journal about how important washing one's hands was as a morning ritual, particularly upon rising. It helped get rid of deadly germs and Mrs. Jones was a firm believer that her attention to household cleanliness was the primary reason her two sons, Robert, age 9, and Carter, age 8, had both grown up free of the usual early childhood ailments, except for the chickenpox which, as Mrs. Jones well knew, every boy and girl needed to get as a child in order to avoid problems when they were young adults. 

Once she had thoroughly rinsed her hands, Mrs. Jones left the bathroom, ensuring her hands were dry before depressing the electric light switch. She quietly made her way through the bedroom and out onto the landing. She saw that the doors to her sons' bedrooms and the bathroom at the end were all hygienically closed with the dormers open above them. 

She made her way cautiously down the stairs, keeping a sharp eye out for toys that one or both of her sons might have inadvertently brought out during the night (something they had never done but it didn't hurt to check) and then confidently put her foot on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and made a right, walking through the living room and dining room and towards the kitchen at the rear of the house. 

As she walked past the new sofa (all of Mrs. Jones's furniture was new, having been purchased in February when they took possession of the new house her husband had bought, all cash), she glanced to see if the sleeping body of her husband might be visible. It was not. 

Mrs. Jones pinched herself on the inside skin of her left wrist in order to banish the passing hope that she might find his dead body strewn about somewhere out front or, preferably, in the backyard where the neighbors would be less likely to see it. Of course, Mrs. Jones considered, as she opened the radio cabinet door to switch on station WSB broadcasting from Atlanta, that, when the police arrived to take her statement as the grieving widow (Mrs. Jones liked that phrase—it gave her immense satisfaction), the neighbors would then have to know what happened. News would, as it always did in both white and colored Albany, spread like wildfire. The neighboring housewives, like Mrs. John Colbert (Roberta) who lived next door, would pick up their telephones (if they had one) and call their closest friends, making sure to speak loud enough for their colored maids to hear, like Ninny, Mrs. Colbert's maid who had also worked for Mrs. Colbert's mother until the poor dear passed in 1921. The colored maids would then tell the milkman or the butcher or the little colored boy who delivered the early-evening Atlanta Constitution all about it and the news would be off to the races. 

As the radio began to warm up and she could hear the familiar voices of The Chambers Family Quintet singing "Bringing in the Sheaves," Mrs. Jones pinched herself one more time. She asked herself, "What sort of woman entertains such morbid thoughts?" Although, in her heart of hearts, Mrs. Jones well knew the answer, she was unwilling to look there. Instead, as she pulled out the pitcher of buttermilk from the icebox, she began to sing along with Hannah Chambers, the group's youngest member who was sweetly performing a solo on the second verse: 

Sowing in the sunshine, sowing in the shadows, 
Fearing neither clouds nor winter’s chilling breeze; 
By and by the harvest, and the labor ended, 
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves. 

That song always cheered her up. Mrs. Jones remembered seeing a photograph of the entire Chambers family in the Albany paper. The oldest had been the father, Adolphus, then his wife, Mary. In the paper, Mrs. Chambers had looked very strict but, being a Methodist, she would be. The oldest boy was Jeremiah, age 17, followed by Ezekiel, age 14, and then little Hannah, age 9. That was the same age as her Robert, and she was just as cute as you please. She had black hair pulled tightly into pigtails. Mrs. Jones had, on occasion, dreamed of having a daughter of her own. She could see her own little girl, blonde perhaps, sitting at a perfect little dressing table and allowing her perfectly shiny hair to be brushed a hundred times each night by her adoring mother. If she were only allowed to have two children, and Mrs. Jones had thought about this at length, she would have preferred to keep Robert and send Carter over to live with her sister Velma, who was childless, so she, Mrs. Jones, could welcome a little girl into the family home. Mrs. Jones was convinced that, if she ever had a girl baby, her husband would probably not drink as much as he did or be as rough with the children or with her as he was. 

The phone in the living room suddenly burst through her reverie with the familiar two long rings followed by one short ring that meant the operator was calling their house. Mrs. Jones carefully covered the buttermilk pitcher with a towel to keep any flying or crawling bugs from getting in and immersing themselves into the liquid and become undetectable until someone accidentally found one in a biscuit. As the phone rang a second time, Mrs. Jones turned down the volume knob on the radio and then picked up the black candlestick phone, removed the receiver, placed it firmly against her ear to make sure she could clearly hear the far side of the conversation, and then conscientiously said directly into the device, "This is J-73." 

"Louise?" 

"Good morning, Velma. Happy Easter." 

"Happy Easter to you, Louise. Did Wilson make it home yet?" 

"No," was Mrs. Jones's crisp and curt reply.

"Well, I thought I'd call and let you know he should be on his way. Roscoe just crawled through the front door and he smells like the inside of distillery. I don't know yet whether he'll make it to church or not." 

"Velma! It's Easter Sunday! What will the preacher think if you're there without him?" 

Velma chuckled. "Brother Wilkins was down by the river with the rest of the sinners, Louise." 

Mrs. Jones simply couldn't believe that was possible. "There must have been some sort of mistake, Velma. Brother Wilkins is a teetotaler. Everyone in town knows that." 

Velma chuckled at the other end of the line again. Mrs. Jones hated when her sister laughed at her. She knew that Velma didn't keep to the same standards as herself. Mrs. Jones always felt as if she had to hold up the Carter family pride, even if Velma didn't. And Maria, their third sister, had a stubborn streak a mile wide so there was no reasoning with her. But Velma could be reasonable when she decided to. However, there were some things her sister did that Mrs. Jones simply could not abide. 

One example that always got on her nerves was how Velma was so familiar with Mattie, her colored maid. It was all fine and well to talk about how those people were members of the family, but it really didn't do to be going over and having tea in dark town. It just wasn't right. Mrs. Jones, of course, didn't have a maid. Wilson didn't like having colored in the house, even if they only worked in the kitchen and came in through the back door. Mrs. Jones thought it was all for the best, in any event. She was sure Wilson would have been rude to anyone who came in to help. Besides, she could do her own housework, thank you very much. She never understood why Velma kept Mattie on. She didn't have any children. Of course, she and Leroy did live in that big old house just outside of downtown. But still— 

"Louise? Are you there?"

"Yes, Velma." 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"What question was that?" 

Velma sighed. "Are you still planning on bringing your biscuits over for Easter dinner today? If not, I need to let Mattie know right this minute. Otherwise, I'll be in trouble again and she might not cook dinner." 

"Really, Velma. The way you let that woman boss you around is just shameful." 

"Is that a yes or a no?" 

"Of course I'll bring my biscuits," replied Mrs. Jones with a sharp tone of irritation in her voice. "But how can I cook if I'm spending the whole blessed morning on the phone?" 

With that, her sister hung up.



Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.

Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.

Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.

Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.

Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.

The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.

Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.

Saturday Series Spotlights
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!

This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.

From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.





Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.


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Easter, 1929 #8

Nick Williams Mystery Series
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Nick & Carter Holiday Series


Sunday, April 13, 2025

🎭Week at a Glance🎭: 4/7/25 - 4/13/25


















Sunday's Short Stack: The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan



Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.

•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.

The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.


Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author.  Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start.  I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary WarπŸ˜‰.  Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.

So glad I did!

Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army.  Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds.  Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it.  No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was  . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstancesπŸ˜‰. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then?  Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.

There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself.  If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.

RATING:



Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.

Yorktown was just like any other engagement. 

Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.

In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.

The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.

They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.

Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—

John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.

There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.

It moved, man-shaped.

The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.

All of them but him.

Damn it all to hell.

Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent. 

Fight. Survive… Damn it.

There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.

The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.

John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.

It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike. 

There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.

The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.

“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”

John refused to hear his words.

John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.

The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”

John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.

Ah, damn it.

This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.

It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.

“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”

For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.” 

He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.

“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”

Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?

“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”

What the hell?

“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”

Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all. 

He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.

“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”

There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.

“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.

“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”

Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.

“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”

Their weapons crossed again.

“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”

John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals. 

There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.

He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.

The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”

John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”

“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”

“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”

Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…

And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket. 

“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.” 

A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.

“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”

John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.

It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.

The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”

He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.

“Go on,” the man said. 

His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now. 

A bugle sounded.

John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.

It was done. They’d won.

He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”

“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”

“What?” John stared at him.

“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”

“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.

“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.

They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.

Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.

He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.

He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?

“I can’t go back,” the man said again.

John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.

The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.

It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.

The man stared at it.

“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”

The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”

“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”

The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin. 

John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.

Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”

The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.

Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”

John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.

John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”

“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”

He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.

He would never see the man again. 

In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.

“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”

Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.

John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” 

“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”

“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.

Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.



Once, the Worth family was one of the most respected in England.

Then the head of that family, the Earl of Chatford, was discovered to be the ringleader of a treasonous plot. He was stripped of his title and properties, and only escaped execution because he committed suicide. Anthony Worth, the eldest son, was also implicated--and while treason could not be proven, he was convicted of theft and ordered transported. That left the younger children--Judith, Camilla, Benedict, and Theresa--alone in the world, with no friends, no skills, no property, and no future.

Meanwhile, when Anthony Worth’s ship landed in Australia, he was no longer on board. He had vanished without a trace.

The Worth Saga is the story of the Worth family--all of them. I’m calling it the Worth Saga because while the series tells the story of the Worth family, not all the books in the series will be about Worth family members. It’s really the story of the Worth family, another family (not yet introduced), and a business conglomerate. Anything more would be spoilery.

There will be more books in the series than those listed above. She'll announce additional books as she finalize titles and covers.



Courtney Milan
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.

Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.

Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.


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The Pursuit of . . . #2.5

The Worth Saga
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