Peppermint Bark, No Bite: Grumpy-sunshine, best friend's brother, LGBTQ+, holiday romance (All or Nothing Book 1) All THAT By Bailey Seaborn and a Playlist Too!

 

There’s no good place to have a heart attack, but if you must, being in a hospital surrounded by doctors isn’t the worst choice. One minute, I was managing a ceremonial ribbon cutting. The next, the stage was cleared for CPR, a gurney whisked my best friend’s dad off to the Emergency Department, and she chased after it, leaving me staring at the red ribbon sagging like a forgotten Christmas present.

That evening, Bruce’s family was called up to the cardiac ICU, and when I hesitated at the nurses’ station, Mallory gripped my hand and pulled me along. When I retracted my hand and gestured for her to lead the way, Mallory slid her arm through her mother’s as they walked into Bruce’s room. I washed my hands, giving them time without me loitering. They were his family, I was just his daughter’s friend. Bruce’s skin was sallow, gray hair clumpy due to his awful surgical shower cap. He smiled groggily as his wife and daughter leaned down for a hug. Mallory, who normally could joke about anything, forced a tight smile. 

“Mr. Clarke, I’m Carla, your overnight nurse,” she greeted as she washed her hands. She recognized me as a fellow staff member, her lips lifting before she pulled a flashlight out of her scrubs pocket to check his pupils. “You gave these women quite a scare. Can you tell me who they are?” I braced myself. Carla was doing her job, trying to check her patient’s cognitive skills and memory while taking his vitals. She couldn’t know how loaded her question was. “The gorgeous one is my wife Helen. Her cute clone is my daughter Mallory. And over there,” his head flopped in my direction. No better time to get an honest opinion than after anesthesia, it’s practically truth serum. “That’s my Grace.” Carla raised a brow before she teased, “She works with me, I thought she was my Grace.” “Nope, you can’t have her, I’ve already got her.” He flipped his left wrist up in a silent request, and I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Carla’s eyes softened as she watched the tender moment and rested two fingers on his other wrist to take his pulse. “How did you get yourself a Grace, anyway?” 

“I don't know how other people get their Graces, but I got mine for Christmas.” After discovering my Christmas plans last year — or more accurately, lack of plans — Mallory had insisted I join her family’s holiday ski trip to their Adirondack cabin. She skied the most difficult black diamond runs effortlessly, gaining a crowd of admirers to flirt with on the lifts, while I stayed with Bruce on the easier blue square trails. I was a nervous wreck. I’d grown up in Plattsburgh, 20 miles north of the ski resort, and I hadn’t been that close to home in seven years. I scanned the mountain, expecting to see members of the church where I’d been raised … or worse, my father or one of my brothers. They’d never skied growing up, but a lot could change in seven years. A person’s whole life could change. “Loosen your grip on your poles, Grace,” Bruce coached. “Alex once dislocated his thumb from gripping too tight, and whined about how redundant it was to ice your hand and put it back in a glove, and I said —“ “I’m sorry, could you — I haven’t talked to my father in years, and you being so … “ I felt bad interrupting, but I couldn’t handle stories about his kids’ perfect childhoods. Not here, not today. Bruce gestured to a heated bench, handing me a granola bar from his coat’s inside pocket. “My dad had a drinking problem. When he died sixteen years ago,  Helen and I hadn’t talked to him in eleven years. Every summer, Dad loved taking Alex to the racetrack to bet on horses. One year, he had enough whiskey that he hit the mailbox turning into the driveway. Alexander was unbuckled in the back seat and his forehead got scratched. He was only seven, too excited about showing me their winnings to care, but it was a wake-up call. I had to make a choice: I had to choose my future over my past.” His arm draped along the bench as we watched the ski lift in silence. A father dismounted, leading a little boy to the launching point and ruffling his ski cap before they pressed off. 

The granola bar turned to ash on my tongue. “I wasn’t born a girl.” The words escaped, coming out wrong. “I mean, I always have been, I know that now. But I was assigned male at birth, raised as the youngest of four boys. I knew I was different, but we were raised Evangelical, no room for deviating from the Scripture. When I told my father … it didn’t go well.” I held my breath. Thankfully, he didn’t keep me waiting very long. “Well that’s a shame,” Bruce said, and I flinched, “that he didn’t listen.” My mind spun. “It doesn’t bother you?” “What would bother me?” “That I’m transgender?” “Why would that bother me? I believe you are who you say you are,” he shrugged. “You say you’re Grace, so … you’re Grace.” 

“Can I add a Grace to my Christmas list?” Carla asked, meeting my eyes again before wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. “There aren’t any Graces in Santa’s workshop. You have to go find your own Grace.” He sang softly, “Have yourself a Merry Little Gracie …” “Completely consensual, of course,” Mallory said. “No Grace-trafficking.” Bruce narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Is she trying to kidnap our Gracie?” Our Gracie. I bit my lip to restrain my sob. Mallory placed her palm over our interlocked hands. “Don’t worry, Dad. Grace isn’t going anywhere. Nobody can take her from us.” Carla wrote his pulse and blood pressure on the whiteboard. “Vitals look good, but he needs sleep. Visiting hours are over, they restart tomorrow at 10.” I looked imploringly at Carla as she guided Helen and Mallory out of the room. She held up an open palm, giving me five minutes. Mallory batted her eyelashes and mouthed, ‘Can I add a Grace to my Christmas list?‘' Typical. Even in the cardiac ICU, she was still trying to set me up. I rolled my eyes then sent a quick text to Alexander: Visited your dad, charming as ever. It would bolster his spirits to see your face. By the time I clicked send, Bruce had fallen asleep. Pulling the chair closer, I took his outstretched hand and rested my forehead against the back of his palm. If this were my father in the hospital and I approached his bedside, would he hold out his hand to welcome back his outcast child? Or did the parable of the Prodigal Son not apply to daughters? “Please,” I whispered my first prayer in years. “Please don’t let me lose him too.”

As he slept, I thought Bruce’s hand squeezed mine. I dozed off remembering a quiet Sunday afternoon with my grandma: the first time I shared my truth, before I understood the repercussions, dreaming of a time when praying felt as natural as breathing. “Nanna,“ I said, inspecting her jewelry to avoid eye contact and running my sweaty palms over my thighs. “Does God make mistakes?” Her eyes snapped up from her romance novel, Lord of Scoundrels. Daddy says she shouldn’t read those ‘filthy bodice rippers,’ but her stash under the bed was our little secret. “Why do you ask?” “Daddy read this Scripture on Sunday about being knit together as babies.” “Psalm 139.” She identified it easily, reciting with the confidence of a woman whose son was an Evangelical minister: “For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” “Yeah, that one." My voice shook as my fingertips traced a pearl brooch of a butterfly. “Is it true?” “As far as I know,” she said, popping her recliner lever to sit up. “Why?” “Well, at school this week, we had to write about what we want to be when we grow up, and I wrote about wanting to be a mom.” My eyes jolted up at Nanna's sharp inhale to her reflection in the mirror. Her alarmed eyes softened as they took in my panic. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. And the kids, they told me I’d be a dad, but I —“ My face scrunched up to fight back tears. Daddy said I couldn’t cry anymore since I’m seven. Mama didn’t give him the girls he wanted, so he wanted no more tears under his roof. If he saw my puffy face, I knew which Scripture he'd choose: ‘When I was a child, I behaved like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.’ Last time he’d recited it, I pointed out that Jesus also said, ‘Unless you become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’ He reprimanded me for talking back. “Come here,” Nanna prompted sternly. I trudged over with heavy feet and shared my theory: “Maybe since Elijah and I were in Mama’s belly together, God didn’t notice I’m not supposed to be a boy. He wasn’t trying to forget me, but …  like when Mary and Joseph got home from vacation and realized they forgot Jesus because they both thought the other one had him?” “You know what I think?” Nanna scruffed my short hair. Her eyes flickered around, landing on her dresser. “I think grown-ups are like butterflies, each uniquely beautiful. But butterflies aren’t born that way, are they?” I shook my head, remembering the tank in my second grade class. “No, they start as caterpillars before they metamorf—um, go into cocoons.” “Right, metamorphosis. Some butterflies don’t change much, they start and finish blue.” Her gentle hand cupped my cheek. “But some caterpillars are different when they grow up.” “Like the monarch,” I murmured, thinking of the yellow and black striped caterpillars. After the green shells — crystal somethings — they emerge bright orange and black. “Like the monarch. Do you know what happens when they’re in their chrysalises?” Nanna leaned closer like she was telling a secret. “They turn into goo. Their entire body, all of their cells …” She made a farting sound and I laughed out loud. “Scientists have studied it, but can’t explain exactly what happens in that chrysalis. Even their best microscopes can’t look inside. Do you know the only one who knows?” “God?” “He decides who each caterpillar will grow up to be. We can’t predict it, we have to rely on His grace for the faith that each will turn out the way they’re meant to. Do you understand?” “I think so.” 

“Remember what the Lord said to your namesake, the prophet Jeremiah,” Nanna pressed her forehead to mine. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; For I know the plans I have for you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

~~~~

When I get a free book from BookBub, I choose not to even read what the book is going to be about. It's fun to do since I get surprised every time. I had to laugh, therefore, when the title turned out to be extremely long... Perhaps it was done for purpose? Because, of course, a major issue within the book has been the subject of extreme discrimination during the present period in the United States...

10 years ago

1 day ago

Just one related to Transgender discrimination during 2nd term

And, I wanted to share the following acknowledgment by the author related to her research for the book:

To Sydney Fowler, my sensitivity reader & developmental editor: Thank you for your gentle guidance to make sure Grace’s story was told with care and compassion, while remaining true to lived experiences … and also sharing Ships I’d never imagined.

Growing up, my father said Santa was a distraction from the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas. But there are twenty kids with heart conditions who expect a magical visitor from the North Pole, and this will break up the monotony of echocardiograms and blood tests. For some of them, this will be their last Christmas.” I winced, and she seemed gratified that her message was sinking in. “I was hoping  you could put on that charming grin that makes my knees weak and force out a Ho Ho Ho,” she smacked my chest with each Ho, “but if you can’t fake it for sick kids for half an hour, you’re not as much like your dad as I hoped you were.” Her cheeks flushed as red as her velvet cape as she glared through those ugly glasses. I didn’t expect her outburst, but apparently if you mess with a social worker’s kids, it brings out the Mama Bear. Wait a minute. Makes her knees weak? File that away for later.

Within the first few pages, I knew this would be an important book that I would want to spend some time on once finished. After all, during the last decade, we have heard more than we ever thought would be discussed in daily news about just how politics has invaded the personal lives of our citizens... Especially women and non-white men... I knew this would be a must-read recommendation from me, for that very reason... And, that I would want to discuss some of those issues that cause friction between and among people...

Then, when the group, Evangelical Christians, chose to take a stand to support the present president... The scope, breadth, and complexity of our personal sexuality has been hammered from the president as a campaign tool, through to the latest of arguing with the Pope as to who is right or wrong in their opinions... Of course, I must point out that the Pope has been quite consistent with his stand, while the president moves from point to point as a child does to garner support for this game or that... Anybody who reads my blog(s) knows my thoughts on given issue... as it relates to political involvement/interference. In other words, I believe in the separation of church and state and have explained why... Basically, politics is not the place for disagreement about personal choices and using those disagreements for political gain. 

Of course, we are sexual beings and within the business world, we are faced with issues that may surround sex. As a group oversight function however--you know, what I mean, right--Equal Pay for Equal Work, for example, should ensure that sex is not a basis for determining pay. Yet we all know that has been argued for hundreds and thousands of years in one way or another. 

Even Jesus got involved... So did the pharisees and any other religion that looks at men and women in a different way as it relates to anything that is used to discriminate or show bias... within a business; and, sometimes personal environment...

In this book, we hone in on the transgender issue. Something that affects a very small number of people, yet, for various reasons, may cause friction within a family. Worse, within a society. I chose to share the most important part of the book related to gender. I think it was beautifully done, don't you think? A young boy, a twin boy, from early in his life had felt that he was meant to be a mom in his future. As he grew older and played with toys that related to his role or that in society, he didn't go toward the fire engines, or other male-oriented toys, he thought about holding a child, being its mother... This would fulfill his goal for the future. So even while he grew and, later, as he thought about working, he chose to become a social worker in order to help other people through their lives... By that time, he had chosen to fulfill what had been a burning need since early in his life. He became Grace...

And, immediately upon sharing with the patriarch, an evangelical pastor, a young member was banned from the family...

Personally, I tend to look at somebody being different physically as a matter of science. When I learn of God's planning for each of us, I think more about the type of person/personality of the individual as opposed to what they will look like or what sex they would be. For instance, since my father was killed in a mine accident while my mother carried me, I've often wondered about what part that had in God's plan for me. Since I would not have a father in my life, would He allow me to choose differently, be a strong independent spirit, with an awareness of the Holy Trinity, might it play in my decisions? You see, often I have realized that, my life has followed the role of a man as opposed to a woman. Certainly events in my early life have influenced some of my decisions... But, it didn't seem to me that, if we had free will, my creation would not spell out exactly my life's path... would be... As I learned along the way, my basic point of view was whether or not, we would ask God into our lives. That he would become a part of us throughout our lives.

Jeremiah certainly didn't have a choice. Having a leader of a religious group certainly led him and his siblings into the church environment. And, of course, the religious life was to be set right from the beginning. But at some point, Jeremiah began to realize that he was different in some ways from his twin brother. Even though they were very close throughout their early lives.

A key point in the book was that Grace had been turned away from that home. She made it on her own--the book doesn't cover too much of that time period. But she did connect and made friends with a girl, who pulled her directly into her home life. A life which, interestingly, had love as a central part, although a religion was not significant, if there at all. In any event, it was clear that, to this family, her being a girl called Grace, was somebody who they had come to love very much...

And then Grace met Mallory's brother, Alex... He had come home for Christmas and because Grace had called him, making him feel very guilty, to immediately come home since his father had a heart attack and, for her, that meant, family should come! Besides he hadn't been home for 7 years--busy man... And soon, Grace had somehow talked him in to being the hospital's Santa Claus--and she was already Mrs. Claus... Yes, that was the beginning, especially after the hospital staff had pointed out the mistletoe hanging after all the children had met with Santa...

Sure, thereafter was mostly a traditional romance  novel and was fun to watch their relationship develop. In fact, the book's POV moves between Grace and Alex so readers get to learn of their innermost thoughts as the story moves forward...

The key was, of course, whether bias would be part of that relationship.

Dad hustled for years to make partner in his firm — this firm where we were standing right now, that provided everything that my spoiled little sister wanted. This was the sacrifice required to be successful. My snotty little sister stuck out her chin. “So you can make more money to spend on your fancy condo where you never spend any time, and your Mercedes that you only drive to and from work? So you can become yet another interchangeable straight white man joining the patriarchal lineage of straight white men?” “I don’t have time for a lecture about the patriarchy.”

Indeed, the potential connection with Grace and Alex was more an issue for Mallory, Alex's sister, than for Alex--purely connected to her own thoughts about her brother, LOL... That also included Mallory's father, who immediately took on a protective role as he wanted only the best for Grace, who he had come to love as a member of his family... All or Nothing certainly is the theme for this new series and I loved it!

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” she strode around the desk to push her finger into my chest. “You’re working so damn hard to make a name for yourself, but you’re not living.” “After I make partner —” “— you’ll change the goalpost and keep running full speed until it kills you.” Her bottom lip trembled, but she sucked it in with a quick breath and barreled on. “It scares the shit out of me, Alex, because last week, I watched Dad die."

Folks, this is a special book I consider should be read across the world. Political. It includes religious aspects, while still allowing humor and love to dominate where anger has once been... There are those that have chosen "Pro-life" which turns out to be a political tool to harm... Then once a child is forced to be born, especially when hunger is still a major problem across the world, there is a constant refusal to feel those hungry who were forced to be born. Those who have specific ideas of either their religious documents, traditions, or just what they personally place first in their lives--like power and riches--over the lives of others... have been using that power to "play god" while our children are always those who are hurt the most... Please don't attempt to deny this. We have seen it more in the last decade and especially for the last few years of madness. Why? does this continue year after year, century after century? Indeed, it has now reached the point that even children know that something has changed, if they are old enough, like Grace, to decide that she could no longer follow the damaging life forced upon her by her religious leader and father who chose rules and words rather than love for another... Because isn't that the primary issue for many who still cling to the old ways rather than choosing God's Truth and Love?

Kudos to Bailey Seaborn for beginning this series... She started with a major division that now in the United States headlines again and again. I'm thrilled that she has both the writing and research skills exhibited in this exciting new type of series and hope she will find the strength to continue even knowing that there will be a few that practiee ritual and words to harm rather than help those who need assistance of one thing or another. There is a lot covered in this book that only reading can give you. I hope, though, that I've shared enough to have you begin to really think about all those words that have been taught to you and which now are so openly being used for corruption of even the basic moral laws are being ignored...

This, then, is a writer who wants you to lighten up and start singing... Choosing Christmas as the time of the book was a fantastic choice, in my opinion. It allows readers to think about the songs in their lives for important celebrations and decide just how those songs of both good and bad times have affected each of us. Me, I'm still learning daily. I guarantee this book will provide the foundation for you, too, to consider changing or firming up your beliefs that loving our neighbors, no matter who they are, shall continue or become a part of your daily thoughts and actions...

Gabby

J. H. Mann Presents The Echoing Shore - Wild Cornwall - Visiting St Branoff - Historical Mystery

 

But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose.

What happened to the Talan Bray was tragic and terrible, but it shouldn’t stop the work of the lifeboat being recognised.’

He ruled this place. His name was everywhere. The Mr Big of St Branok. His rise had been rapid and astonishing. He had to be hiding something. Had to be. 

As I pulled up the hood of my ski jacket, I wondered about the wisdom of my flash decision to bring Danny into the fold while knowing almost nothing about him. A charmer, certainly. And experience warned me that that kind of personality often came with deceit. I should have insisted on seeing a CV. But perhaps I was being too hard on him. Perhaps he would bring a new drive and, God only knew, the Gazette needed something new if it was going to survive. I glanced over at his flaccid features. His collar-length hair, tinged with grey, was plastered flat on his head and rainwater dripped from his fleshy nose. But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose. We turned a corner to see welcoming lights streaming from mullioned windows. Above them, swinging in the gale, was the jaunty sign of a smiling mermaid sitting on a rock. Shelter and alcohol beckoned.

Think trendy. Think gastropub. And then think the complete opposite. It was a traditional locals’ pub – for drink and banter, playing skittles or darts and, on Saturday nights, listening to one of the thrashing local bands. We trooped in, brushing the rain off our coats, to find the lounge bar empty apart from a few fishermen who had given up hope of venturing out even in coastal waters in this weather. It was a day of lost income for them, and they huddled gloomily together in a corner near one of the flashing one-armed bandits. ‘I’ve caught sweet bugger all this week,’ a barrel-chested fisherman was saying. ‘If the luck doesn’t change, I’ll be down the food bank. That’s no way for my family to live.’ A warm, homely light suffused the bar, concealing its tacky interior. The golden glow contrasted sharply with the drab daylight of a grey afternoon in a grimy fishing town. The comforting tang of beer inhabited every corner – apart from the ladies’ toilet, where it was eclipsed by the kick of a powerful disinfectant. Angie, a slip of a girl who worked in the pub when she wasn’t partying at music festivals or visiting her boyfriend in Plymouth, was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Danny rubbed his hands together. ‘This one’s on me. What can I get you fine people?’ Roy and I opted for pints of Doom Bar and we made small talk about the weather while waiting for our drinks. Danny fixed Angie with the Flanagan smile. ‘What’s the local gargle around here?’ Angie beamed right back while pulling Roy’s pint. ‘If you mean beer, we have our own microbrewery. Try a pint of Wreckers Rebellion. You won’t get anything more local.’ ‘Sounds good. You’re a girl after my own heart,’ he said, before turning to give Roy and myself a wink. I edged closer to the bar to get my drink. ‘Angie, is Joe around? We were hoping to have a quick chat with him.’ ‘He’s out back. I’ll give him a call.’ ‘We’ll be in the snug.’ I led Roy and Danny to a cosy, out of the way spot with soft seating and cushions. We settled at a seat by the window with a view of gritty St Branok Harbour, full of idle fishing boats. A symbol shaped like a three-cornered knot, pinned to a nearby wall, caught Danny’s eye. He pointed to it. ‘I’ve seen similar shapes in Ireland. Didn’t think I’d come across them down here.’ ‘It’s a sign used by Pagans and Celtic Christians known as a Triquetra or Trinity Knot,’ said Roy, who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of most things. ‘The interwoven knot with no beginning and no end stands for a protection that cannot be broken. Cornwall still has strong Pagan and Celtic connections.’ I gazed at it, noticing it for the first time, despite having lingered many an hour in this comfy corner of The Mermaid. Joe Keast appeared a few minutes later with an oily rag in hand, his forehead smeared with sweat and grime. ‘Kate, Roy – you’re drinking early these days. Not that I’m complaining. I could do with the business on a day like this.’ He plonked himself down wearily on a stool. ‘Problems?’ I said. ‘The usual. Pump playing up again. Wreckers Rebellion will be in short supply unless I can get it up and running tonight. We’re down to our last few barrels of the good stuff.’ He rubbed his hands with the oily cloth, which did little to make them cleaner. ‘We wanted to introduce you to Danny Flanagan,’ I said. ‘He’s down here from the London press and will be helping at the Gazette for a while.’ ‘I hear you’re the man in the know in these parts,’ said Danny. The ready grin was back, as was the handshake. Joe took Danny’s proffered hand with a smile of the more cautious, reserved type. The Flanagan smile didn’t work half so well with men. ‘Any friend of Kate’s is a friend of mine. We go back a long way,’ he said, nodding affably at me before squinting at Danny. ‘What brings a city slicker down to our quiet part of the world?’ My thoughts exactly. Danny took a long pull from his pint, which drained half the glass and confirmed my early guess that he liked a pint or three. ‘Oh, writing a few features about the Cornish way of life, land of mystery and magic on the edge of the great ocean and all that. I’ll be looking for somewhere to stay for a few weeks. Any recommendations?’ Joe swept his damp forehead with the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. ‘We have a spare room above the pub here, which you’re welcome to stay in for a while. It doesn’t get much use at this time of year, but don’t go expecting en-suite bathrooms and all that. It’s got a good, comfortable bed and a wardrobe. And if you stand on a chair, you can see Tregloss Point in the distance.’ ‘I’ll take it. When can I move in?’ Danny slapped his thighs, which looked thick and muscular. ‘Anytime. Tonight, if you like.’

~~~~~~

One of the wonders of reading is the ability to travel across and around the world! We learn of many peoples and their lives... But, one thing I can tell you is that, for the most part, all people are alike... There are good people trying to bring about change and advancement... While, at the same time, there are always a few who choose the easy way--the criminal way to ensure they both get what they need, but more importantly, what they most desire...  Of course, that is the lifeblood of most fictional stories, isn't it? There are so many different variations of this world-wide theme of good versus evil. In many ways, some of us like myself, seek out this type of story, perhaps, to ensure that, mostly, good always ultimately overcomes...

Yet, on a daily basis, the struggle continues in every land where people live... Wild Cornwall is the location of J. H. Mann's story... A mystery built within the livelihoods of a small community where what can be found in the waters surrounding the land. Where lives are sometimes lost in facing the waters as nature takes control... But, also, can be lost. On Purpose. This is such a story...

And it takes place within a business--a small newspaper that is struggling to remain alive to provide needed news and other info to the surrounding area. We find there just a few people. One is a retired newsman, Roy, who found he so enjoyed his work, that he continued into retirement as a jack-of-all-things for the paper where he'd worked for so many years... Then we find our main character, Kate, who was somewhat of a hotshot reporter for a much larger area, but had chosen to look at her own needs and, when the small newspaper became available, she took the plunge and bought it...Now she's constantly fighting to stay financially sound, while one of the villans in the story is a hard-nose banker, of course, who cares nothing about the town citizens and the value of a newspaper to those people... There are two others who work off and on as needed, one a young, hopeful reporter.

For some reason, another newsman comes to town and seeks out the local agency to see if he could find some space there as a home base, and, when needed, could make a little money with articles that might prove of interest to the town....

Image if you would, that this small group of journalists have something very much in common and that will be revealed along the way, as mutual interests pulled the group together. Kate, of course, has just met with the evil banker who threatens her constantly with what he believes the Board will do if she doesn't increase payments...  And, it happened to be at a time where the community was about to have a joint recognition of a lifeboat that had resulted in deaths in the community years ago.

Could the newspaper work to build up this recognition and memorial of those who gave their lives trying to save others? Kate started considering what exactly could be done... Gathering background info, research, and talking to those in town who were personally involved...

And that's when the trouble started.  

The first to begin was the mother who had lost two sons. During the investigation, their names had been spotlighted and she spoke out in their defense, blaming Kate who was now digging up old news to make new news...

And of course the older ongoing events were to be spotlighted. Like the Shout @ the Devil Festival...

 St Branok’s annual Shout at the Devil Festival was looming. It was a colourful, though somewhat macabre, event, in which several hundred locals noisily processed through the streets in gaudy costume, following the time-honoured tradition of chasing away the devil while actually being intent on having a booze up. The festival had pagan origins, its long history dating back many hundreds of years. Heavy drinking in the local pubs invariably culminated in minor late-night disturbances, often resolved without the involvement of the local police. ‘We should make the most of it this year, get some great pictures and use them for a centre-page splash,’ said Danny. His boyish enthusiasm was infectious and made sense. Locals were more likely to buy the Gazette if their friends and relatives appeared in the coverage. The whole editorial team, even young Emily, agreed to give up their Saturday night to report on the event and get pictures. The night of the festival was cold and clear with a glistening three-quarter moon. We gathered early evening at The Mermaid for a warming brandy, provided free by Joe, prior to heading out into the night-time chill. The pub was packed with noisy, animated revellers, but we found a space in a corner. Outside, expectant people lined the streets three or four deep, chewing candy floss or hot dogs. Excited toddlers were perched on the shoulders of mums and dads. With a toss of his head, Danny knocked back the remains of his brandy and then ordered a second for ‘medicinal purposes’. This time, Joe insisted on payment. Duly refreshed, we quit the pub’s warm conviviality. ‘Perfect night for pictures,’ Danny said. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the prospect of a freezing night under the stars in his thick jumper, corduroy trousers and shabby chic Burberry coat. The buzz and banter of the crowd was quietened by the sound of drums, guitars and pipes. The nipping air shivered from the rhythmic reverberation, amplified by the narrow streets. I slipped through a gap between the onlookers to catch my first glimpse of the St Branok raven leading a long line of swaggering, gyrating figures, their masks, horns, wigs and vivid flowing robes enhanced by the flickering light of burning torches. In contrast to its cavorting followers, the raven progressed steadily and regally, its great beak moving from side to side as it regarded the crowd. There was something menacing and ungodly about the display. It was a window on a world long gone when superstition and fear had ruled people’s lives. Danny was suddenly beside me, shouting into my ear above the noise. His hot breath, infused with the sweet and nutty scent of brandy, warmed the side of my face. ‘This is fantastic. Who’s the raven?’ Our mouths became close as I turned towards him. ‘It’s a secret. A different person is chosen each year, but their identity is never revealed...

Danny, the traveling journalist, is really the bright spot of the book. He's an outgoing fellow who enjoys visiting the pub often and talking with anybody who will share a pint or two... But he brings with him a secret that only he is aware of and he becomes pushy, trying to control the local paper to cover topics that may not be appropriate for the community... Kate begins to monitor his proposals more closely, but at the same time is drawn to this larger-than-life individual who brings a different mood of liveliness wherever he goes... This, then, is the heart of the plot as more and more information comes to them in relation to the lifeboat accident where loved ones were lost to the surrounding waters...

I had a queasy feeling that my decision might come back to haunt us all, that we were being led down a tunnel with the promise of light at the end by a person we hardly knew. Danny remained an enigma.

‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘I’m saying that  he knew the Talan Bray was doomed that night and he was determined not to be aboard.’

He’d settled in the snug with his pipe stuck between his lips, puffing gently, the vision of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. The smoke was warming and comforting. Pipe smoke always reminded me of solid, knowledgeable Roy. He looked at me over the rim of his upraised beer glass. ‘Any sign of Danny?’ ‘No, he’s been out and about a lot. How did you know I was asking about him?’ ‘I guessed you might be.’ He sipped his beer. ‘That tastes good. I’ve been dying for a pint all afternoon.’ He put down his glass neatly on the beer mat. ‘Is Danny planning to come back, do you know?’ I swirled my gin and tonic, the liquid dipping in the centre. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since the…’ I searched for the word to diplomatically describe the difficult scene in the office and settled on ‘argument’. There was no point in describing it as anything else. Not to Roy. Twinges of angst and regret shivered through the pit of my stomach every time I thought about it. ‘He hasn’t said he’s not coming back,’ I added, lamely. ‘We could do with the extra pair of hands,’ said Roy. ‘Danny’s made a real difference over the past few weeks. At first, I was sceptical. But you were right to bring him on board, Kate. He’s picked up some very nice stories.’ I nodded. Forced a smile. I didn’t need reminding. The conversation lapsed into silence. Somebody played Scott McKenzie’s ‘San Francisco’ on the jukebox, a record Danny had sometimes chosen. But it was a thin man standing there – certainly not Danny. My morale slipped back to zero. Roy and I usually had no difficulty chatting, and when there was silence between us it was easy and relaxed. But the abrupt departure of Danny – and Roy’s obvious understanding that Danny and I had become more than colleagues – added an edge to any discussion about him. We filled the void by sipping our drinks. Eventually, the conversation started flowing again about something innocuous like the weather. Anything but Danny. The tall, commanding figure of Mike Pedrick strode into the bar with a couple of his trawler skippers – stocky young men in their early thirties, wearing the thick woollen sweaters, yellow oilskins and boots typical of trawlermen fresh from the boats. They were guffawing at a wisecrack Pedrick had muttered out of the side of his mouth. Even in The Mermaid, he acted as if he owned the place. Everybody always laughed at his jokes. Everybody except Joe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and Pedrick was soon leaning against the bar, attracting Angie’s attention with an upheld, authoritative hand. She hastened over – Pedrick had that effect on people – and, as she was pulling the pints, he treated me to the royal wave. I smiled back faintly, wondering why I’d been honoured by the Pedrick spotlight. Roy and I talked for a little longer and then he said, ‘Marjorie’s expecting me home for dinner. I really must be off. Can I walk you to your car?’ Wonderful, thoughtful Roy, doubly caring and gallant after the alleyway attack. ‘Yes, please. Thanks.’ I swigged the remains of my drink. Before we could stand, Pedrick strolled over and sat on a stool across the table from us, confident he was welcome everywhere. ‘Kate. As it was Thursday, I was hoping I might find you here for a chat.’ He glanced at Roy. ‘Alone.’ My cheeks warmed. Was he really sufficiently interested in my whereabouts to know that I had a celebratory early evening drink at The Mermaid when the latest edition of the Gazette had been sorted? Then again, Pedrick kept tabs on everything in St Branok. And everybody. Roy hesitated meaningfully. ‘I can wait at the bar if you like.’ I beamed an assured expression. I was more than capable of handling the mighty Mike Pedrick by myself. ‘No need to wait, Roy. I’ll be fine. It’s only a short walk to the Landy.’ Roy rose to go. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Night then, Kate. See you in the morning. Night, Mike.’ He disappeared into the crowd, a small, slightly bowed figure. I focused on Pedrick. ‘How can I help, Mike?’ ‘Your advertising girlie has been pushing my businesses to take extra advertising. She’s been saying that the Gazette needs the extra revenue. Is everything okay?’ So, this was more fallout from Brenda shooting her mouth off. I could tell him to mind his own business, but that wouldn’t help me get more advertising. I was careful to exude a positive air. ‘It’s tough but we get by. In fact, things are looking up. More people are reading the Gazette and we’re getting more advertising. I’ve been thinking of increasing to thirty-six pages.’ There was a flash of scepticism in Pedrick’s eyes. ‘Look, Kate, I know how tough running a small local business can be. I’ve been through challenging times myself. Thank God, that was a long time ago. The Gazette is part of the local community. It’d be a disaster if it had to close down.’ Clearly, the rumour mill in St Branok was running at breakneck speed. I sucked the dregs of my gin and tonic, now little more than melted ice with a tang of lemon. Still, it gave me something to do. And time to think. ‘Who’s saying the Gazette is closing down?’ I’d talked to Brenda about times being hard, not possible closure. Perhaps it was merely a case of an astute individual like Pedrick putting two and two together. The miserable state of local newspapers everywhere was hardly a secret. He leaned forward. ‘All I’m saying is, if things are getting desperate, I can help.’ ‘Help? How?’ He locked gazes with me, suddenly intense. ‘Have you ever thought of a partnership? I’d consider making a sizeable investment in return for a majority share. It would wipe out any debts you might have in a stroke. And you’d still be the editor and run the business day to day.’ His dark eyes and the tempting offer on the table gripped me. The constant worry of mounting debt would be gone, leaving the bank to devote its time to torturing other cash-strapped customers. And Gwel Teg – my remote, ramshackle, beautiful cottage – would be safe. I would be able to enjoy my Cornish life, swim happily in the surf, take Rufus for long walks and do some serious veg-growing in my kitchen garden without the nagging fear that the bank was about to pull the rug out from under my feet. But – and this was a massive but – it wouldn’t be my newspaper anymore. I’d become little more than an employee with a minority stake in the business I’d given up London for. ‘Thanks, Mike,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the offer, really I do, but we’re fine. As I say, things are looking up for us right now.’ Pedrick leaned back, still scrutinising me. ‘If you ever need any help, you know where to come.’ ‘Sure, and thanks.’ One of the trawler skippers still hanging around the bar, now on his third pint judging by the empty glasses, called over, ‘Mike, we’ve got something for you to see.’ Pedrick held up a silencing hand. ‘I’m busy.’ He turned back to me. ‘How’s that new star reporter of yours, what’s his name, Lonnie Donegan, getting on? Everybody’s talking about him. He’s asking a lot of questions.’ ‘Yes, that’s what good reporters do,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s Danny Flanagan. And he’s fine, as far as I know.’ I was tired of Pedrick’s forced bon homie and overbearing presence and it was beginning to show. I wanted him to clear off and get back to his laughing, raucous trawler mates and whatever else he did in his spare time. Pedrick might own most of St Branok, but he didn’t own the Gazette. Yet. He persisted, oblivious, used to deference not resistance. ‘When I say questions, I mean deep, prying questions which are hurting local people and making them angry. He should be careful.’ I bristled. ‘Prying questions about what exactly?’ ‘About the Talan Bray, of course. The press coverage of ten years ago caused a lot of pain. All that speculation about what happened was irresponsible. Now your Danny is wanting to open it all up again.’ ‘He’s not my Danny. He’s his own boss. He’s a freelancer who is helping us out. Nothing more. I can’t tell him what to do...
~~~~~~

This is an intriguing historical mystery based upon the unfortunate sinking of a lifeboat as they were trying to help others. It is indeed a sad memory of, an accident? Or one of deception and murder? Those who search for truth, such as journalists, are prone to dig into the past, and, many times, discover hidden criminal acts have proven to be the cause for many deaths... I find it a curious comparison of today's world, but with a solid time of seeking truth... Not so, when these days we look to the past to pinpoint times when some people enjoyed more power and prestige that seems to have been lost. Now lies, combined with violence, are used to betray Truth for return of what was supposedly lost... Is there ever to be a period when these divergent actions are eliminated? In the meantime, may we continue to work to ensure that indeed good will always overcome evil... This is an excellent merge of history and mystery in a setting where the past is held to for many reasons. Yet it merges with the present when those who suffered loss in the past, are now fighting to seek out what really happened to find not only Truth, but hopefully justice... Do check this one out!

GABixlerReviews

Presenting: Erle Stanley Gardner's The Case of the Terrified Typist - Mysteries Book 5

 “But his company gives him an excellent reputation. His company feels the utmost confidence in his honor and his integrity.” “I have told you, Monsieur Mason, that companies cannot feel; only the people in the companies. And later on, when the case comes to trial, Monsieur Mason, I shall read the papers with much interest. But you watch closely this (man). Perhaps he will tell you a story that is very fine as stories go when you do not question, but when he gets on the witness stand and finds that he cannot use the cold English manner to hide behind, then perhaps he gets mad, and when he gets mad, poof! Look out!” “He has a temper?” Mason asked. “That, Monsieur Mason, I do not know, but I have heard what others say. He is bad when he gets mad. His manner is a mask.” “I thank you,” Mason said. She hesitated a moment, then archly blew him a kiss with the tips of her fingers. The door closed gently but firmly.

It was the title that caught my eye... I remembered that I had watched the case... So I decided to read the book. I'm glad I did... The book was much more involved than the television version... Indeed, as I got past meeting the actual typist as the story began, I realized that I was soon engrossed in a book that had so much more, I realized that it was an entirely new and complex mystery to be enjoyed. That didn't surprise me since I normally choose reading as opposed to television.

She was everything a man could want in a confidential secretary--
and then some...

In any event, I first had my eye on Della Street, Mason's secretary, since that was the job for which I was first employed... Street was so great as a role model and I'd watch her every move and action. Especially that she was normally involved in many of the meetings related to cases... Guess that's where I later got my interest in Law and Order--all of them! And how I have ongoing anger these days as law and order has disappeared!

The typist also caught my attention. I'm a pretty good typist myself, but this individual was to be able to type continuously at high speeds with no errors--I laughed when I admitted to myself that I wasn't that good! LOL  But, then, I was not hired as a typist and had a broader scope of duties and responsibilities than being able to type fast and accurately... Or so I told myself... But that personal musing lasted just about the time when the terrified typist had left Perry Mason's office, with the job not finished! And Paul Drake was called in!

Perry Mason eyed the brief which Jackson, his law clerk, had submitted for his approval. Della Street, sitting across the desk from the lawyer, correctly interpreted the expression on Mason’s face. “What was wrong with it?” she asked. “Quite a few things,” Mason said. “In the first place, I’ve had to shorten it from ninety-six pages to thirty-two.” “Good heavens,” Della said. “Jackson told me he had already shortened it twice and he couldn’t take out another word.” Mason grinned. 

“How are we fixed for typists, Della?” “Stella is down with the flu and Annie is simply snowed under an avalanche of work.” “Then we’ll have to get an outside typist,” Mason told her. “This brief has to be ready for the printer tomorrow.” “All right. I’ll call the agency and have a typist sent up right away,” Della Street promised. “In the meantime,” Mason told her, “I’m going over this thing once again and see if I can’t take out another four or five pages. Briefs shouldn’t be written to impress the client. They should be concise, and above all, the writer should see that the Court has a clear grasp of the facts in the case before there is any argument about the law. The judges know the law. If they don’t, they have clerks who can look it up.” Mason picked up a thick blue pencil, held it poised in his hand, and once more started reading through the sheaf of pages, which already showed signs of heavy editing. 

Della Street went to the outer office to telephone for a typist. When she returned Mason looked up. “Get one?” “The agency doesn’t have one at the moment. That is, those they have are rather mediocre. I told them you wanted one who is fast, accurate and willing; that you didn’t want to have to read this thing through again and find a lot of typographical errors.” Mason nodded, went on with his editing. “When can we expect one, Della?” “They promised to have someone who would finish it by two-thirty tomorrow afternoon. But they said it might be a while before they could locate just the girl they wanted. I told them there were thirty-two pages.” “Twenty-nine and a half,” Mason corrected, smilingly. “I’ve just cut out another two and a half pages.” 

Mason was just finishing his final editing half an hour later when Gertie, the office receptionist, opened the door and said, “The typist is here, Mr. Mason.” Mason nodded and stretched back in his chair. Della started to pick up the brief, but hesitated as Gertie came in and carefully closed the door behind her. “What’s the trouble, Gertie?” “What did you say to frighten her, Mr. Mason?” Mason glanced at Della Street. “Heavens,” Della said, “I didn’t talk with her at all. We just rang up Miss Mosher at the agency.” “Well,” Gertie said, lowering her voice, “this girl’s scared to death.” Mason flashed a quick smile at Della Street. Gertie’s tendency to romanticize and dramatize every situation was so well known that it was something of an office joke. “What did you do to frighten her, Gertie?” “Me! What did I do? Nothing! I was answering a call at the switchboard. When I turned around, this girl was standing there by the reception desk. I hadn’t heard her come in. She tried to say something, but she could hardly talk. She just stood there. I didn’t think so much of it at the time, but afterward, when I got to thinking it over, I realized that she was sort of holding on the desk. I’ll bet her knees were weak and she—” “Never mind what you thought,” Mason interrupted, puzzled. “Let’s find out what happened, Gertie. What did you tell her?” “I just said, ‘I guess you’re the new typist,’ and she nodded. I said, ‘Well, you sit over at that desk and I’ll get the work for you.’” “And what did she do?” “She went over to the chair and sat down at the desk.” Mason said, “All right, Gertie. Thanks for telling us.” “She’s absolutely terrified,” Gertie insisted. “Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “Some girls are that way when they’re starting on a new job. As I remember, Gertie, you had your troubles when you first came here, didn’t you?” “Troubles!” Gertie exclaimed. “Mr. Mason, after I got in the office and realized I’d forgotten to take the gum out of my mouth, I was just absolutely gone. I turned to jelly. I didn’t know what to do. I—” “Well, get back to the board,” Mason told her. “I think I can hear it buzzing from here.” “Oh Lord, yes,” Gertie said. “I can hear it now myself.” She jerked open the door and made a dash for the switchboard in the outer office. 

Mason handed Della Street the brief and said, “Go out and get her started, Della.” When Della Street came back at the end of ten minutes Mason asked, “How’s our terrified typist, Della?” Della Street said, “If that’s a terrified typist, let’s call Miss Mosher and tell her to frighten all of them before sending them out.” “Good?” Mason asked. “Listen,” Della Street said. She eased open the door to the outer office. The sound of clattering typewriter keys came through in a steady staccato. “Sounds like hail on a tin roof,” Mason said. Della Street closed the door. “I’ve never seen anything like it. That girl pulled the typewriter over to her, ratcheted in the paper, looked at the copy, put her hands over the keyboard and that typewriter literally exploded into action. And yet, somehow, Chief, I think Gertie was right. I think she became frightened at the idea of coming up here. It may be that she knows something about you, or your fame has caused her to become self-conscious. After all,” Della Street added dryly, “you’re not entirely unknown, you know.” “Well,” Mason said, “let’s get at that pile of mail and skim off a few of the important letters. At that rate the brief will be done in plenty of time.” Della Street nodded. “You have her at the desk by the door to the law library?” “That seemed to be the only place to put her, Chief. I fixed up the desk there when I knew we were going to need an extra typist. You know how Stella is about anyone using her typewriter. She thinks a strange typist throws it all out of kilter.” Mason nodded, said, “If this girl is good, Della, you might arrange to keep her on for a week or two. We can keep her busy, can’t we?” “I’ll say.” “Better ring up Miss Mosher and tell her.” Della Street hesitated. “Would it be all right if we waited until we’ve had a chance to study her work? She’s fast, all right, but we’d better be sure she’s accurate.” Mason nodded, said, “Good idea, Della. Let’s wait and see.”

~~~~~~

Ah, the life of a law office. Nothing is more important than working on legal cases that can mean life or death for individuals who may or may not have broken the law.  In this case, a bit of serentipidity occurred which allowed a woman to enter into that law office, be asked to sit down and, to begin typing a brief that needed to be published by the next day... 

Actually, she was hiding and had entered the first door that was unlocked and it happened to be the offices of Perry Mason, a lawyer with such a prestigious reputation, that she at least felt safe in staying. We later learn that she does indeed work in a law office, but she was near Mason's office because she had broken into a nearby office and had almost been caught! It was for a very personal reason--she'd been looking for personal letters that she very much wanted to have safely back in her hands... Unfortunately, the office belonged to an international diamond group and when she had left that office, she also had a couple of diamonds with her...

What a cool setup right? She panicked, but because of her typng skills, she was able to quickly recognize that she could assume a role she had the skills for, and quietly spend time typing out exactly what Perry Mason needed her to do... 

But it didn't take long for the police to become involved. Two of the individuals who worked in the diamond exchange had returned and found that their office had been broken into. Soon, police officers were coming around, including to Mason's office, asking about what they knew... At some point, however, the terrified typist escaped to the rest room and decided not to return... Did she purposely leave the diamonds that she had used gum to attach underneath her typing stand? Or did she realized that she had to get out quickly, no matter what had happened?

Not surprisingly, the brief which was under deadline was somewhat forgotten. Mason wanted to know where the typist had gone, was she involved with the theft, or was she caught in a horrible situation in which she didn't know how to escape? Given that his staff did wonder about her apparent fear, Perry quickly called Paul Drake to track the typist down...

That was not an easy task, even for Drake's staff...

And, before long, one of the men from the diamond exchange, having been in touch with their home office, had come to see Mason and ask that he represent one of their firm's employees... The complexity begins immediately and those involved could not be trusted as being truthful...

Especially when Mason realized that his nemesis, the District Attorney seemed very happy, so much so that he planned to handle the court case himself! Of course Perry would be ready to handle anything that came up in court, but he and Paul were doubling down on interviews with anybody who could possibly have been involved... And then they learned that The Terrified Typist was being held by the police...

And, folks, the ending was completely a surprise for me... So, it was that the book I thought I would remember actually ended very differently. So much so, that I wondered whether I should include the following video which claims to give away the whodunit...

And another old classic came to mind which is a hint about what happened in court on the last day...

Of course, the Prosecuting Attorney didn't want to play Who's the Defendant?...

But, hey, these stories are from the 1950s--they are classics of one of the first significant legal thriller/mysteries and, I promise, you will continue to find additional and new parts to be discovered, no matter how often you read them... I'm a fan of course, so I admit it... I want to listen to the video of the individual who is doing a series on the cases...

GABixlerReviews

David Barbur Presents Taking Refuge: A Tye Caine Wilderness Mystery - Book 5 - A Personal Favorite for 2026...

 “Things like that can make us lose little parts of our soul,” Agnes said. “A person can only stand so much of that. Let me know if you ever want help finding those parts again.”

“It’s been so much lately,” Tye said. “So much death. So much violence. So many bad people.”

We’ve run into some genuinely evil people lately—killers.”

He got the blank look that often came over his face when facts interfered with whatever desire had just popped into his head.

You seem angry sometimes.” “That’s because I am. I’m angry that these people exist in the world, and there’s very little I can do about it.

“Why are you angry?” Agnes’s voice was soft. The sun had moved far enough to the west that she now sat half in shadow. “Because I’m frightened,” Tye said. “It’s like I flipped over a rock and found all sorts of ugly, evil things crawling around underneath. If it were just me, that would be one thing, but I’m worried something will happen to my girlfriend Kaity or one of my other friends.” In the back of his mind, he realized he’d come here to get information from her, but he was the one sharing. But it felt like the right thing to do to him. Tye had trusted his gut when it came to other people all his life, and he’d rarely been wrong. “I think I scare Kaity sometimes.” That was out of his mouth before he realized it was coming. “In another time, another place, another culture, you’d have elders to guide you through this,” Agnes said. “Nowadays, we expect soldiers, police officers, firefighters, people like that, to deal with this all alone.” “I’m not any of those things,” Tye said. “But you are a protector, a guardian. You just don’t have the official blessing of a government.” “What do I do?” That question hung there between them for a few long moments. From outside, Tye heard the crunch of tires on gravel as the people from the meditation retreat left. “I can help you,” Agnes said. “But this presents me with a conundrum. I have some prior obligations to think about.” “Do you mean Brianna and Pauline?” She took a deep breath and settled in her chair. “I think all I can say is that if I had information that either of them was in danger, I’d certainly share it.” “That’s all I’m getting?” “For right now. Yes.” He looked at his watch and realized much more time had passed than he realized. He stood. “Guess I’ll be going then. If you change your mind, let me know.” “I still have your business card.” She stood and offered a hand. “Come see me when this is all over. We have much to talk about.” He shook her small hand, with its palm calloused from years of garden work. “I’ll do that.” As he returned to his truck, Tye tried to figure out what had just happened. Agnes knew more than she was telling. When he got to his truck, all the other cars had pulled out of the lot, and he stood there for a while. The only sound was the prayer flags flapping in the wind. A faint scent of incense wafted on the breeze. Tye felt a tremendous sense of peace here, like the retreat center was a little oasis of sanity in a world he was increasingly viewing as dark and malevolent. Over the years, he’d watched as Gary delved deeply into Buddhism and Taoism, but he’d never felt the need to be anything more than a half-interested observer. Lately, during the dark stretches of the night when he struggled to sleep, his head full of images of the death and violence he’d seen, he’d often wondered if there was a way to find a place of peace to counterbalance the evil and darkness he’d uncovered. He wondered if this was one of those places.

Truthfully, I didn't have a clue what I might encounter in this book. I was hoping for a series similar to that of Nevada Barr, who roams through the country as a ranger... But I never would have thought that it would include, partly, a reality crew who was shooting two women who were to be survivalists--in the nude! Yeah, they made a point that on the film, there would be appropriate coverage in the right place, but, really?

And Tye Caine was wondering why he kept getting pulled into this type of job by a questionable producer of such films... Interestingly there were only two women. It was hoped that they would get snarky, you know, like those stupid--my opinion--Housewives have been known to do, although that's only what I've heard. I'm not really a reality fan... Nevertheless, the hopeful plan did not happen since the two women soon began to work together to build shelter, find food...

Until one of them disappeared from the site location...

Ok, the plot was fairly open in my opinion, but that did not affect the basic mystery storyline--which proved to be quite creative and tense... There were many subplots that gave readers a chance to start playing around with what and how the story would flow... And, for your info, Tye Caine is a fantastic wilderness guide in all ways that are important.

Even to the point of having a female business partner who begins to be revealed in this book that intimates that her background is far more comprehensive in security methodology than he could have imagined! Should prove to increase the suspense in following books...

Of course, since one woman disappeared soon after the book starts, there is immediately a dual responsibility for Caine--keeping the second woman handling the activities she was dealing with as a survivalist. But, now, there was a search through the mountains trying to find what happened to the other one. They had found her backpack, but after intensive surroundings were searched, it was concluded that there had to be somebody who had been involved in her disappearance!

As with many books being published in the mystery, suspense, thriller genres these days, there are clear lines of the emotions of those involved. Some act criminally to gain riches... Some are pure evil and yet hide it from many through lies... Even from family members... But, sooner or later, even those who find it difficult to work to respond to the needs of others, must take a stand. And fight...

And the first concern was that night lights began to fly across the area, finally revealed to be the use of Morris Code between two areas. But who and why was this type of communication being used? Well, for one reason was, of course, that cell service was minimal. But readers learn that there are other types of technical methods used in tracking that could be both helpful as well as detrimental, especially when there was no known awareness that other types of surveillance had even been going on...

One of the unique aspects of the character creation is that Barbur brings in individuals as part of the story; however, does not mention who or why. A young delightful boy was the perfect character to call attention to the humanity of the "good guys" versus those who are not... And in this book, there is the extreme in one way and the other... The boy so delightfully alive while at the same time, soon, they found the location, where the slightly sunken ground proved to be...graves of young girls who also disappeared...

Tye had found his behavior odd the whole time but hadn’t been able to articulate quite why. Now, it finally came to him: Kenneth Howley was acting less like someone with a missing daughter and more like someone missing a valuable piece of property. Maybe the two weren’t that different to him.

“I think one of the things that’s bothering me the most is that the people who are supposed to help just seem inconvenienced by all this. First, it started with Brianna and Pauline, and everybody at the sheriff’s department seemed to care more about how they had better things to do than look for them. Now there’s a bunch of dead women in the forest, and the biggest priority is getting the paperwork right.” “Almost makes you lose faith in the institutions here to protect us,” Tye said. “The other thing that bothers me is I could be one of those women,” Kaity said. “It’s like they got picked off by some kind of predator.” “Except the other elk in a herd will at least try to protect one of their members if they can,” Tye said. “I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to an elk, but yeah.” They stood there for a while under the hot water. Tye had still felt a chill settle over him despite the heat of the day, and right now, standing there with Kaity seemed to be one of the only things that could drive it off.

Finally, it didn't surprise me to learn of supernatural additions to the story... Great! Right? In the mountains there was historical  awareness of having the "sight" or dreams that are used to help find the way forward. Caine is one of those who "sees," but still has internal doubts and fears as he strives to understand, "Why him?" I'll be checking out more of this series as possible... I hope what you've learned here will help you realize that in this time of turmoil, lies, and conmen, that we must be working to help those who are captured in the sights of those who've chosen evil as a pathway for their lives... And rid the world of those who violently turn toward others for strange and weird types of satisfaction... Do check out this writer and this series in particular!

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