#BookLaunch for #5PrincePublishing author #LindsayHarper

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction/Romance/Contemporary

Release Date: May 15, 2014

Digital ISBN-10: 1631120441 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-044-2

Print ISBN-10: 163112045X ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-045-9

Purchase link: http://www.5princebooks.com/buy-links.html

How to Have an Amicable Divorce

Have you ever got yourself in so deep you feel like running away and starting a new life?

That’s exactly what wife and artist, Denizon Cartwright felt like doing. After deciding that she couldn’t put up with her unfaithful husband any longer, she leaves him for smooth-talking artist and professor, Damien   Johnson – but she soon learns she’s swapped one liar for another and beats a hasty retreat … only to become entangled with Jay, the ex-lover of her best friend, Robyn.

Could her life get any more complicated?

Yes! A surprise encounter leaves Denizon with an ever-growing list of men falling in love with her.

Her escape route is at hand in the shape of Escuela de Montana d’Armentera, an artistic retreat high up in the Spanish mountains. But her problems only follow, as she discovers.

Will she find true happiness in the Spanish sun or lose everyone she ever held dear?

And is the cost of finding herself too high a price to pay?

About Lindsay Harper

Lindsay lives in Yorkshire, England with wonderful husband, Paul. She has two grown up children, three young grandchildren, and four springer spaniels!  She gave up working full time in 2010 to write and has self-published three metaphysical romances to sell at Mind, Body and Spirit fairs. After having fantastic reviews she decided to embark on her passion - contemporary women’s fiction and now wants to reach a wider audience – hence 5 Prince. When she’s not writing, she’s a homeopath, a dog walker and a DIY enthusiast.  For fun she loves Ashtanga yoga, Ascension meditation and the sea - and one day would love to live by it.

  

How to contact Lindsay Harper

lindsayharper.co.uk

lindsayharperauthor (facebook),

@lindsayharper (Twitter)

Excerpt of How to Have an Amicable Divorce

May

Denizon smiled as she saw whose name was flashing up on caller display.

‘Hello love, how’s it going? Are you still having a wonderful time?’

‘Yes brilliant, thanks,’ answered Robyn, her best friend and sister-in-law, speaking from the other side of the world in New Zealand.

‘You’ll be home soon, won’t you? I can’t believe you’ve been there eight weeks already.’

‘Neither can I,’ Robyn paused. ‘In fact, that’s the main reason I’m ringing. I’ve decided to stay.’

‘What? Forever?’ Denizon panicked.

‘No, not forever, silly. Just for four more weeks. Gerald has been invited to spend time at his niece’s new villa on the Cap D’Azur, so I thought I’d take advantage of the extra time off and spend it with my wonderful husband.’

‘I take it it’s still going well?’

‘I can’t believe how well. It’s like being in a new relationship, but better. We’ve fallen in love all over again.’

‘I’m really pleased for you, Rob.’

‘The training is also going better than anticipated and, hopefully, Dave will be finished in about six weeks, so he’ll be coming back to England then. He’ll have to be located in London for another few months, but at least we can spend weekends together … How’s my darling brother?’

Denizon sighed. ‘Chris is fine. He’s been promoted to Crew Manager.’

‘That’s great, isn’t it?’ Robyn asked on listening to her friends sigh.

‘Yes,’ Denizon said tentatively. ‘But he’s been away on two residential courses so far, and he’s got another one coming up.’

‘Let me guess, you’re bored.’

‘I suppose a bit, my best friend is at the other side of the world and my husband is never here.’

‘You’ve got Barney.’

‘I know, but he’s not great with the conversation.’

‘Cheer up, love. You sound like I did a few weeks ago … are you doing much with your art at the moment?’

‘Funny you should mention that. I received a phone call yesterday from the University. The Art Department is looking for tutors to teach a summer school and wondered if I’d be interested.’

‘Well then, that’s something to do,’ Robyn said enthusiastically. ‘Are you going to apply?’

‘I think so, but I’ve never taught before. There’s a training course in a couple of weeks that I could go on to teach me to teach. It would mean I couldn’t have Barney for a couple of weeks.’

‘Well, I’m sure Sarah could cope for two weeks. She leaves him with you enough. It’s only fair you have some time to do what you want, and I think it’d be good for you.’

‘You’re probably right. I’ll ring them back and tell them I’ll do the training course. If I enjoy it, who knows it might lead to something else.’

‘I think that’s great news. You’d be a good teacher.’

‘Thanks, love… hadn’t you better be going? This’ll be costing you a fortune.’

‘I suppose so. I’ll message you next week to arrange a time when we can all get together to Skype.’

‘Oh! Before I forget, Jay and Max were on Breakfast Time this morning talking about Jay’s book,’ Denizon added.

‘I thought he was in America.’

‘He was, but he’s back to do a short book tour round London.’

‘Was he good? I assume Max was.’

‘He was actually, a natural in front of the camera.’

‘It figures! What were they talking about?’

‘About affairs in general and why people have them. Max was defending monogamy and Jay was giving his contrary opinion, sharing his views on being with a partner as long as they make you happy. It was interesting, especially seeing as I know him personally.’

‘Did he mention his partner?’ Robyn asked with an edge to her voice.

‘Only that’s he’s with someone who he’s compatible with.’

‘For now,’ Robyn said scathingly.

‘You sound bitter! You’re not are you?’

‘No, not really. I made my choice as well, and I’m so happy I chose Dave. It’s just that I know his book was written when we were together, and I helped him with a lot of it. I just don’t get any credit.’

‘Don’t start all that again,’ Denizon reprimanded. ‘You’ve got a perfect life now, don’t even think about Jay.’

‘Ay, Ay captain. On that note I’m going now, and we’ll speak next week. Love you, Den.’

‘Love you too, Rob. Take care.’ She placed the phone back in its cradle and smiled. Her friend would never change.

If she was honest, the thought of teaching scared her. Being an artist was a very solitary profession and her own paintings were personal to her. She wouldn’t know how to bring out the best in her students or even if they’d appreciate what she had to say. But Robyn was right – it would be good for her – because not only was she bored, she was lonely.

Without Robyn on the other end of the phone or just round the corner she had nobody. Both her parents had been dead for years, and she was their only offspring. Robyn was the closest thing to a sister she’d ever known, and she totally relied on her for everything. She’d never been one for making friends easily and had gotten so used to her own company all day that sometimes she found it difficult to start conversations. She knew this frustrated her husband, Chris, who was the most gregarious person she had ever met.

She often thought it was why Chris had been tempted to seek out the company of other women throughout their married life and probably why she’d made allowances for that particular trait. Chris loved going out and socialising, whereas she preferred a good book or a black and white film. Robyn had loaned her Dr Max Hammond’s book, “Effective Communication”, and it made her realise that the two of them didn’t have a lot to talk about. She had become infatuated with him at age sixteen and hadn’t really looked at another man until she finally snared him six years ago.

Chris loved her, of that there was no doubt, but she just wasn’t stimulating enough for him, and he wasn’t intellectual enough for her. He was ruled by his body, and she was ruled by her brain. Since her dice with death last year their relationship had been the best it’d ever been. It was the first time since they’d got together she could honestly say she trusted him. But it had been to the detriment of his personality. He no longer went out as much, offering to spend every evening with her. She could see the life slowly seeping out of him as he tried his best to be something he wasn’t.

The recent promotion at work seemed to perk him up slightly and, even though she missed his company, she knew it was best for his sanity. Maybe tutoring would be the incentive I need to make new friends – and going out to work at a real job could, potentially, make me more interesting. It was with that thought she picked up the phone to ring the University and booked herself on the short teacher training course.

New Release from 5 Prince Publishing and Hannelore Moore

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction/Romance/Historical

Release Date: May 1, 2014

Digital ISBN-10: 1631120328 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-032-9

Print ISBN-10: 1631120336 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-033-6

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html

In the bitter winter of 1752, Evangeline Grey is determined to return to London, claim her inheritance, and lead a solitary, uneventful existence. York holds too many sad memories for her now, and she's ready to leave it behind. 

When she finds out that her guardian has designs on her -- and her pending fortune -- Evangeline manages to escape, but her journey south is fraught with uncertainty and danger. Mourning the murder of her brother, still reeling from her aunt’s recent death, and close to penniless until she finds her way back to London, she's never been more alone. 

And then, on a desolate Northern English moor, she meets a benevolent stranger who changes everything.

Kendall Beaumont is a man running from a few demons of his own. On his way to his home in remote Almsborough, he stops to help the pretty, young runaway. The future seems fairly bleak for the both of them -- until he decides to make her an offer she can't refuse...

About Hannelore Moore:

In 2012, Hannelore published a short story in Timeless, a young adult anthology from Cool Well Press. Since then, her work has appeared in The Rusty Nail literary magazine and on the Flash Fiction World website, among other places. In June 2013, she won The Iron Writer Challenge #17. Hannelore is a rabid Anglophile, as you'll discover when you read her work, and recently published her first novel, Tower Bridge. You can find more information about her on Hannelore's Happenings (http://hanneloreshappenings.blogspot.com/)

How to reach Hannelore Moore:

Twitter:  @HanneloreMoore1

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/hannelore.moore.10

Blog: http://hanneloreshappenings.blogspot.com/

Excerpt of The Ice Goddess:

1752

Evangeline

I’m worried about my Aunt Caroline. Her laughter is infrequent these days, and she seems to be walking through the house in a sort of haze. Once, in the dining room, I even saw her clutch onto the back of a chair, as though she were steadying herself. When I rushed over to ask what was wrong, she gently held up her hand to prevent any help I might offer and said she was fine; she just hadn’t slept well the night before.

As I stand by the window and stare out into the dull, February afternoon, I have a marvelous hope: perhaps she is with child. That would make her unbelievably happy. She’s always wanted a baby but was never so fortunate with her first husband, Andrew.

I turn to see Gregory walk into the small study, and I smile at him slightly, wondering if he suspects the same thing about his wife. I think he’s surprised by my expression, for it’s rare that I interact with him at all.

After two years, I still can’t get over Gregory’s youth and good looks. He’s so handsome with his chiseled features and pale blue eyes that it’s almost distracting. He wears wool breeches and one of his heaviest dress coats, for the day is exceedingly cold, despite the bright, dancing fire in the grate. He was muttering about the price of perukes the other day – maybe that’s why he’s powdered his own dark-blond hair and pulled it back into a queue. From what I understand, he’s nothing like Andrew Bingham, who was portly and jolly and near sixty when he died. Indeed, in Andrew’s simple, scholarly house, filled with books and maps that I treasure, Gregory sometimes appears at a loss.

I’ve always suspected that he wasn’t too pleased when Em and I came from London to live here. Nevertheless, he’s treated us with kindness — or maybe a better word is indifference. For some reason, though, my brother has openly showed disdain towards him ever since we arrived in York. Em never told me exactly why Gregory bothered him so, but perhaps he saw or heard things that were kept from me. Then again, Em treats most people scornfully.

Gregory toys with the chess set on the elm tripod table. Lately, I’ve been running into him more often, it seems. That musky cologne he wears always precedes him. He wanders into various rooms when I’m already there or ends up at the stables planning to ride when I’m preparing my own horse for an outing. Right now, he picks up a knight made of veined white marble and studies it absently.

“Would you like to play?” I ask, wishing I were more comfortable with him so I could broach the subject of my aunt. But I can wait. Such news is out in good time.

“Play?” he echoes, looking up at me, and the light in those eyes makes me think he’s talking about something else. There’s a lilt in his voice as he says, “Not just now, Evangeline.”

I nod. It’s probably better, anyway. We had a game once, and I won, easily. Gregory was angry about that, although he tried to pretend otherwise. Em stood in the background, smiling broadly, not attempting in the least to hide his glee over Gregory’s loss.

We can hear the pounding at the front door from here. As surprising and desperate as the summons is, I’m glad of it, for Gregory’s eyes haven’t left me. They’re steady and contemplative. I get nervous when people pay too much attention to me, always thankful for anything that might distract them.

We both step out of the study as Caroline starts down the stairs. Our butler is leading David, the innkeeper’s son, through the entryway. I push Gregory to the back of my mind because too many things about this new scene disturb me. Why is David here, wearing that torn black greatcoat? He set off to Oxford with Em just a fortnight ago to serve as a valet. Em, you see, wouldn’t hear of living on his own without a manservant. The boy is dirty and ragged, quite a different creature from the proud, well-scrubbed assistant we sent south. At that time, he preened in his new clothes, looking as much the proper young man as Em. Even my brother, usually self-absorbed with his own concerns, complimented him on his aplomb.

And then there’s Aunt Caroline, approaching David now, her eyes worried and afraid. She looks terrible. I realize she wasn’t feeling well today, which explains why she decided to rest after dinner, but the malady afflicting her is more than a simple headache. There’s something dreadfully wrong with her. She should have stayed in bed. I know she is too curious, though, and evidently struggled downstairs again to see who was calling. Despite the fact that she wears a loose sack dress, it’s obvious she’s lost weight. Against the dull, snuff-brown linen of her garment, her skin is pale. Not fashionably so, but sallow and waxy and damp with perspiration. I try to convince myself that women appear this way in the first months of their pregnancy, but I give that up quickly enough. My aunt isn’t with child and probably never will be.

She leads David into the withdrawing room. Gregory and I follow, even though I want to run in the opposite direction. Out the front door, to the stables so I can saddle my horse and ride far away from here. I watch, becoming detached, as she tells David to sit before the fire. The boy doubles over in a worn upholstered chair and begins to cry. I don’t want to feel what he’s feeling; I don’t want to know what he’s going to say. After a while, he calms down, for, despite her illness, Caroline’s easy presence soothes him. She has a way of doing that, of making people comfortable.

“Can you tell me now?” she asks in her sweet voice.

David stares at the unadorned, wooden hearth, and then, with dull, heavy words, he relates a story about highwaymen and the Oxford coach. Somewhere south of Nottingham, they blocked its progress. The occupants were mercilessly shot, including Em. Only David managed to escape. It has taken him this long to return to York, and he misses his mother very much — more than he ever thought he would. But before he saw her, before he went home, he wanted to come here to let us know what happened.

I continue to look at David as he speaks, refusing to believe him. Em can’t be dead. Not Em, who has so much planned for himself. He intends to write a great novel, just like Mr. Fielding, his idol. And as long as I can remember, he’s looked forward to teaching at Oxford. He loves poetry and prose and hopes to help others appreciate the beauty of the written word. A mere pistol shot wouldn’t hurt someone like him. His sarcasm and that condescending manner of his make him invulnerable.

“No,” I say to David, almost apologetically. “Not true.”

Gregory steps over and takes my hand in his, but I continue to study David. The boy is wrong. He has to be.

“Do you think I’m making this up?” David says. “Why would I tell such a lie?”

“You’re mistaken.” I shake my head and feel very dizzy all of a sudden. Gregory has to steady me, apparently, by wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

“Have Abby take Evangeline up to her room.” I hear Aunt Caroline say, and the next thing I know, I’m climbing the faded wooden stairs, my lady’s maid at my side. We are at my threshold and then in my room, and it’s so incredibly cold. Abby leads me to my plain bed and I have the presence of mind to sit down on the edge. I stare past her, seeing nothing.

“You must rest.” I hear the catch in her voice and wonder why she would be upset, because it’s obvious that David is wrong.

I nod anyway, to appease her, and allow her to prepare me for bed. The day is gray and never seems to end.

Launch Day for 5 Prince Publishing author Sara Barnard -- A Heart Forever Wild

It is launch day for my dear friend and 5 Prince Publishing author Sara Barnard. An Everlasting Heart series has been a great success. No doubt she will have a great launch to day with this final installment.  Congratulations Sara!





Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction, Romance, Historical

Release Date: April 3, 2014

Digital ISBN-10: 1631120298 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-029-9

Print ISBN-10: 1631120301 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-030-5

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html

A Heart Forever Wild

Outlaws. Lies. Executions. Indians.

When all of their dreams come true, will Sanderson and Charlotte still have what started it all – their everlasting love?

In this final installment of the Everlasting Heart series, Sanderson and Charlotte must make a home for themselves in the Army town of Fort Bidwell, California. When the job as an Indian agent begs him to round up the peaceful area Indians for execution, Sanderson again runs afoul of the government. In answer to the broken promises of the Army, Sanderson and Jerry turn to a well-paying job with the railroad. However, they are warned to turn a blind eye to the treatment of their Chinese workers ...  or else. But can money buy this formerly-happy Arkansas family the happiness they are so desperately searching for?

Meanwhile as Charlotte stands up for Cotton against the town bullies, she accidentally falls into favor with Johnny Tan, the handsome young outlaw who slowly transforms into both Sanderson’s nemesis and his saving grace. In a world where women are expected to be silent, can Charlotte be a parent Cotton, a wife to Sanderson who seems to have fallen more in love with money than with her, and friend to Minerva, who seems to be drifting farther and farther away?

About Sara Barnard

Sara Barnard, who was most likely born into the wrong century, is mother to four awesome children. In addition to Rebekah’s Quilt, she has authored the historical romance Everlasting Heart series, consisting of bestselling A Heart on Hold, which was also a 2012 RONE award finalist, A Heart Broken, A Heart at Home, and A Heart Forever Wild – all from 5 Prince Publishing. She also writes for the younger among us. Chunky Sugars is a picture book from 5 Prince Kids and her independently published children’s nonfiction titles, The ABC’s of Oklahoma Plants and The Big Bad Wolf Really Isn’t so Big and Bad, have hit bestseller lists several times. She and her family make their home in the far reaches of the west Texas desert with the Javalina, mesquite trees, and of course, lots and lots of oil.

Where to find Sara:

Web Site: www.sarabarnardbooks.com

facebook.com/sarabarnardbooks

Twitter: @TheSaraBarnard

Email: sarathreesuns@gmail.com

Excerpt of A Heart Forever Wild:

The thundering hooves from both the stampede and the onslaught of soldiers vibrated the ground. “Sanderson!” Charlotte had to shout to be heard over the growing din. The scene before her unfolded in slow motion as Jerry lifted Minerva, Jay Jay, and Cotton into the wagon with expert precision, one after the other.

Cotton’s normally musical voice tore from his throat in a hysterical shriek. “Mr. Sanderson! Don’t forget Button and George!” Tears left wet trails down his bronze face while more still shimmered in his clear blue eyes. His arms trembled as they reached for his wolf pup.

George whimpered, scared and helpless, until Jerry plopped Button into the wagon beside him. At once, the gray pup ceased his cries and began to snarl and snap at his brother and friend, both of their fluffy tails wagging, oblivious to the mortal danger that careened toward them from seemingly all directions. Cotton folded his little body over the puppies as Minerva draped her arm over Cotton. Her emerald eyes, wide and staring, darted to and fro.

Sanderson’s strong hands snapped Charlotte from her trance. “Come on!” Her grip tightened around tiny Charlie. “We gotta clear out!”

Nicolai flung his huge head as the herd of wild horses drew nearer and the shouts of the soldiers grew louder. He stomped his hooves as though he may take off with the mustangs at any moment. Achilles, hooked to pull the wagon alongside the younger stallion, glanced over his gray shoulder and whuffed.

Cocoa and Peanut zipped through Jerry’s legs as he pitched a few bags out of the birthing tipi that Charlotte had called her home -- the warm, snug, safe place where precious Charlie had come into the world and she herself had almost exited it. Both buckskin and cloth bags landed at her feet in the thin layer of mud. Careful not to trip over them, Charlotte quick-stepped to Sanderson and shoved Charlie into his waiting arms.

Once Charlotte was safe in the wagon bed with her family, Jerry tossed in the rest of the bags as she reached for Charlie.

Sanderson’s eyes were as wild as she’d ever seen. As she accepted their child from him, he was looking everywhere but at her. “Hunker down, going to be a rough ride,” he called, disappearing around the side of the wagon. Nicolai stomped and reared, making the wagon lurch as snippets of conversation made its way back to the bed where Charlotte tried to remain brave. Sanderson’s voice was the clearest. “You drive and I’ll ride!”

Cries from the Indians drowned out Jerry’s reply.

The wagon jerked to life as a few words from Charlotte’s beloved met her ears again. “Turn in with the herd ... kick for that river!”

Fear churned in Charlotte’s stomach as she grasped Charlie tighter. Her gaze, searching the faces of her loved ones who shared the wagon bed with her, met the wide one belonging to Minerva.

The words rolled off her tongue in choppy Romani-tinged syllables. “There is a river near?” Jay Jay screeched, prompting Charlie to join in, as the popping of gunshots peppered the air above the deafening roar of hoofbeats.

Careful to keep from looking out the front of the wagon, Charlotte hunkered down and tugged at the neck of her buckskin dress. Once her swollen breast was freed, she offered it to Charlie who quieted his whimpers and began to nurse.

Minerva busied herself with watching Jay Jay, following Charlotte’s lead not to look out the front of the wagon – or the back. “We’re with herd? Of wild horses?”

Cotton peeked up from his furry fort of wolf pups. “We’re riding with those stampedin’ horses?” His inky eyebrows arched skyward. “To get away from the soldiers?” He pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position. Had he ears like Button and George, they’d have no doubt been perked up, sitting at attention.

Charlotte laid her hand on his shoulder and nodded. “Please, stay low. Those shots are close.” No sooner had the words passed her lips than a crack sounded and a shot of hot lead tore through their canvas cover. Jerry roared from the driver’s box.

“No!” Minerva’s face contorted into a mishmash of planes as she tried to scramble toward the front of the wagon and conceal Jay Jay at the same time. “Jerry!”

Charlotte shoved Cotton back into the nest of puppies and slid down until she and Charlie were flat, as far from Army bullets as possible. “Minerva, get down!”

Tears leaked from Minerva’s flashing eyes as her mouth gaped, sobs roiling up from the depths of her being. “No, he’s dead! They’ve killed him!”

The wagon turned sharply to the right, sending Minerva and Jay Jay crashing over Cotton and into Charlotte’s legs. Hoofbeats thundered against the frozen earth in deafening thunks. Someone screamed, though Charlotte wasn’t sure if it was her or Minerva. Surely, her world was coming to an end.

Jerry’s voice rose above the din like a phoenix from the ashes. “I’m alright! You gals stay low -- we’re running with the herd now!”

Thank you God. Charlotte reached with her free arm and patted Minerva’s ebony head. Shots from the Cavalry rifles sounded farther away as the wagon roared wildly toward the north, in the company of a thousand wild horses.

Cotton’s head poked up again. “We’re in the herd? With wild horses?” With the grace and stealth of a cat, Cotton rose and crept toward the driver’s box, somehow managing to keep his footing amid the mess of goods, people, dogs, and the rolling of the wagon.

Charlotte reached to snag the youngster, but missed. “Cotton, no!” Before she could adjust her seat and grab for one of his moccasined feet, Cotton slipped through the canvas arch and situated himself next to Jerry without a single misstep. Holding onto the roughhewn wooden bench, Cotton swiveled his head back toward Charlotte, a grin lighting his entire face. “Miss Charlotte! I ain’t never seen so many horses!”

As she held the youngster’s stare, Charlotte’s lips spread back farther and farther until her eyes crinkled at the sides and her cheeks ached, her body rocking in rhythm with the wagon. The sudden surge of happiness was so unexpected, it threatened to consume her right then and there. “Watch ‘em for all of us, alright?”

Nodding his ebony-tressed head, Cotton hollered back. “Alright!” Before the word was fully formed and free of his lips, he had already turned back to face the horses.

George and Button took turns nipping at Charlotte’s toes before being knocked off their paws by the jostling wagon, only to begin again as soon as they regained their footing. Silly puppies. She froze. Puppies. Her head snapped back and forth, searching the wagon for the animals she knew weren’t there. Finally, she found her voice. “Minerva!” Charlotte’s voice broke as though speaking the words brought a whole new level of pain with them. “We left Peanut and Cocoa!” Right on cue, baby Charlie began to shriek.

WHAT A GREAT SERIES, AND A WONDERFUL ENDING. 

GOOD LUCK SARA BARNARD

Release Day for 5 Prince Publishing author Sara Barnard

FREE

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction, Ghost

Release Date: March 20, 2014

Digital: ISBN: 13: 978-1-63112-017-6 ISBN: 10: 1631120174

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html

FREE

Desperado:

A haunted mallet. A spooky song. An old west ghost story. Can Shelby survive a family camping trip or will the ghost of past misdeeds come calling?

Shelby didn’t want to go on the family camping trip with her parents and baby sister Rhea. Sitting around telling ghost stories couldn’t be more boring, even if one of the stories is supposedly true. When she accidently gets a scrape on her finger from the wooden mallet that is the heart of her mother’s ghost story, and not to mention also a bloodstained antique from the cowboy days, Shelby gets a glimpse of what she may have unwittingly unleashed into modern times. With the help of her family, Shelby must try to piece together the story of the haunted mallet and a certain song by the Eagles that keeps playing ... and playing ... and playing – before this Texas-sized ancestral ghost story takes a turn that just might be headed down a dead end. 

About Sara Barnard

Sara Barnard, who was most likely born into the wrong century, is mother to four awesome children. In addition to Rebekah’s Quilt, she has authored the historical romance Everlasting Heart series, consisting of bestselling A Heart on Hold, which was also a 2012 RONE award finalist, A Heart Broken, A Heart at Home, and A Heart Forever Wild – all from 5 Prince Publishing. She also writes for the younger among us. Chunky Sugars is a picture book from 5 Prince Kids and her independently published children’s nonfiction titles, The ABC’s of Oklahoma Plants and The Big Bad Wolf Really Isn’t so Big and Bad, have hit bestseller lists several times. She and her family make their home in the far reaches of the west Texas desert with the Javalina, mesquite trees, and of course, lots and lots of oil.

Where to find Sara:

Web Site: www.sarabarnardbooks.com

facebook.com/sarabarnardbooks

Twitter: @TheSaraBarnard

Email: sarathreesuns@gmail.com

Excerpt of Deperado:

“Okay let’s have a contest to see who can tell the scariest story.” Mom’s voice was much too chipper for my taste. She was all into this camping stuff, but there was nowhere for me to plug in my curling iron, so I could care less about being out here.

The flames from the fire danced, as though alive, as I shot a pained look at Dad. Showing off his trademark grin, Dad gave me a wink and tiny nod as if to say, humor your mother, she loves you.

Defeated, I pulled my old holey blanket around my shoulders and tried to ignore the encroaching shadows that looked to be dancing with the flickering firelight.

My baby sister Rhea straightened her back and leaned forward in her camp chair. “I’ll go first,” she chirruped. Rhea’s seven-year-old voice tried to sound scary and her blue eyes widened as she began her tale. “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away...”

I stuffed a whole s’more into my mouth.

Rhea held her hands up like claws. “There was a blue, no wait, make that a green bird.” She looked from face to face until she got to mine. “No, not a bird, a sister.”

I rolled my eyes as the corners of my mouth twitched upward.

Unfazed, Rhea continued. “The green sister was silly.” She dropped her voice low. “And I mean very, very, very silly.” She dropped her claw-hands into her lap, sat back in the camp chair, and grinned. “The end.”

Mom and Dad applauded wildly. I hid my ghost of a smile behind a nose twitch and passed Rhea another gooey s’more. “That was pretty good, Sissy,” I commended. “Take a few storytelling classes and you’ll be as good as Stephen King someday.”

The fact that I adored my baby sister was no secret, and I flattered myself to think that the feeling was mutual.

Rhea blew her blonde bangs up in a dramatic huff. “Shelby, do you always have to talk about him?” Her voice was an octave away from a full-on whine. “That movie he wrote scared me.” She glanced over her shoulder and scooted closer to Dad.

I crossed my legs. “Rhea, he writes books. Not movies.” It was an old argument the two of us shared ever since she snuck in and hid behind the couch while I was watching Pet Sematary one night. Rhea had watched the entire thing before I discovered her back there, terrified. She’d been sleeping in my room ever since then. “They make movies based on his books—”

“Ahem.” I could feel Mom glaring at me. My cheeks burned as the rest of my sentence fizzled, forgotten. Busted.

“We will talk about movie rules when we get home tomorrow, young ladies,” she said sternly. “As for now, who wants to hear a scary story? A true, scary story.”

“I do. Oh, Mommy, I do,” Rhea trilled in her normal, singsong voice. She scooted a little closer to Mom.

Dad rose from his camp chair. “If you ladies will excuse me, I think I will go find a tree right quick.” Turning, he trotted off into the shadowy woods.

Mom cut her gaze to me. “Shelby, are you up to it?”

I nodded and scooted in a tad bit closer to the fire.

Mom pulled her pink camouflaged backpack into her lap. “Good. Well, when I was a little girl, we were at a family reunion, not too far from here.” She gestured widely with her arm toward the west. “Before we left for the hour’s ride home, my mom, grandmother, great-grandmother, and I stopped at a garage sale on the edge of town. The house itself looked like it was out of a Stephen King novel––boarded up windows, creaky wooden front door swinging to and fro, peeling paint––the works.” She glanced at me. I smiled. She knew I was eating this up.

Mom leaned in and shifted her gaze back to Rhea. “Your great-great grandmother noticed that the homeowner was in a hurry to sell everything off. When she started poking around in a box of kitchenware, he accepted twenty-five cents for the whole box of stuff. Antiques, he said they were.”

The fire glinted off Mom’s face, making her wide eyes sparkle even more than they usually did. Rhea’s mouth hung open, a bit of marshmallow stuck to her cheek. A rogue arctic blast suddenly swept through our campsite, sending a collective shiver through all three of us. I tugged at the ends of my blanket and snuggled down deeper into my camp chair, taking care to not look into the dark woods behind me.

“Antiques?” Rhea asked through sticky lips. “What’s that?”

“The man told Great Gran that the stuff she bought had come west with his grandparents by way of a wagon train. Everything in that box was all that had survived a hellish campfire accident on their journey from the Pennsylvania.”

Rhea was sticking and unsticking her fingers. “Oh. Okay.”

Mom slowly slid up the zipper of her backpack. “Well, on the ride home, we had the radio on while your great-great grandma sorted through her box of treasures. She gave a purple glass bottle marked 1806 to my mom, a strange little garlic press to me, and a tiny tin snuff can to my grandma. From the very bottom of the box, she pulled out this.”

Mom reached into her backpack and drew out a weird looking wooden kitchen instrument.

“Is that a mallet?” I asked, letting my eyes rove over the little tool. “And what’s that stain? Is it ...” I gulped. “Blood?”

Mom nodded. “Yes and yes. The wagon train came under attack by a bad outlaw after the campfire accident. His grandma grabbed this mallet and swung it to kill, knocking the desperado’s black hat clean off his head. As Great Gran told the story to us in the car, the song on the radio changed to Desperado by The Eagles.”

“Oh, I love The Eagles,” I cooed.

Ignoring me, Mom continued. “While she told the story, Great Gran somehow managed to cut her finger on the mallet. Probably on this rough spot right here.” Mom slowly held the mallet out to me.

Equally slow, I reached to feel the spot she spoke of. The world around me melted into the blackness of the night as I touched the ancient piece of wood.

“BOO!” Rhea shrieked.

Oh did we mention that is is FREE?

Release Day for 5 Prince Publishing author Jessica Dall

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction, Romance, Historical, Alternative History

Release Date: March 13, 2014

Digital ISBN 10: 1631120093 ISBN-13:978-1-63112-009-1

Print ISBN 10:1631120107 ISBN-13:978-1-63112-010-7

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html

The Copper Witch:

“Ambition or Love”

Adela Tilden has always been more ambitious than her station in life might allow. A minor nobleman’s daughter on a failing barony, Adela’s prospects seem dire outside of marrying well-off. When Adela catches the eye of the crown prince, Edward, however, well-off doesn’t seem to be a problem. Thrown into a world of politics and intrigue, Adela might have found all the excitement she ever wanted—if she can manage to leave her past behind.

About Jessica Dall:

Jessica Dall finished her first novel at age 15 and been writing ever sense. She is the author of such novels as Grey Areas and The Bleeding Crowd and a number of short stories which have appeared in both literary magazines and anthologies. When not writing, she works as a freelance editor and creative writing teacher in Washington, DC.

How to find Jessica Dall:

Website/blog: www.jessicadall.com

Twitter: @JessicaDall

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jkdall

Excerpt of The Copper Witch:

Adela Tilden held as still as she could force herself to be, her eyes sliding over every now and again to study the man sitting in front of her.

Antony looked up from the easel and released a breath through his nose. “Hold still.”

“I am,” she said, barely moving her mouth.

He gave her a dark look.

Adela exaggerated a sigh, dropping her eyes again to the side, staring at the same patch of grey stone as she had been for what felt like years. “I want to see what you’re doing.”

“You’ll see when I’m done.”

She fidgeted, glancing at her dress. “Can’t we make the neckline just a little lower?”

“Your grandmother doesn’t like it as it is,” Antony droned, the same answer yet again.

“Well, of course she doesn’t,” Adela said, barely refraining from rolling her eyes and getting yelled at again.

“Drop your shoulder a little,” he directed, “and hold still.”

So she’d get yelled at either way, it seemed. Adela shifted, still attempted to freeze.

Antony shook his head, running a frustrated hand through his brown hair. “No, drop…not… You know what?” He moved to her.

Adela watched him carefully, making no effort to help as he straightened the line of the dress where it stopped around her shoulders. If a little too thin to be called well built, she had to admit Antony was an attractive man with his dark eyes and square jaw. It was a shame he had staged her looking away. She wouldn’t have minded the excuse to spend her time studying him right back.

He pressed her shoulder down lightly with the end of his paintbrush. “Can you hold that now?”

Her eyes remained on his face. “It’s hardly acrobatics.”

Antony’s eyes flicked up as he offered a weak smile, sliding away just as quickly as he adjusted the oblong pearl in the headpiece Adela’s grandmother had pulled out just for the occasion. He paused, finally moved a strand of the hair that had been left out of the braids at her crown and placed it over her shoulder. He stepped back, looking at her just a little bit too long, starting when he met her eyes. “There. Much better.”

The way he backed away, almost making it look like a retreat, made Adela smile. She watched Antony settle himself before tilting her head back the way it had been. “I don’t understand why Grandmamma wants a portrait of me anyway. It’s not as if anyone is going to see it. No one ever comes out here, you know. I’m surprised you’re here and you’re paid to be.”

“She’s trying to make sure that no one gets any funny ideas about your financial situation, I believe, Miss Tilden.” Antony didn’t look away from the easel.

“Even if they’re completely correct.” Adela heaved a sigh.

“Stop moving.”

She couldn’t help glancing again, looking away when he glared. “How old are you, Antony?”

He paused momentarily. “Does that matter?”

“I was just curious,” she said. “You’re much younger than the painters we used to have come here.”

“I’m not as well-seasoned as them, I would think,” he said. “And I imagine I’m quite a bit cheaper.”

“Oh.” She fought away a smile. “So I shouldn’t be surprised when my nose comprises the better part of my face, then?”

“I think I’m skilled enough to keep that from happening,” Antony answered, continuing under his breath, “Anyway, if I were going to make a feature too large it would much more likely be your eyes.”

Her eyes slid over to him again.

He met them for a second before looking away sharply. “Stay still.”

“You just started painting, then?” She looked down and away again.

“I’ve been painting my entire life,” he said, seeming relieved. “Just finished my apprenticeship a year or so ago.”

“So you’re what then?” Adela did the math in her head. “Twenty? Twenty-One?”

“Something like that.”

She smiled. “You don’t know which one?”

“Relax your face.”

She took a breath, forced off the smile. “Is it a secret?”

Exasperation leeched into his voice. “Is what?”

“Your age.”

He released a breath. “I just don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“I asked,” she said. “That doesn’t make it relevant enough?”

“I don’t believe that’s the way it works, Miss Tilden.”

She shifted. “Can I please move?

I’m going to freeze in this position if I have to keep it up much longer.”

Antony set down his brush, holding his hands up, motioning his surrender. “We can take a break.”

Adela rolled her shoulders, standing quickly to stretch her legs. She turned. “Can I see now?”

He looked up from straightening his paints.

“I’d like to see how you’re painting me,” she continued at his silence.

Antony hesitated. “I prefer people not to see what I’m painting until I’m done.”

She moved closer. “I’m paying for it. I’d think you’d want to know if I’m unsatisfied in any way.”

He opened his mouth, cleared his throat before starting. “Your grandmother’s paying for it, Miss Tilden. Maybe I should show her.”

Adela pouted. “Please?”

He looked at her for another moment. Finally, sighing, he backed up for her to take a look.

Adela moved quickly, her soft slippers barely making a sound on the stone floor. And the painting slid into view. Unlike the other china-doll portraits in the manor—with every inch of the women in them softened, pale—the picture in front of her looked as though he had taken her reflection and pressed it onto the canvas.  She studied herself, fascinated for a moment before collecting herself. She pulled herself straight. “You’re using a lot of red in my hair.”

His eyes lifted to her scalp. “Well, there is a lot of red in your hair, Miss Tilden.”

She twirled a strand absentmindedly around her finger, and didn’t dispute it.

“Satisfied?” he finally asked.

“You are quite talented,” she said, looked from the painting to him. “I don’t think you have my lips quite right, though.”

“No?”

She picked up the mirror on the mantel, studying her face before looking back at him. “Don’t you think? My bottom lip is fuller.”

He looked at her lips for a moment, slid his eyes away, nodding. “I’ll fix it when you sit back down.”

She looked at her reflection for another moment before tilting the mirror down to fix the neckline of her dress. “This was the dress I wore to my mother’s funeral, you know.”

Antony started, mouth working as he searched for something to say. “Oh.”

“It’s been altered, of course.” She played with the gold thread that had been used to embroider the swirling pattern along the bodice. “But Grandmamma insisted that black was the proper color for a portrait, and I doubt we would have been able to get new silk, so she recycled this one.”

“Oh,” Antony repeated.

“I have to say, I like it better this way.” She leaned back against the wall sliding her hands down the skirt.

Antony coughed, looked at the windows. “We’re not going to have the light much longer. As soon as the sun…we’ll have to stop for the night.”

Adela sighed dramatically, looking at the high windows around the gaping hall. “How much longer do you think it’s going to be?”

“Not long. I’m almost done with what I need you for. I can do the background alone.”

She nodded slowly, studying him.

He met her eyes before once again looking away. “What?”

“Where did you learn to paint?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I’ve always painted.”

“Was your father a painter?”

Antony pressed his lips together. “Soldier, actually.”

“Ah,” Adela said. “Second son?”

Antony shrugged.

“What’s your last name?”

“I don’t think I was hired to help you figure out my life story, Miss Tilden.” Antony finally looked back at her.

“I’m just curious.” Adela shrugged innocently. “If you were able to apprentice as a painter obviously you aren’t from a farming family.”

He shook his head, straightening his brushes awkwardly. “Fletcher.”

Adela tilted her head. “Any relation to Thurston Fletcher?”

“None,” he said, voice curt. “Think you’ve stretched out enough to let me finish?”

She smiled at the joke he didn’t seem to catch. “Maybe.”

He motioned to the stool. “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Tilden.”

All business once again, Adela’s smile dropped as she settled on her stool. “You could call me Adela, you realize. No need for all the formality.”

“I’m more comfortable with ‘Miss Tilden’ if it’s all the same to you,” he said, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t presume the familiarity.”

“You wouldn’t be presuming anything. I said you could,” she said. “I call you Antony. I didn’t even know your last name until a few moments ago.”

“Your family is quite a bit more important than mine, Miss Tilden.” He took his seat. “There’s no reason for you to know my family.”

She scoffed. “I’m living in the middle of nowhere, alone, save my grandmother who hasn’t been further than our front gates since my mother passed.” Adela looked up at the ceiling. “God rest her soul. I’m surprised anyone remembers us at all.”

“You do own Penrith,” he said.

“Also known as the entirety of three-dozen people and five-thousand sheep.” She let out an exasperated sigh when he didn’t answer. “Am I sitting properly?”

“Turn a little towards me,” he directed, finally looking up. “Relax your hand.”

“Like this?”

He nodded. “Head down. Right there. You can hold that?”

She rolled her eyes. “I have been for two days.”

He didn’t answer, returning to the painting.

“Whom have you painted before?” she asked.

“Mostly models,” Antony said.

“Were they pretty?” Adela asked.

Antony’s cheek twitched. “If you want me to get your mouth right you’re going to have to stop moving it, Miss Tilden.”

She released a breath, froze, staying still as long as she could stand the silence. Her eyes flicked toward him. “Well, were they?”

“Miss Tilden,” he snapped.

“It’s just a question, Antony.”

He groaned, the sound coming from the back of his throat before he finally answered in a more civilized, if still strained, tone, “Were they what?”

“Pretty,” she said. “The models.”

He painted a few more strokes. “I suppose. Some of them.”

“Only some?” she asked.

“Well, we need to know how to paint non-pretty people too.”

“That can’t be fun.” Her nose crinkled. “Staring at ugly people for days on end.”

“Hold still.”

She sighed, complying for barely a second before continuing, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

He frowned. “I hardly think I’m qualified to judge, Miss Tilden.”

“You’ve seen plenty of both, I’m sure,” she said. “Am I closer to the pretty models or the ugly ones?”

He released a slow breath. “You are attractive, in my opinion, Miss Tilden.”

She smiled.

“Miss Tilden,” he snapped.

The smile dropped without having to be told. She tapped her foot under her dress for a moment. “What’s it like having a job, Antony?”

He let out a loud, exasperated sigh, resting his pallet in his lap. “What?”

“I’ve never worked,” she said.

“You’re young.” He waited, only continuing when she didn’t speak again. “And I doubt you need to.”

“It probably wouldn’t hurt around here.” She puffed out her cheeks, stopping before he could snap again. “Though my grandmother would rather die in the poorhouse than let me work, I’m sure.”

He hummed, eyes back on the painting.

“And I’m not that young,” she added.

“Young enough,” he said.

She studied him out of the corner of her eyes, glancing away each time he looked up. The brush moved quickly, Antony barely seeming to think before he made the next line. She half wanted to be on the other side of the easel watching how he painted rather than stuck on her stool across the room. The silence stretched on, every movement of the brush seeming amplified as he refused to speak. “You’re rather boring, you know that?”

“I’m not paid to be entertaining,” Antony answered quickly.

“Obviously.”

The silence returned, long enough this time Adela began to doubt he would answer at all, then the sound of brushes being set on his small table. Adela turned her head to look at him.

He didn’t look back. “I think I have what I need.”

She frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Very.”

She stood, looking at him for a long moment. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Antony?”

He glanced up, then away. “No. Why?”

“You never look me in the eyes.”

“That’s a sign of respect, isn’t it?”

“Maybe a hundred years ago.” She scoffed. “Seems dishonest to me.”

He looked at her, straight on, nearly seeming to squirm. “You have very…interesting eyes, Miss Tilden.”

She smiled. “Runs in my family, don’t you know? My mother’s side.”

“I know, in…” he led off.

“You can say it,” she said. “Just because we’re far enough removed that they forget about us doesn’t mean we don’t talk about our dear royal family.”

“Your mother,” he said. “From a long line of mothers.”

“Yes, it’s all very maternal,” Adela droned. “And why I’m out here on a small tract of nothing rather than in Carby.”

“You’re still nobility,” Antony said quietly.

“But not noble enough to even be called ‘Lady’.” Adela pouted. “I’m just ‘The Honorable Miss Tilden’.”

“Most people would be thrilled at being able to put ‘honorable’ in front of their name,” Antony said.

“In all due respect Antony.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not most people.”

He looked at her, finally managing to hold her eyes with some degree of fortitude. “So what’s your plan then, Miss Tilden? Find yourself a prince to marry?”

Her smile returned. “I’d be happy with a marquess. Maybe an earl in a pinch. No need for a prince.”

“Well, you have that royal blood. You have that going for you.” He looked at the portrait.

“True.” She looked at her wrists, studying the blue veins just under the skin. “Just not nearly enough of it to be of any use to me.”

Antony tilted his head to the side, looking at the painting from another angle before looking back up at her. “I mean no offense, Miss Tilden, but I don’t think I’m the one to whom you should be complaining about your family.”

“You could always claim you’re related to Thurston Fletcher,” Adela said. “He was knighted recently.”

“I’m sure he’d love that.”

“Or you could make friends with someone important and see if they could get you knighted,” she suggested.

“I have no desire to be Sir Antony Fletcher, Miss Tilden” Antony said. “I’ll leave such ambitions to you.”

“I don’t want to be a knight.” Adela smirked. “That would be a step down.”

He frowned. “You know what I meant, Miss Tilden.”

She still smirked, looking him over. “You have no ambition then, Antony?”

He shook his head, wiping off one of his brushes.

“None whatsoever?”

“I’m quite content as I am, Miss Tilden.”

“Would you turn it down if someone offered it?”

“There are already two Sir Fletchers in my family.” He gave a tight smile. “I believe my father and brother have that title more than covered.”

“You can’t seriously tell me you would turn down the chance for the title,” Adela insisted.

“You don’t need to sit around here, Miss Tilden.” He went to straightening his paints, not looking at her. “I can finish this simply enough.”

“I don’t have anywhere better to go,” Adela said. “Sadly you’re some of the most interesting human interaction to be had around here.”

“Lucky me,” he said, sarcasm breaking through. He quickly reined himself back in. “You really don’t have anything better to do?”

“I’d just be in my room, reading or sewing more than likely.” Adela picked at a piece of lint on her hip. “And as much as I do love Lettice, there’s only so long one can talk to the same person before everything becomes a chore.”

“Lettice?” he asked

“My chambermaid,” she said. “Though these days she’s somewhere between a lady’s maid and chambermaid. She’s the one who did my hair.”

Antony nodded, silent.