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Barbara Ellen Brink

Life and death and the Port in between

January 9, 2021 By Barbara Leave a Comment

A Man Can Die but Once is the newest release in my Double Barrel Mysteries series. After three years, local P.I.s Blake and Shelby Gunner have settled into small town life like cream cheese on a toasted bagel. Shelby is ready to give birth to their first child any second now and the biggest homicide case Port Scuttlebutt has ever known has been unceremoniously dropped into their lap. This murder hits way too close to home.

Tiny Port Scuttlebutt has had more than its fair share of murders and mysteries. Set on the banks of Lake Superior, this quiet little port is brimming with quirky characters, secrets, and the potential for many, many more stories.

If you haven’t read any of them yet, I suggest you start with the first, Roadkill. Blake and Shelby Gunner are a young married couple from Minneapolis who move back to Blake’s hometown in the Upper Peninsula after a serious shooting injury puts him on indefinite desk duty.

But once a detective, always a detective. Blake can’t just let a local hit-and-run go unexplained. He needs to find answers for himself and the town. Shelby is all in. She’s a dinner theatre actress who speaks Shakespeare as a second language and loves the challenge of playing Blake’s partner and acting like an investigator. But even with closure in their first case, the Gunners decide to stay in Port Scuttlebutt and open their own P.I. office. Hence the name, Double Barrel Investigations.

Each book is a separate case and mystery, but along the way you learn more about Blake and Shelby, their friends, the townsfolk, and the secrets that have been the bedrock of Port Scuttlebutt for far too long.

If you like a good mystery but don’t particularly care for rough language or graphically depicted sex, violence, or murder scenes, the Double Barrel Mysteries are the books for you. There is always an intriguing and suspenseful mystery/murder, tasteful/sweet romance, and a touch of humor.

So, hop on the mystery bandwagon and pick up a copy today! Here is my author page at Draft2Digital where you can find links to all online stores.

Leave a comment and let me know which Double Barrel Mystery you’ve enjoyed the most so far! And if you haven’t yet, please leave a short review at the online store you shop from. That helps independent authors like myself be found by other readers. Thanks much!

Barbara

Happy Reading!

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, the Double Barrel Mysteries, the Second Chances series, and more. She lives in Minnesota because she can’t afford Hawaii.

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A mysterious light at the end of the 2020 tunnel!

November 11, 2020 By Barbara 1 Comment

Image by Kristendawn from Pixabay

My newest Double Barrel mystery is hitting the cyber shelves December 1st! I just wanted to share my joyous news, along with an excerpt to get your mystery-loving brains engaged.

I started writing this over a year ago and set it aside, but when I seriously went back to the story this past August, the plot and characters morphed into something quite different than my initial thought process. Sometimes fictional people have a mind of their own and you just can’t make them conform to your plans.

Available Dec 1, 2020! PreOrder now!

If you’ve enjoyed Blake and Shelby’s stories in the Double Barrel mystery series so far, then I know you will love A Man Can Die but Once. As usual, I start off with the murder, so it will come as no surprise to you all if you read the first page that the mayor’s shenanigans are finally coming to an end.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt and be sure to go to your favorite ebook store and PreOrder A MAN CAN DIE BUT ONCE. You won’t be charged until December 1st when it automatically downloads onto your reader device. As simple as that. A fun mystery just in time for Christmas lockdowns! (Sorry, couldn’t help myself)

~PROLOGUE~

Leaning over the body of the mayor, he pressed two fingers to the man’s thick neck, searching for the carotid pulse. Faint but still detectable. Suddenly, he felt the man grip the ragged edge of his untucked shirt and tug him closer as though trying to say something. Eyes wide and staring, the mayor’s blue lips moved faintly, but only a mewling whimper sounded from the depths of his chest. Instinctively, he jerked away from the moist breath of vomit and death that accosted him, and the mayor’s white-knuckle grip was broken. The mayor fell back, pulling his arm in close to his body and appeared to curl around his pain, then he exhaled one last time and was gone.

Slowly, he straightened, standing tall over the mayor’s body, his stance relaxed. Purposefully at ease. Closing his eyes, he allowed his adrenaline-laced heartbeat to slow and his breathing return to normal. No matter how many times he’d watched men die, he still felt a weight of darkness envelope his soul. A feeling he had to fight with every breath in his body. Exactly sixty seconds later, he opened his eyes and stared down on the ashen-faced man crumpled at his feet.

Everyone talked about this man. Locals either hated him or despised him. Some thought he was a necessary evil. A nasty, pushy politician could get things done for the town that nice people could not. But he’d never run across anyone who loved and respected him.

The great Farley Jones. The man who would be king… or at least, mayor of Port Scuttlebutt. He used people. Connived. Pressured. Even blackmailed them into doing his dirty work or going along with him in some unsavory deal or another. He’d heard the tales, but until recently, he’d never had the opportunity to see the man at work in person.

He had no real stake in the welfare of Port Scuttlebutt. Didn’t care whether Farley Jones ran things like a Detroit gangster or was more of a Saint Francis of Assisi, communing with birds and saving pine trees.

Farley’s mistake today was purely subjective.

The Mayor of Port Scuttlebutt had made a choice. He chose poorly. He never should have tried to hurt a woman on a mission. Like PETA zealots who write meat is murder on a butcher’s shop, to save-the-trees groups who chain themselves to bulldozers, or nuts who release thousands of minks from farms to starve to death or be eaten by foxes, people on a mission were the scariest people in the world to deal with logically. To them, the end always justified the means. Even if it didn’t turn out quite the way they planned. Much like war.

Stepping back, he carefully looked over the scene, imprinting it on his memory for possible future posterity.

Blood seeped from a wound on the back of the mayor’s head, glistening wet and dark. The fancy overcoat and loose-legged suit pants did nothing to hide the effects of a man accustomed to overindulgence and lack of exercise; a thickened waistline, fleshy jowls and neck, and overall poor muscle tone. He rested on his side where he’d fallen, one arm beneath him, the other extended across the floor, pudgy sausage fingers splayed out like a fan as though trying to grasp the baseball bat that lay just out of his reach.

Bending, he picked up the bat, twirling it in his gloved hands. There was a splotch of blood on one side. He wiped it clean on the leg of his black sweatpants, admired the scrawled signature, and then carefully placed it back on display above the fireplace with the other baseball memorabilia.

A piece of paper peeked out the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat. He squatted beside him and slipped it out, pressing it open flat on the knotty pine floor. A to-do list. He smirked. Apparently, the man’s mama was every bit in charge of the world and everyone in it as the rumor mill suggested. Even her son, the mayor, had to submit to her authority.

He started to rise, but the last item on the list caught his eye. He read the words and expelled the breath of a laugh. Not surprising, all the errands had been crossed off except this one. A smile stretched across his face and he rifled through the man’s pockets for a pen. Finding one, he leaned over the paper. There. Farley’s last day was complete.

Kill Farley

CHAPTER ONE

One week earlier:

Fanny Arnold kept to the most well-worn deer tracks. She knew the woods in this area like the age spots on the back of her hand, but an early spring snow had crusted the ground again and made for slippery trail walking. She moved slower than usual, planting her stick with each step. The temperature was slightly above freezing this morning and a pleasant change from the sub-zero winter they’d recently endured. She’d felt the cold settle deep in her bones this year and didn’t know how many more winters she could survive. Being outdoors with nature and the animals she loved was what kept her going. Without that ability she would dry up and wither away. Pressing her chin deep into the collar of her coat like a turtle hiding from the world, she moved along, slow and sure.

A twig snapped to her left and she glanced up, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her knit hat. Expecting to see the small herd of deer that often congregated in this quiet, shielded nook of the woods, she was surprised there were only two. A doe and her spotted fawn. She glanced around. Where were the others?

A rifle shot rang out startling Fanny and the deer. The doe bolted and the fawn quickly followed, disappearing into the thick of the woods. Fanny watched them go, dread settling in her gut. Poachers.

She’d had run-ins with their like before. No-good creatures, intent on destroying wildlife just to impress their buddies. They always ran in packs, like rats, and often were so drunk they couldn’t shoot straight. They ended up maiming rather than killing, which was so much worse. The poor deer would wander off and die alone in agony. Someone had to do something about it! If the DNR weren’t up to the task, then she would handle them her way. Her grip tightened on her walking stick.

She turned up the hill and climbed to the top. Pulling a pair of compact binoculars from her pocket, she scanned the little valley and wooded area beyond. There! On the edge of the woods two figures crouched beside a carcass. One of them was already busy field dressing the poor thing. By the time she hiked to the spot, they’d be done and making their getaway. She’d better get a move on.

Out of breath and panting by the time she reached the patch of blood-soaked ground, Fanny set her lips firmly together and tried not to cry. At least it hadn’t suffered. If they’d taken it with them to butcher, then they weren’t just out for sport. There was some comfort in that.

The trail they’d left behind was easy to follow, and she started after them. It was illegal to shoot a deer out of season. She would get their names or license plate and report them to the authorities as soon as possible. But first, she had to catch up to them. She soon spotted white puffs of chimney smoke wafting above the treetops and suddenly realized where the hunters were heading. Martha Reynold’s place.

The old cabin sat deep in the woods with only rough, dirt-track access from the main road. Martha often went weeks without venturing out to town. When she did, she and her son Lanky would bundle up and take their ancient Honda ATV. Lanky had been born with down-syndrome and he was the sweetest young man. It wasn’t her place to say, but Fanny thought he was capable of far more than his circumstances allowed. Sadly, Martha kept him secluded from the world out of fear that folks would treat him poorly. Fanny had made a point to stop in now and then, checking up on the two of them, and Martha was always friendly enough in her own way. The woman wasn’t accustomed to visitors, but she always offered a hot cup of coffee and a sit-down out on the front porch. Other than herself, she supposed few people even knew where Martha lived.

Fanny wouldn’t be surprised if Martha was desperate enough to shoot squirrels or rabbits so that her son could have fresh meat during the long winter, but to poach a deer out of season? That didn’t sit right with what she knew about the woman. Martha was a law-abiding citizen who just wanted to be left alone to live her life in peace. Poaching would bring trouble down on her head and that would be the last thing she’d want. Her son’s welfare was her biggest concern. She’d told Fanny as much last year when the boy had a rough bout of pneumonia. Her husband had died four years earlier, leaving them to survive on social security and the little bit of income she made making and selling crafts locally.

Voices filtered through the trees. One loud and brash, the other a soft mumble. She pushed aside a branch and peered into the clearing. The deer carcass was wrapped in a tarp and draped across a rickety picnic table in the middle of the yard. A fire crackled and flamed from a rock-rimmed pit nearby. Lanky poked at the fire with a stick, stirring the embers to a blaze.

“Get over here and help me with this!” the taller man yelled, unwrapping the deer in preparation to skin and butcher it. He picked up a long knife from the table and turned around enough that Fanny caught a good look at his profile. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, scraggly brown hair beneath a dark cap. A bushy beard grew thick and red below a Romanesque nose. She didn’t recognize him from Port Scuttlebutt. He glanced her way and she quickly drew back.

“Lanky! I said get over here,” the man bellowed again.

Fanny cringed, fearful for the young man she knew as a sweet soul. Who was this fellow yelling orders and where was Martha? She pressed her back to the trunk of the fir and slowly slid down to sit on the hard needle-covered ground. A shiver ran through her and she wrapped her arms around her middle for warmth. What now? She’d never desired the encumbrance of a cell phone out in nature, but at this moment she wished she’d actually opened Blake’s gift and brought it along.

“Miss Fanny,” a quiet voice whispered through the low-hanging limbs near her ear. “Are you playing hide and seek?”

Fanny looked up into guileless hazel eyes and realized she’d been quietly counting aloud. It was something she did whenever she needed to make a difficult decision. Usually it helped her think through a problem and come up with a clear solution. This time it had obviously made the problem much worse.

A rifle barrel poked through the branch above Lanky’s left shoulder and an angry voice demanded, “Get out here where I can see who I’m shooting!”

Lanky helped Fanny stand and took her hand to lead her into the clearing. “Miss Fanny is my friend, Sam,” he said firmly. “She comes to visit me and Mama sometimes.”

The man lowered the gun, brown eyes still narrow with suspicion. “Since when do you two have friends?”

“Since Miss Fanny started coming,” he said with all seriousness.

“Huh. Too bad she don’t have a friend with a car who could take her to the doctor instead of a nosey old biddy with a stick.”

Fanny felt the man’s dark gaze sweep over her dismissively. When he crouched down to pet Jet, Lanky’s old hound dog, she looked him over quickly. He was very tall, but not thin. Solidly built. His khaki jacket hung open revealing a black t-shirt stretched over a broad, muscular chest. On the right side of the shirt was a gold emblem. An eagle perched on a globe of the world with an anchor struck through it. She recognized that emblem. It was a symbol of the United States Marines.

“Mama don’t like doctors,” Lanky said. He scratched at a knee sticking through worn jeans. “She used up all the medicine she made last year, and the flowers don’t grow back until summer.”

“She’s still using her herb brews instead of seeing a real doctor?” The man kicked at a rock sticking up out of the ground with the toe of a black combat boot, his mouth stretched so tight it nearly disappeared in the growth of beard. He looked up, sudden recognition in his eyes and pointed a finger in Fanny’s direction. “Wait a minute. You’re that healer woman, aren’t you? I remember you from when I was a boy. You used to take care of hurt animals, right? Arnold. That’s it,” he said as though he’d just given her the name. “You’re Fanny Arnold.

Fanny nodded, shooting a worried glance toward the house. Where was Martha? And why was he talking about her as though she was his… “Sam? Sammy Reynolds? Martha told me you joined the Marines and never looked back. She sure missed you. I bet she’s mighty glad to have you home.”

He scoffed. “Home? This was never a home. This was just the hole where my old man decided to dump us when he went on his sales trips.”

“Where is Martha?” Fanny asked, glancing again at the quiet façade of the cabin.

“She’s sick in bed.” He shifted the rifle to his shoulder. “Hey, could you take a look at her? She’s been running a fever and says her belly hurts.”

“I’m not a people doctor,” she said, nervously. She was already getting guff from Farley Jones for taking in strays and wildlife that needed her. He’d sent her legal looking letters with his official stamp from the office of the mayor, accusing her of running a pet hospital without a license or credentials. They were long and wordy, but the gist was that she should shut down now or face prosecution. The last one insinuated that her activities could be defined as mental illness.

Lanky moved to take her hand, tugging her toward the front porch. “Come on, Miss Fanny. You can make Mama better. I know you can.”

She went along, feeling like she didn’t really have a choice. Besides, she was worried about her friend. She glanced back at the big man and saw his grim expression relax with relief. He moved to the deer carcass and resumed his work. ~~

*Please leave a comment and tell me what you think about the excerpt or about your complete and utter surprise that I have finally finished a new novel, or which part of the turkey you enjoy at Thanksgiving, or how much you hate lockdowns. I don’t care. I just love getting comments.

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, the Double Barrel Mysteries, the Second Chances series, and more. She lives in Minnesota because she can’t afford Hawaii.

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Fall… into Winter

October 24, 2020 By Barbara Leave a Comment

The slippery slide into winter was a headfirst bungie jump this year. I know, technically we aren’t really in winter yet. But according to the temperature, the snowfall, and my scientific analysis from my back window, we are DEEP in it.

The squirrels are still frisky, running about and stealing seed from the birdfeeders. They already broke two of the feeders and knocked one of my solar garden lights off the deck in their frolicking, last ditch effort to enjoy freedom outside the nest.

I have been writing and editing like a fiend, so I think I either missed most of autumn or it missed us. Either way, the global warming trend is definitely over, if it actually ever began. From my personal northern perch, I ain’t seen nothing yet!

Talking heads on cable channel Opinioncasts have been saying we only have approximately twelve years left to live on planet earth before we destroy it by refusing to recycle our protective tinfoil hats or give up our cars in favor of walking everywhere like they do in third world countries.

Twelve years seems very generous to me, given that winter takes up the majority of the year in Minnesota. I don’t think I can take anymore. Slightly editing the lines of character Michael Fitzsimmons from Peggy Sue Got Married, I’m screaming, “I’m going to check out of this winter motel, push myself from the dinner table and say, No more snow for me, Mom!”

My granddaughter enjoying early winter with childlike joy

Now that I’ve had my rant against another way-too-early winter, I have to admit it has been a beautiful week for photos. Hope you enjoy the lovely pictures of our super-fast changing of the seasons. Don’t forget to hop over to your favorite ebook store and PreOrder the new Double Barrel Mystery!

Special Announcement: You can now PreOrder > A Man Can Die But Once

Available for PreOrder NOW! Official release date: December 1st, 2020
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Easter Bunny may be canceled, but Christ is still risen and reigning!

April 5, 2020 By Barbara 4 Comments

photo by Stux at Pixabay

This past month has been excruciatingly long.

In these desperate and dangerous times, where quilted paper is being traded on the black web in loo of bitcoin, we’re separated from family and friends with nothing more than video chats to connect us, and bombarded on every side with news stories of doom and gloom, it’s hard to keep our spirits up and our tails from sagging.

Not to downplay the seriousness of the situation we are living in, but with spring now in the air, I hope we can (sometimes) think about other things besides sickness and germs and hand washing while hand wringing and lamenting about the inadequacy of politicians to save us from bad things or keep our pockets full of money and our pots full of chickens (or vegetables, if you don’t eat meat).

I know it’s easy to say, God is in control, while we are strong and well and living above the fray. But when it all hits the fan and everyone is in the same boat, so to speak, the words have to come from someplace deeper than mere sentiment.

Faith is the great divide between joy and despair. You can’t have hope and peace without faith in Christ. He alone is our strength and shield. He alone can uphold us in our sorrow, sickness, separation, and loneliness.

Some people are fond of saying: God doesn’t give us more than we can bear. But many people are suffering right now with much more than they can bear. Without God to bear our burdens, we all crumble and fall beneath the weight. He often gives us more than we can bear… ALONE. But we don’t have to bear it alone. When we trust Christ with our lives, he sends his comforting Spirit to dwell within us. The very Spirit of God communes with our spirit and makes possible the impossible. Joy even in the midst of sorrow. Peace in turbulent, uncertain times. Hope that transcends human understanding.

I believe that joy and peace and hope all start with gratitude.

Christ died to pay the penalty for our sins. Christ rose again that we might have the hope of eternal life. Knowing we are redeemed from the grave and destined for a heavenly home, we can truly be thankful.

When you begin to thank God for all the blessings he has poured out on your life, you find that worry and stress turn to peace, joy edges out those negative thoughts and frustrations, and fear of the unknown is replaced with the hope of eternity.

I have to admit, I’m not always thankful. I tend to take things for granted. Like toilet paper and Kleenex. Ham and potatoes. Just four things I couldn’t find at the store last time I looked. But since when did God say, as long as you have enough paper to wipe your arse, rejoice in me. No. The Bible says, “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice.”

Gratitude opens up our hearts to rejoice. What are you thankful for today?

I’ll begin. I’m thankful for the beautiful sunny spring days we’ve been having lately. I’m thankful for God’s continued work in my heart to draw me closer to Him. I’m thankful for a husband who works hard and remembers to wash his hands thoroughly before hugging me when he comes home. I’m thankful for the prayers of friends and family. I’m thankful for a warm house, comfy bed, plenty of food, and the ability to write. I’m thankful for a pastor who continues to preach and teach online, working to shepherd at a distance. I’m thankful for Christ, my risen Savior! My hope. My rock. My light. My salvation!

Please leave a comment and share what you are thankful for this Easter season. Thanks for stopping by!

ps. Entangled is free at all online stores this month! Haven’t read it? Pick up your copy today.

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, the Double Barrel Mysteries, the Second Chances series, and more. She lives in Minnesota because she can’t afford Hawaii.
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Joyless Junk

January 22, 2019 By Barbara 6 Comments

Apparently, “decluttering” is a big thing now. There’s even a show on Netflix called, Tidying Up, for people looking for expert advice on the topic. Marie Kondo, a giggly, sweet young woman hosts the program, and seems to charm pack-rats like a dog whisperer for humans. She promotes clearing out the clutter and choosing joy.

I may not be an expert on much, but even I could host this show. Although, I’d probably be a bit too abrasive for the easily offended bunch of pansies we’ve raised in the last couple decades. Telling them to quit buying stuff or clean their house would definitely strike them the wrong way. There would be tears and hurt feelings and I’d have to send them to the quiet room to gather themselves and calm their little beating hearts.

Sadly, this soft-spoken woman who appears to go door-to-door in an endeavor to spread the new religion of minimalism is speaking mostly to millennial Westerners, where credit cards are used like a video game controller and stuff is collected faster than self-important coffee connoisseurs collect Starbucks cups on the floors of their cars.

Heaven forbid our kitchen cupboards contain an outdated color of Tupperware that just doesn’t give off the JOY vibe anymore. Or maybe the thirty-something youngster still living in your basement has stock-piled too many t-shirts depicting his favorite super hero and the drawers of his dressers no longer close properly, so the floor is covered in a rainbow of crumpled cotton.

I know there is a need for simple-simon instructions for the modern American. The dumbing down of America we’ve feared for so long is at an all-time high. Young people get out of college and have no idea how to thread a needle to sew on a button without viewing a ten-minute YouTube video. And who has time for that? Consequently, there are lots of joyless shirts in basement closets, missing buttons.

I’ve heard Ms. Kondo also has some kind of silly limit on book ownership. As though you can only find joy in the books you’re currently reading. That is just blatant ignorance. I don’t have to hug each book or meditate over them to know they are worthy of continued space in my home. But that shouldn’t be a problem for most people, since very few seem to read books anymore.

If I hosted the show, it would be more like a combination of Scared Straight and Judge Judy. Instead of soft words and smiling suggestions, I’d yell, “Pull on your big girl pants and stop sniveling! We’ve got work to do! Give your old clothes to Salvation Army, donate those vinyl records you no longer have a player for, toss those plastic containers stained with tomato sauce, and for heaven’s sake scrub your bathroom!”

You don’t need a reality show host looking through all your cabinets to know that.

But in a world of angry twitter comments and shouting news commentary, a tiny woman with a sweet smile and soft voice, suggesting you pick up the mess is probably much more attractive.

I used to think my mom yelling at me to clean my room or pick up my toys or take out the garbage was unnecessary. But truthfully, most kids don’t react to soft spoken requests. They ignore you. I know. I’ve lived both sides of it. I was a kid once and I raised kids. When mom raises her voice, you know you better get up and do it or else.

The people on this Tidying Up show might hug Marie and tell her thank you for helping me throw away my collection of old pantyhose I haven’t worn for two decades, but I guarantee as soon as she’s out the door they are out back of the house pulling stockings out of the dumpster. Their bank account is overdrawn, their credit cards are maxed out and it’s time for dinner. Their only option… to pull a stocking over their face and rob McDonalds.

Thanks for stopping. Leave a comment and say hello or tell us about your hoarding weakness. Mine is NOT books. (clarification: Books cannot be hoarded. They are collected.)

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances series, and The Double Barrel Mysteries series. She lives in Minnesota and yearns for Hawaii.
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Christmas is coming to Port Scuttlebutt!

November 20, 2018 By Barbara 4 Comments

My newest venture in writing is a Christmas novella. This is a holiday addition to the Double Barrel Mysteries. It will be available December 20th 2018! But you can PreOrder it now> CLICK HERE

CHRISTMAS IN PORT SCUTTLEBUTT 

Set two nights before Christmas…

The Gunners and the whole town of Port Scuttlebutt are celebrating the debut of Shelby Gunner’s original Christmas play at the opening of the brand-new Port Playhouse.

Snow is falling, the temperature is dropping, and someone has left a baby outside Shelby’s dressing room door at the end of the night.

A young woman and her newborn are missing, and a suicidal man, found unconscious, may be the only one who can find them before it’s too late.

Problem is… he wished that he had never been born.

~~~

*To get started on the Double Barrel Mysteries, this Thanksgiving week the 1st book in the series, ROADKILL is on sale for just .99¢!

**Don’t forget to pick up your copy of the newest Second Chances novel, TRIAL BY FIRE, as well. Holidays are the perfect time to settle down and read a good book.

Thanks for stopping! Leave a comment and share your favorite Christmas book or movie for a chance to win a free copy of Christmas in Port Scuttlebutt!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of a baker’s dozen novels, the wife of one faithful, supportive husband, the walker of one spoiled dog, the mother of two grown children, grandmother to one sweet baby girl, the rider of one awesome Ducati motorcycle, and a saved by grace child of God.
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