Turn to someone and say, “‘Tis the season…” and that person will smile back at you and probably say, “To be jolly.” Then the two of you might laugh and sing “Fa la la la la la la la la.” The season of Advent revolves around the themes of peace, hope, joy and love reflected in the song “Deck The Halls”. On successive Sundays congregations light three purple or blue and one pink candles in their Advent wreaths and recite a prayer anticipating the hope, peace, joy and love that the coming of the Christ child will bring. The assumption is this is the most wonderful time of the year. But what if your time isn’t wonderful, putting you at odds with the majority of the people around you?

Loss at any time is painful, but experiencing loss when everyone else is smiling, laughing and giving good cheer can be doubly painful. A sense of isolation — or worse a sense of having no right to your feelings — can set in. The pressure to stiff-upper-lip-it is great. Sometimes greater than people can bear. This is why as minister for pastoral care, I developed a “Blue Christmas” service for First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, NY (FPCJ) as a way to affirm loss and offer comfort to those for whom crying makes more sense than caroling.

Often held on the longest day of the year, Blue Christmas services let people who are mourning know that they are not alone, that they are not forgotten, that they have a right to what they’re feeling. Hymns and songs are usually sung in a minor key. Prayers shared acknowledge the sorrow and pain of loss with dignity. Works from authors like Ann Weems, who write meditations based in their own experience of suffering, are read. Old Testament scriptures point to people journeying from darkness to light. Psalms chosen are often ones of lament like Psalm 22 or ones looking for help like Psalm 121. New Testament readings focus on a hope that is always there, even when you can’t feel it. Candle lighting is coupled with litanies that banish as much as possible feelings of shame or blame. In the service I designed for FPCJ, attendees were invited to come forward and light candles as an act of agency showing that even when we feel most helpless we always have power. As a reverse offering, attendees were invited to take a scripture stone (glass stones with scriptures on them) from the offering plates to take home as reminders that help from the word of God is always within reach.

Here are two sample services so you can see what I mean: https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/blue-christmas-a-service-of-reflection-for-the-longest-night, https://youngclergywomen.org/blue-christmas-service-when-christmas-hurts/.

If you’ve never attended one, find a community near you that’s offering one then consider going. FPCJ’s Blue Christmas services were some of the most life affirming events I had the honor to participate in.

If this season is a dark night of the soul for you or someone you know, I hope this blogpost can serve as a reminder that there is comfort and strength for you in this time of loss, that there are people who care and that — as the old Negro spiritual proclaims — “trouble don’t last always.”

One Breath Away

Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. She’s never been courted, cuddled or spooned, and now no man could want her, not when sexual satisfaction comes only with the thought of asphyxiation. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.

Wealthy, freeborn-Black, Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing the mysteriously exotic woman is his mate foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex.

Hope ignites along with lust until the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…

Excerpt:

His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.

He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”

At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.

“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.

“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands.

“May I beg the honor of this dance?”

“Beg?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”

“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”

“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”

She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.

The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.

Resist the devil and he will flee.

Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue. The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”

He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.

Resist.

Her heart countered.

Surrender.

She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.

He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.

He wants something, Mary. Beware.

“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”

He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“I might.”

He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”

“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”

Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?

The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.

You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.

Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.
Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?

The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.

“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”

“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”

She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.

“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”

“Why not you?”

She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.

Why not her?

Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.

Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.

Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.

Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.

That’s why not her.

His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.

“Why not you, Mary?”

“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”

Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.

“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”

“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”

Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.

“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”

The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”

Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”

“A certainty.” He winked.

A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss.

She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.
*~*~*

Book links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QfEOZd

Social media links: Twitter – @mscottauthor1
Website: https://www.michalscott.webs.com

It’s that time of the year, December 21st to 22nd, when the shortest day and the longest night of the year fall in the Northern Hemisphere. We call that the Winter Solstice. In Welsh they say Alban Arthan (Light of Winter).

To the ancient Celts this day signified the battle and defeat of the Holly King (ruling from Midsummer to Midwinter) by the Oak King (ruling from Midwinter to Midsummer). The Holly King, also seen as a wren bird, symbolized the old year and the shortened sun, while the Oak King, also seen as a robin, stood for the new year and growing sun. The Celts would act out the battle of the Oak King defeating the Holly King during the Winter Solstice celebration.

They also had wren hunts, signifying the death of the Holly King. In Ireland, Wales, and the Isle of Man, Lá an Dreoilín, (Wren Day) was celebrated December 26. Wrenboys dressed in masks or straw suits, usually had a hobby horse covered in a sheet, and it had strings which could close their mouths and make their legs kick. Wren boys were led by a captain and a boy who dressed as a female captain. These boys hunted and killed a wren as tribute to the light for overcoming the dark. They’d set the dead wren in a box decorated with evergreens on a pole and go from house to house asking for food and good cheer. The wren was buried at the end of the rounds. Nowadays, they use a fake wren instead. Both the Holly King and wrens are associated with the Welsh god Bran.

For the Winter Solstice, ancient Celts decorated Yule logs with holly and ivy, which are linked to the God Bran. Usually, they sprinkled ale or mead over the log before they lit it. They kept it slowly, yet steadily burning for 12 days in the fireplace before extinguishing it. To pass the light on from one year to the next, they kept part of the unburned log safely to one side and used it to light next year’s Yule log. Also, they stashed the log’s ashes away until spring, at which time they mixed them with seeds and scattered them on the fields, spreading the blessing contained in the Yule log over the land.

Mistletoe and oak were sacred to the ancient Celts. As an evergreen plant, Mistletoe symbolized continued life over the cold dark winter which is why druids picked it from oak trees five days after the new moon following the Winter Solstice. One druid climbed the tree and cut the mistletoe with a sickle, while others held an open a sheet beneath him to catch the sacred plant since it was taboo to let it touch the ground. The druids handed out sprigs of mistletoe to tribesmen who hung them over entranceways for protection. Mistletoe is also believed to be an aphrodisiac, so this might be where the holiday tradition of ‘kissing under the mistletoe’ originated.

The Celts livelihood depended on what they could raise, grow, or hunt. So, the long, cold days of winter were hard one them. Since they didn’t have enough grain to feed all the cattle during winter, many were slaughtered at this time. This meant fresh meat for the winter solstice feast. Also, ale and mead brewed during the year fermented by this time and were and ready for drinking.

The Bear and the Druidess

My Celtic Winter Solstice novella, The Bear and the Druidess is the third book in my Druidry and the Beast series. It’s available where ebooks are sold. Here’s the blurb:

Sometimes a secret must be revealed to move from the winter of love into its spring.

Romans stole all the winter grain from Druidess Bronwen’s tribe. Now, pursued by Romans, she ducks into a cave to hide. There she finds a handsome warrior who offers to help. He ignites a fiery spark of attraction within her but she can tell he’s keeping something from her.
The prayers of a beautiful druidess he can’t resist lead the Bear God Artaois into the cave where Bronwen is hiding. He pretends to be asleep until she finds him.

Artaois (Art) is determined to spend the longest night of the year with her. But Bronwen doesn’t realize he’s a god. He keeps his secret from her and even though he can transform into a bear, he only reveals himself in human form.

With the Winter Solstice upon them, can Artaois (Art) find a way to save her tribe from starvation? And, when Bronwen finally discovers his secret, will she leave the romance building between them out in the cold.

Get your copy here!

In the eyes of many, my husband Jack and I have it easy for the holidays. First, we don’t have children or grandchildren. Second, due to weather and work schedules, and the fact that we are the outliers not living in the Midwest, we don’t travel to family for the holidays and because the distance is great, they don’t travel here either. Third, we’re very easy to please when it comes to eating, and with two of us, big, time-consuming meals are not on our agenda. We have had black bean soup for Thanksgiving, and pizza for Christmas, so tradition on the dinner table is not a big concern.

So, no muss or fuss, no massive events in the kitchen, no hurried rushes to stand in airport lines.

But…

No family gatherings with laughter and hugs, no luscious smells coming from the oven, no getting up early to hurry to the tree to see if Santa came. No midnight Mass with its music and joyful feelings as the baby Jesus lies in the manger that has been empty at the front of the church for weeks. No well, specialness that comes with being with those you might see infrequently, no one to get excited with over that new pair of snow boots, no real reason to jump out of bed.

I’ve always been excited over Christmas, and for more than the gifts. It was the decorations, the carols, the sparkle. I mean, the season starts with Thanksgiving and a parade—or it used to, back in the day when stores didn’t put up Christmas decorations before Halloween—and ends with a holiday and a parade on New Year’s Day. A fitting, happy time before the dark days of winter enveloped us ‘til spring. Even when I was in college and went home, I asked my mom to put out something under the tree I could look at before she and my dad got up on Christmas morning. We got home from Mass by 1:30 and I was usually up by 6:00. I would wrap an afghan around my shoulders, turn on the tree lights, and bask in the beauty of it all.

When Jack and I were married, he groused every year when I would wake him at the butt-crack of dawn, whispering, “I hear sleigh bells!” “Go back to sleep, Dee! It’s the butt-crack of dawn!” Spoil sport.

Anyway, you see how I was and still am. Though now I have to admit, I’ve mellowed. It seems like too much to put up even a small tree. There’s no garland at our house, there will be no ham or turkey, no jumping out of bed to the sound of thrilled grandchildren rushing to see what Santa brought, no bundling up for Mass (I can’t stay awake for midnight Mass anymore!). But there will be happy phone calls to those far away, a pleasant meal of some sort, one or two heartfelt gifts (this year it’s a heartfelt bathroom renovation!), and a quiet day spent with the man I’ve loved for 53 years. Sure, there’s a bit of the ideal Christmas missing, but when it comes down to it, can Christmas be much better? The rest is all trappings. We all know that the true meaning of the day is love.

Wishing you a blessed and happy Christmas or Hanukkah!

One Woman Only

One Woman Only takes place in that time between Thanksgiving and New Year. It’s Book 2 in the Good Man series (Only a Good Man Will Do is Book 1). I hope you enjoy Jonah and Kelly’s story!

As one of a set of triplets, Jonah always feels the need to make his individuality known. So where his brother Daniel is serious and completely focused, Jonah shuns commitment. Where his genius brother Mark is hailed in the scientific world, Jonah hides beneath a car, tinkering. Thing is, being different isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It takes a woman—the right woman—to make him see that a “good man” can always be a better man.

Buy link: Kindle Unlimited, mybook.to/OneWomanOnly

Excerpt:

He left the car under the cover in front of the door and strode into the lobby. A petite brunette stood at the registration desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like a room.”

“For tonight?”

“Yes.” Jonah dug his wallet out of his back pocket and removed his VISA.

“One king or two queens?”

“One king.”

The girl typed furiously and then looked up. “We only have two queen rooms.”

“Then that will do.” He didn’t give a flying fuck how many beds were in the room as long as it had one as a minimum.

Jonah tapped his card on the counter and then walked to the door to look out at Kelly sitting in the car. He wasn’t dreaming. That really was Kelly Shepherd sitting in his car and they really were checking into the Family Inn.

“Just one person?”

Oh yeah. He hadn’t actually checked in yet. “Two.”

“Oh.” What the fuck? Did that sweet young thing just frown in judgement?

“Luggage?”

“No.” There was that frown again. He glanced down at his clothing, looking a little wilted now after the wedding and imagined what it looked like, his checking in with someone, obviously coming from a party of some sort. But again, what the fuck? She worked in a no-tell motel. Lots of people probably checked in here in for a quickie.

That thought shocked him. Kelly Shepherd was no quickie. If anything, she was the love of his life, the one he’d never forgotten but never felt he deserved. The rich girl whose daddy owned more than half the town and rented most of the rest. And he was…

For the first time, he saw himself as Daniel had seen the three of them since childhood. Well-loved and well cared for bastards. Yeah, no kids had ever had better parents but that didn’t change his parentage. Who was he to hold Kelly Shepherd in his arms?

Just as he started to turn toward the door to leave, the desk clerk asked, “First floor or second?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but just pick out a vacant room, tell me how much it is, run my credit card, and give me the key. My bride has been waiting in the car long enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Your…your bride? Why didn’t you say so?” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She took his VISA and gave it back after a few seconds. “Park right out there in front of the light pole and you can come in through the front doors. Take the elevators to the third floor and go all the way to the end. That whole wing is empty so you and your wife can have some privacy.”

“Thank you, uh”—Jonah looked at her nametag—”Ms. Clark. I appreciate it.” Without waiting for more conversation, He dashed back to the car. Minutes later, holding Kelly’s hand tightly, he walked quickly back through the lobby.

“Congratu— Oh!” Little Miss Desk Clerk exclaimed. “You didn’t wear white.”

“What?” Kelly asked, slowing Jonah down with a tug on his hand.

“I said, you didn’t wear white. To the wedding.”

Shit. After almost talking himself out of taking Kelly up to the room, now interfering Ms. Clark was going to do the trick for him.

“No. That would have been inappropriate.”

Jonah saw Ms. Clark’s eyes widen again as he realized the spin her mind put on Kelly’s words. Then that damn frown returned. Jonah wrapped his arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Our room is ready.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, gazing into his eyes with the love a real bride would have for her new husband. No, wait. That was a look of confusion. No matter. He pulled Kelly to the elevators and punched the button with his index finger. Once inside, he took her in his arms and kissed her with all the heat that had been building in him all night. To his relief, Kelly responded in kind, pushing her fingers through his hair and holding his head to hers.

When the elevator slowed and then stopped, they stepped into the hallway. Jonah checked the room number on the key card holder and turned them to the left. In her heels, Kelly had a hard time keeping up, so he swept her into his arms.

At their room, she took the key card from him and opened the door. Once inside, Jonah was certain his heart would burst from needing, from wanting, from years of unfulfilled dreams, all about to come true.

“What did that girl mean?”

“What girl?” Jonah took he shawl from her shoulders and folded it loosely on the dresser.

“The girl at the front desk. What did she mean about my not wearing white?”

“Oh, that.” He emptied his pockets onto the dresser, and deftly removed a condom from his wallet. “I told her we’d just been married.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Kelly moved away from his fingers that were trying to find how to unwrap her wraparound dress.

“Because she kept making judgmental noises and frowning. She made me feel guilty for bringing you here.”

“So, when she noted that I wasn’t wearing white she assumed that I wasn’t a virgin?”

“Probably.” Jonah took a step back and gazed at her. “Does that bother you? Because it damn sure bothers me that she dared make any assumptions about us.”

Kelly smiled. “You of all people know that I’m not a virgin.”

Jonah groaned. “Can we please not talk about that night again? And especially not now?”

Kelly smiled. “Sure, we can do that. And do I care what that little girl downstairs thinks? Not a whit. I just care what you think, Jonah. Here and now.” With a flick of her wrist, the tie came loose and the dress flowed to the floor. There, standing before him in all her glory wearing only a lacy bra and little satin short-short things, was the woman of his desires.

About the Author

A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. Writing was so much fun Dee decided to keep at it. That’s how she spends her days. Her nights? Well, she’s lucky that her dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy, and nights are their secret. For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join Dee on Nomad Authors. Contact Dee at dsknight@deesknight.com.

Author links:
Website: https://nomadauthors.com
Blog: https://nomadauthors.com/blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DeeSKnight
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN
Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/h8t2y6
LinkedIn: https://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

I am so excited to be guest blogger on Delilah Devlin’s blog today. Thanks to you, Delilah, for all the time and work you exert to promote other authors’ work. It’s really fun to be here right now, during the holidays. I hope all of you are enjoying the preparations for celebrating your traditions.

Speaking of holidays, when I was a little girl, one of the most beloved traditions in our house was the way in which we were awakened on Christmas Day. It didn’t take me long to learn that my Daddy was the biggest kid of all. As long as I can remember, he always woke up first on Christmas Day. He’d put the coffee on, but when he’d start cooking breakfast, which he did every morning so my Mom could sleep a little longer, he’d suddenly have trouble. Pots and pans would rattle, cabinet doors would bang, and plates and cups would sound as though they were about to break. He was trying to wake us up so we could all run into the den together to see what Santa Claus had brought us.

Now, my brothers and I have our own families and our own holiday traditions, but sometimes I wake up early on Christmas morning and I think I can hear Daddy rattling pots and pans, hoping to wake my brothers and me, so we can enjoy finding what Santa Claus brought us—and he can enjoy watching us.

I have never lost that excitement I got from my dad, about Christmas morning. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I love everything about it, from the glitter and sparkle, to the spirituality. So naturally, I love Christmas stories, both reading and writing them, and by the way, Christmas movies too.

This year, I’m excited to have a new indie Christmas novella in 23,000 words, Christmas Bodyguard. I wrote it using my favorite Christmas theme—no room at the inn. The story is about a police detective who hates Christmas and a young pregnant widow who’s about to give birth and is determined to give Christmas to her brand new baby.

Christmas Bodyguard

Detective Trevor Atkins has good reason to hate Christmas. On Christmas Eve four years ago, his pregnant wife fell and lost their baby. Now divorced, Trevor deals with Christmas the only way he can, by ignoring it. When he is assigned to guard a widow who is the only surviving victim of a suspected serial killer, he expects just another assignment. But when Trevor arrives, he is stunned. This may be the hardest assignment he’s ever faced. The widow is kind, beautiful and very, very pregnant. And she’s putting up Christmas decorations all over the safe house.

Merry Randolph takes her joy where she can find it. She lost her new husband in a tragic helicopter crash only weeks into her pregnancy, and then she survived an attack from the notorious Widow Killer. Merry is determined to have a real Christmas for her family—herself and her unborn child—even if her stubbornly sexy police bodyguard doesn’t want any part of it.

When an ice storm hits and Merry’s contractions start, they are forced to leave the safe house and enter a tightening web of danger. Trevor must face his heartbreak and loss, and Merry must trust her life to a stranger who is only doing his job if she wants to survive to see her baby born on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Bodyguard Excerpt:

Police Detective Trevor Atkins jabbed at another button on the radio, muttering curses under his breath. It was Christmas Eve. Even the rock station was playing Christmas music. He switched it off. He was nearly at his destination anyway.

He exited the interstate two hours north of Atlanta, onto a two-lane road, headed toward the precinct’s safe house. His eyes skimmed over a couple of houses sporting Christmas decorations and lights, trying to ignore the rising rhythm of his pulse and the worm of sadness that gnawed at his heart.

Damn, he hated Christmas.

Ten minutes later, he turned onto the street where the safe house was located. It was an isolated neighborhood, perfect for safely hiding a witness away from someone who might harm her. The street looked as though the developer had gone bankrupt in the middle of the project. There were only a few other houses completed, and those appeared deserted. They still had stickers on the windows and fill dirt where the lawns should have been. The only sign of life was a Randolph and Ducharmes delivery truck that passed him going the opposite direction. He eyed it in his rearview mirror. That could hardly be a coincidence.

The witness’s family owned the upscale department stores. He reached for his cell phone and called his boss.

“Captain, what’s up? An R&D delivery truck just passed me, coming from the safe house.”

The captain sighed. “The perils of babysitting the rich and famous. Apparently, Mrs. Randolph needed a few things. Don’t worry, Trevor. Sims rode shotgun. The delivery was legit.”

“Legit? Maybe, but it was also very visible.”

“The mayor’s office called me. Think I had any choice?”

Trevor pocketed his phone and arched his neck to ease the tension. The holidays always increased his stress level, but he’d been glad to do a favor for a fellow detective by switching duty schedules with him. Stokes had a family. Christmas was important to him.

Guarding witnesses scheduled to testify was a boring task. The witnesses were usually consumed with worry about their testimony, and the most exciting event was likely to be a good ball game on TV. Guarding a spoiled heiress would up the annoyance factor slightly, but not beyond what Trevor could handle.

His charge, Merry Ducharmes Randolph, was the only surviving victim of the Widow Killer, a name given by the press to the elusive killer who had killed three widows within the past year.

But they’d only been able to charge Harry Bonner, Merry’s attacker, with attempted robbery and assault. As badly as the Atlanta Police Department wanted to solve the Widow Killer murders, they’d been unable to positively link Bonner to the other three women. He had no prior arrests, and he’d turned up no hits on either the DNA or fingerprint database.

Trevor parked his white pickup in the driveway of the nondescript house next to Detective Amanda Moss’s SUV. Turning up the collar of his jacket against the rapidly falling temperature, he started up the walk. Before he reached the porch, Detective Moss flung open the front door, causing the sleigh bells on the Christmas wreath to jangle. “Hi, Trevor,” she said, her breath turning to ice crystals as she spoke. “Nice to have you on the case. I’ve got to run if I’m going to finish wrapping the kids’ gifts.”

“Merry,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is Detective Atkins.”

Trevor nodded at Amanda, then stepped up to the front door and scowled toward the narrow strip of face visible between the door and the door facing. The single eye narrowed suspiciously. “Good morning, Mrs. Randolph. Like Detective Moss said, I’m your new day-shift detective,” he said dryly. “Replacing Roger Stokes. My name is Trevor Atkins.”

When the door finally opened wide, Trevor’s gaze ran slap into a pair of bright green eyes under a red Santa hat. Long, pale brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, and a full mouth showed a hint of white teeth above a determined chin.

The Santa hat stirred his knee-jerk aversion to anything connected with Christmas. He tried to force his expression to remain neutral as a faint pink glow lit the woman’s cheeks and a hesitant smile spread across her face. So, this was the widow. She was familiar, and not just from TV news spots about the attack she’d survived. He’d noticed those emerald-green eyes before.

He sighed. Wreath, bells, Santa hat? Great. Obviously, she loved Christmas. “You got word that I’m taking Detective Stokes’ place over Christmas eve and day ?”

“Yes.” She took a step backward, still hanging onto the door with one hand and a piece of red cloth in the other. “But Amanda will be back tonight, right?” The quaver in her voice matched the wariness in her eyes.

“That’s right. Detective Moss is still your night guard.”

A flicker of relief passed across her face. He’d seen that look before in assault victims. A fearful mistrust of men that, for some victims, never went away. He almost apologized for invading her privacy, then nearly laughed at himself. She didn’t know it yet, but there was no one on the planet safer for her to be with than he was. She was under his protection, and he would never violate her trust or risk her safety. She’d eventually figure that out and then she’d relax.

He stepped past her into the modest living room. The sight that greeted him almost knocked him to his knees. Every square inch of floor space was covered with Christmas. A sea of gold Randolph and Ducharmes bags full of ornaments flowed into dozens of red and pink poinsettias in brightly wrapped pots. To his left, a monstrous Christmas tree aglow with white twinkling lights almost blocked a large picture window. A staggering horror tightened his chest and streaked like electricity out to his fingers and toes. He felt the blood drain from his face. The smell of mulberry and cedar turned his stomach.

Images he’d banished to the dark side of his heart swirled around him—long bright corridors, sympathetic faces, the low soft lights of the hospital’s chapel. A sterile, quiet, sad room. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never passed out in his life, but there was always a first time. Steadying himself with a hand on the back of the sofa, he sucked in a deep breath. “What the hell is all this?” he rasped when he could finally speak.

When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Randolph was standing behind a table, eyeing him the way a cornered mouse watched a cat. “I—I asked the store to send over some Christmas decorations. No one had—you know—” she gestured vaguely “—decorated the house.” Her voice rose and strengthened in the space of those few words.

“This is not a store window, Mrs. Randolph. It’s a safe house,” he said harshly.

She sniffed. “Oh please, Detective. It’s Christmas Eve.” She spread the red cloth over a table.

“So that’s what the truck was delivering.” His captain was a coward. He knew Trevor’s history. He could have warned him that it was a truck full of Christmas. Well, the stuff would just have to go back. He would not be subjected to Christmas. He’d taken this job to avoid the holiday and the tragic memories attached to it.

“Look, Mrs. Randolph, all this has got to go. We are not here for a party,” he said just as she stepped out from behind the table and he got his first good, head-to-toe look at the glowing woman in front of him.

“Oh, God—” His chest tightened and his head spun. He gripped the back of the couch more tightly and fought the surge of dizziness and gut-wrenching nausea that broadsided him.

“What?” Merry cried, her eyes widening. “What is it?”

“You’re pregnant!”

#

Confused, Merry Randolph stared at the detective’s chiseled features. His mouth was compressed so tightly the corners of his lips were white. What was his problem? She smiled.

“Of course I’m pregnant. How could you possibly not know?” Her every move had been chronicled by the media for the past seven months. “My husband’s helicopter accident, then the attack? I’ve been the favorite local news filler for the entire Atlanta area these past months.” She tasted the bitterness that darkened her voice.

Detective Atkins didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, his face drained of color, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Detective, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He wiped a hand over his face and shot her a hard glance, then turned away and shrugged out of his jacket. With his back to her, he didn’t seem quite so intimidating. She let out a breath of relief. Why couldn’t Detective Stokes have foregone Christmas Eve and Christmas morning to stay with her? She winced at her selfish thought. Of course she didn’t mean that. He deserved to spend Christmas with his family, even if his doting, fatherly disposition had made her feel completely safe and comfortable. Detective Atkins had been here less than five minutes and there was nothing remotely fatherly about him. He had a lean and hungry look, as though he could slay dragons.

She thought about what the captain and his lieutenant, and several other police officials, had told her over and over. We’re the good guys. We’ll keep you safe.
As Detective Atkins folded his jacket and lay it on the back of the sofa, she noticed the brown leather straps of a shoulder holster crisscrossing the black T-shirt he wore. His movements were spare and efficient as he adjusted the holster and checked his weapon. He angled his head as if he’d sensed her scrutiny, and then rounded on her. “Do you realize you may have compromised this safe house by having all this delivered?”

“What?” She recoiled at his cold tone.

“That R&D delivery truck might as well have sported a banner—This Way to the Witness.” He shook his head, his voice as cold as the wind outside.
Merry’s heart pounded and she bit her lip. She should have thought of that. But in her defense, this was the store’s busiest time of year. “Randolph and Ducharmes has trucks making deliveries all over the city.”

The detective shot her a disgusted look. “Not in abandoned neighborhoods.”

She had no response for that.

“I’m here to protect you from a suspected killer, not deal with a house full of Christmas—” He bit off the end of the sentence.

Frustration and a deep sadness burned in Merry’s stomach, until, by force of will, she bullied those feelings into determination. She’d never had a real, homey Christmas. Not once. Her parents were nationally renowned philanthropists who had spent their married life traveling the world to work with their own and others’ charitable ventures. This year, as every year, they’d found as much to do during the holidays as during any other time of year. For most of their twin daughters’ lives, Merry and Christy had traveled with them, tutors in tow. Now Christy, whose full name was Christmas , was a runway model and almost never had time to come home to Atlanta, except on business.

As bad as this entire year had been, Merry was determined to end the year the way she wanted. She might be locked up in a barely furnished house under police protection during the holidays, but no matter what else happened, she planned to spend Christmas surrounded by beautiful decorations.

“Detective, I could not possibly be more aware of how serious my situation is. A man who may be a serial killer is out on bail pending his trial, and he knows I can identify him.” She lifted her chin. “I can see in your face what you think of me. But if I stay in this house, it will be decorated for Christmas. This past year has been the worst of my life.” To her utter dismay, she felt a tear spill over and drip down her cheek. “I lost my husband, I was almost murdered, and now I’m spending the holidays in an ugly house located who knows where and unable to see my family. I will have Christmas decorations!”

She swiped the tear away. Her little guy was sure playing havoc with her hormones, but she would not cry in front of Scrooge McCop. She turned her back and picked up a crystal ornament from one of the bags. “I apologize if guarding me is keeping you from Christmas with your wife and children,” she said as she stretched to hang the ornament.

He sucked in a long breath. Her shoulders tensed.

“You’re not keeping me from anything. I’m divorced. I don’t have chil—” He practically choked on the word “children.” She turned and caught a haunting sadness clouding his eyes. His sadness pierced her heart like an arrow. She’d unwittingly tapped into a private place inside him, a place she was sure no one ever saw.

With a flash of insight, she realized that Detective Atkins wasn’t just a Scrooge who hated the holidays. His gruff manner hid a tragedy—a tragedy that centered around Christmas and children. His children?

(End of Excerpt)

Thanks again, to everyone. I would love to hear about your favorite childhood holiday tradition, if you’d like to post a comment. You can do that by clicking Say Something/Something Said, below. I hope you’ll consider picking up Christmas Bodyguard if you want a quick and heartwarming read for the holidays. You can find it, or any of my other books, by clicking one of the links below.

Christmas Bodyguard is available now at your favorite ebook retailer.
https://books2read.com/ChristmasBodyguard

Mallory Kane

May I introduce you to the Christmas Gargoyles? They’re big, strong, handsome, and caring. They’re protectors and guardians. They’re delicious sexual dominants. But they’re not exactly human.

Every year when the days get short enough, the gargoyles that guard us unseen can take human form if they want. That usually happens when they encounter someone who attracts them in a crucially different way. For that one particular woman they take on human shape for a limited time to make a deeper connection.

It takes more than just looks to attract a gargoyle’s attention. They’re drawn to people who are passionate, self-giving, loving, and caring, even in the midst of their own problems. And once they’ve given their hearts, it’s a lifetime deal. If the woman in question learns to love them in return, there is a way the gargoyle can become fully human, but it’s a serious test for both of them.

The current wave of gargoyle connections began with Averic, known as “Eric”, whose story is told in Gargoyle’s Christmas. Mark (Sophie’s Gargoyle), Ben (Ginny’s Gargoyle), and Glen (Vivian’s Gargoyle, coming soon) followed in his wake. All of them, and the women they love, are tested in a variety of ways.
So, why gargoyles? And what’s the connection to Christmas? I have a hard time following the train of ideas rolling through my head that led to the whole concept. Sometimes a mishmash of ideas just mixes and clashes and finally produces some weird concept.

The feast of Christmas occurs just a few days after the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The shortest day means the longest night. The most darkness. Gargoyles are creatures of the dark. In their stone incarnations, they tend to sit on high points of churches and other public buildings, giving them perfect perches to watch events below. Inevitably, from watching, they want to join in some of the human activities. And when they meet that one person who interests them more than any other, they want to be able to stay with them.

Latest Release: Ginny’s Gargoyle

Ginny’s Christmas plans didn’t include falling in love with a gargoyle.

*NOTE* This is a rewritten version of a short story included in the Naughty Literati anthologies. It’s been revised and expanded to novella length.

The walk from the bus stop to her D.C. apartment takes just five minutes, but Ginny works second shift and gets home near midnight. When a mugger surprises her on the way one night shortly before Thanksgiving, rescue comes unexpectedly. A mysterious hooded and cloaked stranger saves her and walks her to her apartment but declines her invitation to come in. The next night he meets her at the bus stop and again walks her home, a practice that continues each time she gets home late. As they get to know each other on those nightly walks, he promises that he will soon accept the invitation to her home.

He warns, though, that there are things she needs to know about him she’ll find hard to believe and accept. He isn’t kidding. She can handle his dominating tendencies and maybe even the warning that they can have only a short time together. But when he claims he’s a shapeshifting gargoyle, she has to wonder whether letting him into her life is a good idea after all.

Buy Links:
• Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZZJLHGT
• Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ginnys-gargoyle-katherine-kingston/1134656970
• iTunes: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1486053880
• Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/ginny-s-gargoyle
• Universal Book link: https://books2read.com/u/4j1vDk

Happy Holidays! A. Catherine Noon here, of Noon & Wilder, bringing you greetings from the Pacific Northwest of the US. Greetings to Delilah Devlin and thank you for hosting me today. And to you, Dear Reader, I wish all the warmth of the season.

I’m excited to report that the great overhaul of Noon & Wilder is done! We’re still working on our other sites, but those will be up shortly too. Take a peek!

https://noonandwilder.com/
(open link in new tab)

And our books are back up, too! Plus we have a little holiday special for you: Six Geese Laid will be out this year in ebook and paper formats for you to enjoy – previously, it was only available by audio in a fantastic reading by Vance Bastien of WROTE Podcast.

I don’t know about you, Dear Reader, but the last three years have really been a rough ride for Noon & Wilder. For one thing, I’m now living in Washington State instead of Chicago. I moved here for what I thought was my dream day job (I work in the insurance industry), but it turned out to be, not to be overdramatic, a nightmare. At the beginning of this year, I found a great new place that is turning out to be everything I wanted: great bosses, a good work team, and very little day-to-day drama. Turns out, having a solid grounding with work and home is conducive to writing.

I have continued my journaling practices and this year added a couple new techniques to my tool bag, including Yoga Nidra and pray/rain journaling. As part of that, I’ve re-started facilitating workshops, and that brings me to my next announcement: we have a free one our masterclass with Coach Jonni, called “Journaling Courage.” We’ll broadcast live on Facebook on Sunday, December 15, 2019, at 11:00 A.M. PST (GMT -8).

https://www.facebook.com/groups/writerzengardencreativecluster/
(open link in new tab)

Even if you’ve never tried journaling before, I hope you’ll join us for Coach Jonni’s workshop. She’ll have tools and ideas for beginners and veterans alike.

Lastly, Dear Reader, I would love to hear from YOU: what are you most excited about in the upcoming holiday season or in 2020? Please tell me in the comments.

Cheers!

– Noony

UPDATE: The winner is…Patricia Barraclough!
*~*~*

Diana Cosby ©2019

Liam and the Christmas Sheep

Gifts come in many shapes and sizes, but I believe the most precious ones are those delivered from the heart. It’s easy to get caught up in the mayhem of life, particularly during the hustle and bustle of the Holidays, but every day, there are people amidst the chaos who help you, who take time out of their busy lives to make a difference in yours. This year, why not return that gift?

This holiday season, as wrapped gifts exchange hands, I ask you to pause, reflect on those who’ve truly made a difference in your life, and if possible, find a special way to say thank you. This can be a simple gesture—something like a greeting card, a bouquet of flowers, or a heartfelt poem. Maybe you could bake someone their favorite cookies? Or, present them a coupon book filled with everyday chores, which they can tear out and give you to do on those trying days when they need a helping hand. The absolute best gift you can offer another person is one given from the heart. And when special-delivered, without any strings attached, it touches their own.

This Christmas, I’m making gift baskets filled with my favorite homemade things, such as macadamia-butterscotch chip cookies, shortbread, double chocolate-orange-pecan biscotti, Vermont maple syrup, and more. With each one, I’m sharing a part of myself with the other person.

What ideas can you think of? Remember—the more original and inventive, the more fun! I can’t wait to hear your ideas!

My gift to you, one of my favorite recipes:

SEATHAN MACGRUDER’S MACADAMIA BUTTERSCOTCH COOKIES

Ingredients:
1 tsp. salt                     1 tsp. baking powder               1 tsp. baking soda
1 cup sugar                   ⅞th cup peanut butter          12 oz. butterscotch chips
1 cup butter                  2 eggs                                  3 cups flour
1 tbsp. Amaretto or vanilla
1¼th cup chopped macadamia nuts
1⅛th cup firmly packed light brown sugar

Directions:
Preheat oven to 375°F.

In a large bowl mix butter, sugar, and brown sugar, then whip in the Amaretto (or vanilla) and peanut butter. Beat in eggs. Add baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Once mixed, add butterscotch chips and macadamia nuts. Mix in flour. Chill dough.

Bake:
Bake for 11 minutes, or until golden brown.

Cool and enjoy!

Author’s note:
An avid baker who enjoys creating new twists on recipes, Seathan MacGruder is the hero of His Conquest, the 3rd book in the best-selling MacGruder brothers’ Scottish medieval romantic suspense series. For more information about the MacGruder brothers, visit Diana’s website!

I sincerely wish everyone health, friendship and happiness this holiday season.

Contest

ONE winner will be drawn from everyone who posts on my guest blog post about, ‘Giving The Gift of Thanks,’ on Delilah’s blog between 1 December 2019 – 8 December 2019. The winner will receive one of Diana’s mugs and a tote.

Diana Cosby, International Best-Selling Author
https://www.dianacosby.com/
The Oath Trilogy
MacGruder Brother Series
Forbidden Series: Forbidden Legacy/Forbidden Knight/Forbidden Vow/Forbidden Alliance/ Forbidden Realm‒14th April 2020