Time Travel Romance Feature: Memory of Rivers by Shelley Odendahl #giveaway #timetravel #excerpt #romance #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

A Past Life Love Story

Time Travel Romance

Date Published: 09-09-2019

Publisher: Flyway Press LLC

Three Lifetimes, One Love – A Time Travel Romance

 

Vivid sensations and images from Diana’s dreams stream into her conscious mind. Are the dreams memories of her past lives?

As Kari, in prehistoric times, she dances in a coming-of-age ceremony in an ancient cave, with wild animals painted on the walls. Captivated by flute player, Lor, they promise to love each other forever, but dangers threaten their plans.

As Rachel, isolated in gold rush era Deadwood, she is mistreated by her drinking, gambling husband but finds comfort with Civil War veteran Sam. His harmonica music enchants Rachel as they draw together to soothe their lonely souls.

Now, in her life in 1972 Minnesota, Diana is drawn to singer-songwriter Eric. His songs and her memories, along with a deep longing for love, connects her soul with his. Is he the man from her dreams? Will they find happiness together at last?

 

“In an age of brief encounters and ‘friends with benefits,’ lasting love is a rare commodity. But you’ll find it here in Shelley Odendahl’s Memory of Rivers. Enjoy.” – Faith Sullivan, author of nine novels including the latest, Ruby and Roland.

Excerpt

As Eric continued to sing, I stared into his soul. Somehow then, I knew for certain that he was the man I loved, since my earliest memories, since pre-history. We met in a cave, and I danced to his music. Immersed in the past, I felt the dense smokiness of the cave’s enclosed space as the flute player captured my body and spirit. We were alone. Together.

With a slight shake of my head, I pulled myself back to the present, into the enclosed space of a bar, where the smoke of cigarettes hung in the air. My face and neck had grown prickly and hot, as if a mild electrical charge played on the surface of my skin. I focused on Eric, every bit of him, especially his eyes. I inhaled a quick breath when he stared back at me, as if my spirit had summoned his. Still singing, his voice was sensuous, velvet, as it caressed my body and settled into my being.

If, from the other we are ever lost,

Draw me in with your force of life

Somewhere inside, the truth resides,

My elusive woman of the wilds.

Our fates are entwined now and forever,

My dancer, my muse, my river nymph,

My elusive woman of the wilds.

 

His voice quietly held the last note of the song, as his fingers picked the final chord. We maintained eye contact, sharing a moment that began with our encounter at the cave ceremony, and traveled the spectrum of time and place, bringing our emotions into the present. Right now. We were seeing all of each other without ever before having met in this lifetime.

Eric broke eye contact and looked down at his guitar.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he told the crowd, as he put the guitar in its rack and stood up. He made his way toward the people at his table up front and sat down with them.

My hands trembled as I dug in my purse for a tissue, using it to dab my tear-filled eyes. What had just happened here? My heart over-flowed, incredulous that I had met my love. I still didn’t know what it all meant to my life today. Would he remember me, from our lives so long ago? What if he didn’t?

 

About the Author

Shelley Odendahl is the author of Serendipity and Other Travel Adventures – stories that cover forty years of touring the world with her husband Cliff.

This book brings readers along as they travel across the USA by motorcycle, and to Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Bali, and Patagonia, experiencing breathtaking highs, and lows that challenged the couple to create solutions along the way.

Shelley also wrote an inspirational book, Realize Your Dreams – Create an Action Plan for Life Transformation, and a time travel novel: Memory of Rivers – A Past Life Love Story.

She lives in Minnesota, USA, with her husband Cliff, where 10,000+ lakes, scenic rivers, majestic white pines, wildflowers, swans, and eagles nurture her spirit.

Her passions are traveling and writing about traveling, creating watercolors, appreciating art of all kinds, and baking her own Sourdough bread from a starter she created over 5 years ago. She enjoys hiking in National Parks, going to musical performances, and being on a lake in a boat.

Shelley is happiest when in the company of her husband, family and friends, with perhaps some food and wine involved.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Goodreads

Purchase Link

Amazon

Historical Fiction Feature: Cain's Chameleon by Mark G. Bearrs #giveaway #historical #fiction #excerpt #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

Historical Fiction

Date Published: 01-27-2026

Publisher: BearssLair Books

If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you correct the mistake... or take the lifeline?

Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He can't risk divulging a closely-held family secret.

Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it's an escape route delivered in black ink.

He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don't stay buried.

As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.

War changes everything, but it doesn't erase unfinished business. And when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried before the past comes to collect?

Excerpt

Lucy wasn’t smiling like she used to when she folded her letter, slipped it into the envelope, sealed it with a kiss, and applied the three-cent stamp. Even the spring in her step lacked the zeal she typically exhibited during her walk to the post office. The words on the paper were true to her commitment. They spoke of the news from the home front, stories that helped Stan’s morale, and made sure her underlying message was being proud, supportive, and encouraging. The words wandering around in Lucy’s thoughts, however, were in stark contrast to this messaging.
Ever since Stan was assigned to the navy radar training school, Lucy had become more and more unsure in her belief that things would be okay. His work as an Aviation Machinists Mate stateside meant he was safe. And Minneapolis was relatively close to home. Being trained as a radarman for shipboard duties meant it was more likely he would be sent overseas into a combat zone. This caused a higher level of worry. Like everything else this war has put in short supply, her ration of optimism was slowly being depleted, and the resources for replenishing that reservoir were becoming scarce.
Her quandary was not letting Stan know about this foreboding, even though he was normally her most trusted sounding board. She tried to talk about this with her sister Millie. But Millie’s approach to these heartfelt struggles was to fix them, make them go away, or advise Lucy, “Try not to think about it.” This was not the type of support Lucy needed.
During her alone time, sitting staring out the window, the overwhelming emotion that prevailed over all others was that she really missed her husband. She now knew what being heartbroken felt like.

 

About the Author

 

While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips – to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.

While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity? That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug. In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened back then.Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about 5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up: The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.

This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled, Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia. St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy interception, and Fighter Direction.  While the museum had ample archived materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the servicemembers who trained there.

Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators, historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts, airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact list.

You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then Mark decided — he would make them related.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Goodreads

Purchase Link

Amazon

Memoir Feature: Who Will Carry the Fire? by Darrell J. Pedersen #giveaway #memoir #excerpt #nonfiction #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

More Reflections from a North Woods Lake

Memoir

Date Published: 04-07-2025

Publisher: RiverPlace Press

Who Will Carry the Fire? More Reflections from a North Woods Lake by Darrell J. Pedersen thoughtfully examines the value of human history, traditions, memories, and relationships and reiterates the importance of preserving and faithfully passing these along to the next generation. Through a collection of essays and the retellings of his early days as a son, brother, husband, and father, Pedersen shows readers that we all have been gifted these irreplaceable stories by those who came before us. These remembered stories will work to keep the thread of storytelling alive while passing down the life-giving flames of laughter, human community, and hope to our children and future generations. Using a blend of wisdom, humor, reflection, and life stories in Minnesota, Pedersen expertly weaves a book that is both a memoir/collection of essays and a celebration of life.

Excerpt

Five Young Men And Christmas 2020

 

A hairy arm, plaid flannel sleeve rolled up, extended out of the pickup window and held high a fist with middle finger raised. A week before Christmas, at the end of the tumultuous year 2020, I was headed for the dump. Driving where four lane transitions to two, loud rumbling acceleration of an engine caught my attention. There he is, up ahead of me in the right lane, a big pickup. Speeding up, he slid in front of a small car. That’s when I spotted his obscene gesture. What, I wondered, did that other driver do to earn that reaction? Drawing close behind the little car, I spotted the offense. This little old lady had made the mistake of sporting a small presidential campaign sticker in her back window. I guessed giving her the finger was a victory for him.

Witnessing this attack on humanity by a bearded young man in a big pickup caused me to reflect on his place in our society and world. I thought about the large number of bearded young men I had lately witnessed in televised protests, a few packing assault rifles. Some, recently, shouted obscenities at me and others for standing in silent support of Black Lives Matter. I wondered, has this whole generation been lost? But then I recalled, my own son is bearded and drives a noisy, old jeep, and he’s currently using his vocational skills to put together a virtual Christmas Eve service for his church.

That was Friday. Today, Monday, my wife and I pulled into a long line outside Burger King. I immediately took notice of the young man ahead of us in the row. He was driving an old pickup, paint peeling off and rusty jagged holes in its fenders. Seeing him watching us in his mirror, I wondered if he was another of these young ruffians.

Behind us, a brand new, red Jeep slipped into line. In my mirror I saw another young man driving. I noted huge tires, winch, fancy mirrors, decals, all the options. Lots of money for that one, I thought. I wonder what kind of a job he has? I never had money to buy something like that when I was his age. I don’t have money to buy something like that even at age 68.

A long wait; we were one car back now. The young driver in the rusty pickup carried on an extended conversation with the window person whose hand held the outstretched plastic tub awaiting payment. Is he hassling that poor cashier? Finally, he put his credit card in the tub, received his food, and drove away. Our turn. The twenty-something man in the window, masked, said, “Your meal has already been paid for. The fellow ahead of you took care of your bill.”

“What?”

He repeated. Bill paid. Young man in the pickup truck. $17.84.

“Well, can I pay for the people behind me?”

“Yes, if you want to.”

“Yes, please, let me pay for their bill.” His bill. I remembered; it was the young fellow in the expensive Jeep. I handed the cashier my credit card and he rang it up.

“How much was it?”

“Just over three bucks.”

“Well, can I pay for the next car too?”

“Sure.”

“How much is that one?”

“That one is $24.95.”

“Okay, thanks, that will be just fine.”

Bill paid. Food delivered. Credit card returned. Ready to coast away, I looked my young fellow in the eye and offered, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas and God bless you,” he replied.

“And God bless you too,” I said to one of my new young friends at Burger King.

Five young men just before Christmas in 2020. Pandemic, political strife, racism. So much trouble all around. Five young men and an old guy. Maybe there’s still hope.

 

 

About the Author

ABOUT THE "LITTLE DICKENS"

Darrell J. Pedersen was raised in the 1950-60s, on a little lake in Minnesota’s North Woods. He grew up and moved away, but his heart has never left that place. His family, the lake, woods, and critters that embraced his young life taught him to appreciate today and to be hopeful for tomorrow. He learned to care for the creation and the neighbor. To leave the world a little better place than he found it.

Since retirement, he has published his first memoir/collection of essays, Campfire in the Basement: Reflections from a North Woods Lake. One year later, Who Will Carry the Fire? More Reflections from a North Woods Lake is now in your hands. Both books include real life stories of everyday people living one day at a time in a challenging, yet amazing world. Hard work, laughter, tears, wins and losses. He believes you will find your story here too. Darrell and his wife, Jennifer, live in Baxter, Minnesota.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Blog

Goodreads

Purchase Link

Amazon

Gay Romance Feature: Jazz Bang Boom by Will Okati #excerpt #mm #lgbtq #romance #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

Gay Cyberpunk Adventure Romance

Date Published: August 14, 2026

Riot’s attempt to teach his pretty lover to behave himself doesn’t… quite… go as planned.

Jazz loves pretty things and things that go BOOM. Tyger, AKA Riot, is a man on a mission, searching for the bits and pieces that’ll repair his damaged, bio-constructed DNA. It only makes sense for the happily mismatched lovers to turn airship pirates and sneak, snatch or con what they need, right?

Right. One problem. Occasionally Jazz gets a little too fond of explosives, and Tyger gets a tad too focused on his quest. When that happens, they need to vent a little steam. So to speak.

 

EXCERPT

T-minus sixty seconds. Really, it was bad manners to blow up a tea party, but some society dames were just asking for it. Jazz landed in the ornamental rose bushes outside his hostess's parlor window, gathered his heavy silk skirts around his knees, and ran like hell.

Not that he was worried. Jazz knew his explosives like he knew his way around the three-dimensional differential equations of a projected illusory field.

And wine. And perfume. What? Jazz prided himself on having layers.

He ticked off the seconds in his head, listening to an internal countdown. Right about now the aforementioned queens of "polite" society (and those who knew Jazz knew far better than to push a particular argument on behavior becoming to a lady and the mind-boggling double-standards that -- oh, anyway).

Jazz did enjoy traveling to different worlds and sampling the finest wines, velvets, songs and yes, incendiary devices from the thousands of cultures that flourished around the galaxies, but the next time his honey, Riot, wanted to spend time where good manners were forbidden in favor of good times? No thanks.

Where had he been? Oh, right. Crap! Cue the fine ladies screeching, coughing and sneezing, the last of a harmless fog floating out the window he'd helpfully, er, opened by jumping through, and they might have regained enough composure after the flash and bang that went with the smoke to have started complaining and oh, right.

Five, four, three, two --

Jazz managed to free himself of the pannier hoops just in time to dive under the cover of a cluster of almost-certainly-sacred ancient oak trees, before -- BOOM.

If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. "Proper." See what I did there?

This time, however, the dainty device of detonation had not been hidden in Jazz's decolletage (quite convincing cleavage, if he did say so himself). He'd set the charges long before smiling politely and pretending to enjoy a coin-sized cress sandwich in the ladies' salon.

BOOM.

There, that was the ticket! One for distraction, two to cause confusion to his enemies, e.g. the people in possession of A Thing Jazz Wanted, and a third to blow the ever-living fuck out of irritatingly secure locks that otherwise prevented his honey from wholesale liberation of a few deliciously prized goods.

POOF.

Oops. He'd forgotten the fourth bomb in the salon. Well, that one had been a bit spur of the moment. And a leetle more powerful. Enough to, say, jar loose some ripe pickings of his own, if he were lucky. All he needed to do was circle back around, and --

The discreet two-way comms device concealed in the cunning shape of a rosebud earring spoke to him. "Overkill, Jazz. Overkill."

"Spoilsport," Jazz said, and sneezed. "Let he who has never enjoyed the smell of C4 in the morning cast the first stone in a glass house."

"Excuse me?" The voice on the comms sounded amused. "You're high on adrenaline again, aren't you?"

"Pish, tosh, nonsense, and absolutely, yes. Perhaps that was overkill. Others could say I was in the wrong, but I can't blame me."

"You are a ridiculous man," the speaker said fondly.

"I know." Jazz preened. He sneezed again. "Tch. Plastique is one thing. Debris coated in dust is quite another. What about you, tick-tock man? Did you get what you came here for?"

"Stop calling me that," Riot said, quite clear -- even over the comms -- that he didn't mind in the least, and even had a soft spot in his heart for the nickname. "Yeah, I got what I needed. And then some. Wasn't easy to find and I had to pay a price, but it was worth it."

Jazz enjoyed a ripple's worth of goosebumps. He anticipated all sorts of good things once back on board the Sarah-Jessica-No-Parking. A triumphant Riot made for a feisty Riot with his blood running hot and his body all-systems-go. He employed the same affectionate tone when he replied, "Tell that to the watercress and unspiced kimchi I had to eat to make nice with my hostess."

"The one you just blew up?"

"Unspiced kimchi," Jazz repeated.

"The trials and tragedies you face, darlin'."

"Darn right. This piece of the puzzle you went after -- tell me about it," he coaxed.

"Later. For the moment --"

"Yes, yes. Run and keep running until you swoop in to save the day, and clear out of here before the smoke does?"

"You read my mind," Riot said, very dryly indeed but pleased. Almost purring.

Consider Jazz's curiosity piqued.

"I'm on my way." Such a tragedy, but the skirts had to go. Almost a full bolt of silk! Still, a man had to do what a man had to do, even when he'd tricked himself out in the finest of ladies' clothing.

Probably more so at such times. Hmm. He'd have to think about that more later. In the meantime, business. Beautiful, sparkly, gloriously shiny business! Jazz retrieved the pouches of more easily liftable and valuable trinketry from the panniers and pushed them into his reticule.

"Jazz? When I said run, that wasn't a suggestion."

Oh! Right. "And what'll you be doing while I skedaddle? How will I know if I'm being rescued by the right man?"

"I'll be the one dangling out of an airship with a rope and a half-cocked plan."

"Easily recognizable," Jazz said happily. Wait. "How long a rope? How high do the airships go?" Wouldn't exactly Be Done to whip off the 3-D fooler facade, and on this steampunk aficionado's wet dream of a world the airships he'd seen before had to go quite high indeed --"Riot? How high?"

"High enough I'll make it worth your while to man up and climb. And," Riot purred, "when I say 'worth your while' I mean, 'I plan to punish you, then fuck you three-quarters of the way through the nearest flat surface.'"

"I am so on my way now."

"Fast?"

"Darling, you have no idea." Jazz kicked off his heels. Not the shoes, mind, those gorgeous soft-supple open-calf boots of fawn-soft suede. Just the heels and pattens. "After all, who do you think you're talking to?"

Oh dear. Jazz heard a set of mastiffs on their way. Here I go again. Skirts, knees, running feet, check. Go time.

Fast.

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

Will on Facebook

Will on Instagram

Will on Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

LGBTQ Romance Feature: The Duke's Runaway Omega by Autumn Montague #teaser #excerpt #lgbtq #historical #mm #romance #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

 

LGBTQ+ Historical Romance, MPreg, Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: August 14, 2026

 

Phillip’s on the run, with not just one but two alphas on his trail.

 

Raised as an alpha, Phillip’s unexpected manifestation as an omega turns his life upside down. His father demands a handfasting, insisting Phillip be mated to whichever alpha wins the day with their pheromones. But when the triumphant alpha turns out to be his school friend Everett, Phillip realizes they are fated mates. However, as a diminished omega, his chances of bearing Ev’s children are slim. Heartbroken, Phillip flees to London.

Everett never expected to be Duke of Harriford. His title brings a slew of distasteful marriage and handfasting offers. The latest invitation for his old friend Phillip shocks Ev into accepting. Phillip is everything he remembers and more, and Ev soon finds himself responding to the potent scent of Phillip’s pheromones. When his mate runs, Ev questions whether their feelings are true, or merely the bond of alpha and omega. Despite his fears, he’s determined to find Phillip and bring him home.

As Ev searches London, Phillip questions the wisdom of his choices. His plans have begun to unravel rather spectacularly. To start with, he’s pregnant, the one thing he thought he’d never be. Worse, there’s an alpha hunting him -- and it’s not Ev.

 

EXCERPT

 

Yorkshire, 1811

Lord Phillip Tyerman stared through the barred windows of his tower room at the parade of men and women summoned by his father. All of them were well-heeled and every one of them was looking to make a prestigious match with the earl’s eldest son. The earl’s omega son, who was unable to inherit either lands or title. The earl’s useless son, who wasn’t even a full-fledged omega. Just a not-quite-beta whose first presentation had caused no scandal, lured no lusty alphas, and could have been passed off as little more than being in his second puberty. Not even the beta servants of the household had realized anything was amiss. Only his youngest sister had noticed. It had been Philomena, who was now heir to their father’s estate at fifteen, thanks to her unexpected and early manifestation as a dominant alpha. Lovely Phil, whose patrician nose had wrinkled as though a bad odor had just filled the air.

“What a dreadful stink! Have the oranges gone over?”

Phillip could hear it even now, a full year hence, and it still rankled to the point where he’d taken to wearing a strong sandalwood fragrance to avoid smelling like rotted fruit. His father’s shocked look had likewise never left his mind. The forbidding expression on the earl’s face had been bad enough, but Phillip’s subsequent banishment to the tower room from the heir-presumptive suite had cut even deeper. He had been nearly twenty-two at the time, grown tall and strong. He was the spitting image of his father. Everyone, even his omega mother, had assumed he’d manifest soon as an alpha, and his delicate sister as an omega.

The tall and strong young man had become the omega, and the petite, delicate, and winsome girl had become the alpha. God most certainly had a peculiar sense of humor, at least insofar as the Tyerman family was concerned.

With a snort of irritation at the memory, Phillip turned his attention back to the courtyard below, where the last equipage had rolled up to the front steps. The livery on the carriage door proclaimed the occupant to be a member of the Harrifords. Intrigued despite himself, Phillip opened the windowpanes and peered through the bars, hoping for a glimpse of whomever it was that had come from that prestigious family to gawk at the sale of the Tyermans’ awkward omega son. Of course, even if the occupant proved to be Ev Harriford, Phillip fully intended to be well away from this house long before arrangements could be made to pursue a match with any of these honored guests.

He sighed and turned away from the window, leaving it ajar to bring in fresh air to a room that was stuffy even in the dead of winter. He had no fear of his scent drawing unwelcome attention from all those alphas despite being near his heat. His pheromones were practically indiscernible, as even in heat they never carried much beyond his immediate person. The doors to the tower stair were securely locked, and only his mother and his beta valet carried the keys. He felt no qualms about allowing the room to air out while he dressed for this ridiculous charade.

Well, said charade would come to an abrupt and hopefully embarrassing end for his father. Phillip had a small bag packed with the most minimal necessities safely stowed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d return to his rooms to “refresh himself” when the alphas retired for brandy and banter, and he’d make his escape then, while his father negotiated with them for Phillip’s eventual marriage to the highest bidder.

The tiniest tremor ran along his spine. It seemed his estrus had chosen to come in a timely manner. At least he would not have to spend several days in isolation waiting for it to arrive so the festivities could begin in earnest. The mere thought of said festivities sent another shiver through him, this one of disgust.

A brisk tap sounded on the door, followed by the sound of keys in the lock and his mother’s quiet entrance. She gave him a mildly disapproving glance upon seeing him still in his ordinary daywear. “You should always lock the inner door, Phillip,” she chided him. “You ought to be in your tails by now. You have a scant half hour before dinner. Your father wishes you to meet the guests tonight prior to the formal ceremony on Saturday.”

“Ceremony!” Phillip winced as the word came out in shocked tones. “What ceremony?! I thought this was the usual idiotic dinner party series so he can twist the arms of his alpha friends and convince one of them to marry me to their offspring --”

“No, dear,” his mother interrupted with false serenity. She smiled at him, the attempt obviously meant to soothe, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. “The earl has decided to make this a formal handfasting ceremony, to ensure the chosen candidate does not hand you the mitten after. So only the most acceptable and honorable suitors were invited. If you don’t find anyone particularly to your liking, the earl will decide who wins the right to bond with you.”

The earl will decide. His mother’s use of his father’s title told Phillip that Lady Winifred Tyerman did not support this extraordinary decision. It also told Phillip that his father had chosen not to leave the critical matter of his awkward son to chance or romantic feelings. His thrice-damned sire would pick the person who would control Phillip for the rest of his life. Then the true significance of his mother’s words penetrated the fog engendered by the word “ceremony.”

“A handfasting? What on earth are you on about?” Phillip cursed himself for the shake in his voice.

Handfasting was an ancient custom, very much out of use, as it used a bonding bite to ensure the omega couldn’t flee with another alpha or beta. But to do so in this day? The handfasting ceremony included a public bite, binding the omega to the alpha forever, socially and physically, even if the alpha chose to marry someone else. While the ceremony wasn’t precisely outlawed, it was frowned upon as outré and generally reserved only for omegas of wealthy families perilously close to the end of their breeding years.

And this was to be his fate? He’d be damned first.

 

 

About the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan, strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

 

Author’s Website

Author on Facebook

Follow Autumn on BookBub

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Pre-Order Today

Crime Thriller Feature: Turtle Lake: The Wild Card Syndrome by Robert Milne #teaser #comingsoon #excerpt #thriller #suspense #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

 

Crime Thriller / Suspense

Date Published: 09-07-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press

Turtle Lake is a gripping tale of revenge, survival, and the intricate interplay between human nature and the natural world. The story follows Jim Peters, the comptroller at Ramsey Motors, who uncovers a corrupt scheme by the company and its insurer, U.S. Underwriters, to defraud employees of their retirement and insurance benefits before moving operations overseas. Infuriated, he devises an elaborate extortion plan to expose their corruption and protect the employees through a spectacular plot that ends up achieving national headlines. To accomplish his plan, Peters uses simple, everyday methods and lessons learned from alpha predators in the natural world.

 

Excerpt

 Life is a dangerous place to be. The woods, skies, lakes, and oceans are filled with creatures bent on killing and eating each other. Nothing in nature dies of old age, as the adage goes. 

Prey animals are taken down by predators. It’s as if prey animals are made to be food. 

Carnivore predators possess razor-sharp canine-like teeth. Carnivores are the watchers from the shadows. All of them, such as lions, tigers, bobcats, and wolves, are wired the same way. They don’t eat lettuce for lunch. To a carnivore, you simply look like another rabbit in the grass. 

There’s another carnivore that is often overlooked – humans. Humans have canine teeth. They are born wired with the same instincts as the alpha predators. 

We’re taught to control it. Supposedly. 

Birds will tell you when the sun is going to come up. At the faintest glimmer of dawn's early light, they begin to converse with each other, presumably to find out where the bugs are that day. Usually, we don't hear them in their earliness. Our day starts later. Usually. 

Frogs and insects do the same during the pre-dawn moments, buzzing and croaking in the woods, fields, and swamps. Presumably they do this to find out where the predators are. It's been said that frogs might be telling each other where the rattlesnakes and blue herons are at any given time. We don't usually hear them croaking away in the early hours of the day. Usually. 

Today, however, as the woods came to life with this early morning serenade, Jim Peters could hear them very clearly. It was August of 1990. He was in his cabin in mid-Michigan, situated on the edge of a quiet, deep-woods nature refuge known as Turtle Lake. Peters was lyingin bed backwards, that is, with his feet at the head of the bed and his head at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his wrists as he looked at a model train set. 

The train set, an ancient Lionel from the 1940s, included buildings, roads, bridges, cars, trucks, a shopping center, and a train running through it. The set looked ordinary enough to the casual passerby or rare visitor to the cabin. But in fact, it was window dressing, a model of the crime scene that was to come. The train had nothing to do with it. 

In a short while, when the birds, frogs, and bugs had quieted down, Peters would push a button and Mozart's opera The Magic Flute would float from the speakers connected to his compact disc machine. Peters liked Mozart. The music was pure and uncluttered. It flowed from one section into another so smoothly that it was hard to tell a transition had taken place. The complexities of its composition flowed as smoothly as pouring oil. 

As smoothly as the diabolical scam he was planning.

 

About the Author

Bob Milne has been hailed throughout his 60-year career as one of the best ragtime/boogie-woogie piano players of all time. A solo concert performer, he traveled all over the world playing for dignitaries and celebrities as well as small town audiences. He was given the title of National Treasure by the Library of Congress and deemed an Ambassador of Music by the U.S. Department of State.

Bob’s extraordinary musical abilities were the subject of numerous brain studies, which have inspired a popular RadioLab podcast.

Little did they know that Bob was also a talented writer.

For years he wrote articles about his saloon-playing days for music publications. Many of these stories were compiled into a book called The Journeyman Piano Player: Adventures in Gracious Dining. Bob has written reams of poetry, some of which became lyrics to songs that he composed. The longest piece of poetry he ever wrote was the lyric book for The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a grand opera he composed and orchestrated.

Mr. Milne has been fascinated by nature his entire life. At a young age he realized that instincts are present in all species of birds, mammals (including humans), and literally every living thing in nature. He has used this information countless times over his lifetime to predict what the human species will do in future situations.

Bob is now retired from the long piano tours and is enjoying his woodland home. Today he spends his time studying nature in the woods. Signed copies of his book may be purchased through his website.

Contact Links

Website

Goodreads

Facebook

Purchase Link

https://mybook.to/TurtleLake

Amazon

Erotica Feature: Private Party by Anne Kane #teaser #excerpt #bdsm #erotica #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours @ChangelingPress @annekane

BDSM Erotic Romance, Multicultural & Interracial

Date Published: August 7, 2026

Newly divorced, Brandi’s in trouble. What she doesn’t need? Her past coming back to haunt her.

 

Reeling from her ex-husband’s infidelity and buried in the mountain of debts he left behind, Brandi needs to make money -- a lot of money -- fast, or she’ll lose her home. When she applies for a job as a hostess at an adult club, the last thing she expects is to come face to face with her high school flame.

Greg has grown up a lot since high school, but he’s never forgotten the woman who left him behind. No longer a quiet geek, the self-made multi-millionaire intends to win Brandi back, and his first step is to make her an offer she can’t refuse. He hires her as his escort for the evening at an adult party in his mansion. Now he has one night to convince her he’s matured into the masterful mate she needs.

 

EXCERPT

Brandi stared at her reflection in the mirror. The lush black velvet suited her better than she’d expected, contrasting nicely with the soft brown of her skin. She’d had her hair styled last month -- the day before her world fell apart -- and it fell just below her shoulders in a shimmery dark curtain. Definitely a good investment. She twisted sideways, wiggling her butt. Yup. That skirt was short. Real short. Short enough she’d be afraid to bend over. Then again, if she bent over her breasts would probably spill right out of the low-cut top that formed the other half of the costume. Did people really work in outfits like this?

She gave her head a mental shake. Of course they did. If you wanted the big tips, you needed to show off a little of the merchandise.

Life wasn’t fair, and happily ever afters only happened on the pages of those sappy romance novels. Losing her job and then watching her husband desert her for a teenaged slut sure brought that one home in a hurry. She needed this job, needed to pay off the huge stack of bills he’d left her with before she lost her home as well, and in this labor market she couldn’t afford to be picky.

When she’d seen the ad for a hostess at a local after-hours club, she’d plastered what she hoped was a come-hither smile on her face and applied for the position. If nothing else, it would give her some breathing room while she figured out what she wanted to do. She’d be damned if she’d let that lecherous excuse for a husband ruin her life.

Opening the front closet, Brandi perused the selection of winter coats. Since she’d been reduced to using public transit, she’d better make sure the skimpy costume didn’t get her mugged before she got to the interview. The man who’d dropped off the costume had been very specific. The interview for the job was at three sharp, and the manager did not expect to be kept waiting.

Picking a thick wool coat that fell partway down her calves to hide the scandalous outfit, she made sure she buttoned it all the way up to her chin. Catching a chill and sneezing all over the manager would not improve her chances of getting this job. She grabbed her purse off the side table and locked the door behind her.

* * *

Oh, shit! Brandi folded her hands behind her back and tried not to stare. Greg Bridger. With the way her luck had been going lately, why hadn’t she realized it would be him doing the hiring when she desperately needed the job? Greg Bridger was the guy she’d spent her entire high school career dating. The guy everyone expected her to marry. The guy she’d walked out on for the worthless piece of trash who’d just deserted her for the pom-pom queen.

She hadn’t kept track of him for the past ten years, hadn’t really given him much thought while she’d been so entranced with her scumbag of a husband. Maybe she should have. He carried himself with a self assurance that spoke volumes. He wore his dark hair short these days, in a cut that flattered the rugged lines of his face. Six feet tall, he had the muscular frame of someone who spent hours every week at the gym. That hadn’t always been the case.

Although he’d been quiet in high school, more of a geek than a jock, Greg had always had plans and dreams, big dreams. Somehow she never thought of him settling for a safe job like manager of an adult club, even if it was the most popular club on the east side of town. Maybe he’d decided to trade in his dreams of corporate success for that fantastic body.

She had no idea if she had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this job. If Greg recognized her, he gave no sign. He circled her slowly, his eyes impersonal as he made notes on the clipboard he was holding. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes linger with just a hint of lust on her cleavage? And should that upset her or give her hope?

Brandi made an effort to rein in her errant libido and tried not to fidget. It wasn’t her fault. Seeing Greg again had been a shock, and reawakened feelings she’d long forgotten. He’d been an enthusiastic, if somewhat awkward lover in high school, and he’d matured impressively in the last ten years. Sex appeal was stamped all over his rugged frame, and if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that her husband had never really satisfied her in the bedroom. She’d always longed for him to be a bit more inventive, but he’d never really done more than give her a quick slam-bam before he’d rolled over and commenced snoring.

After the first few disappointing months, she’d resigned herself to a less than inspired sex life. She was surprised to feel the corner of her mouth tugging upward as she wondered if the little tart he’d run off with was getting bored with his insipid technique yet.

“Do you find this amusing? I was under the impression you wanted this job.” Frost tinged Greg’s voice as he stopped in front of her, one dark eyebrow raised in query.

“Not at all, sir.” It was fairly obvious he didn’t recognize her, and personal history aside, she really did need this job. “I was thinking of something else. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” His voice rang with disapproval. “I expect my staff to pay close attention to my instructions at all times.”

“Of course.” Damn. She really needed this job.

“Well, then.” His gaze swept over her in frank assessment before he consulted the tablet. “I have to say, I don’t feel you are suited for the position.”

Brandi felt her heart drop. She really needed this job. “You don’t? I’ll work really hard, I promise.” She hated the whining note in her voice. “I’ll do whatever you want me to. Just give me a chance.”

A hint of a smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid not. We are looking for someone younger, someone the clients will keep buying more drinks from in the hopes of getting lucky.” His gaze swept over her briefly. “You are definitely not the cheerleader type. The clients would take one look at you and know they were outclassed. I do, however, have another opening that you might be interested in. If you would care to take a seat out in the lobby while I finish up here?”

Crap! He’d as much as told her she was over the hill. Definitely not something you want to hear from an ex-lover. Then again, he had mentioned another position. She’d come looking for a job, not a lover. At least he wasn’t holding their shared past against her, assuming he even recognized her. He’d given no signs.

 

 

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.

 

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Pre-Order Today

Young Adult Feature: Nightflower of Comanche Mound by Katlyn Bates #giveaway #youngadult #western #excerpt #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

Teen and YA, Westerns

Date Published: 03-03-2025

Publisher: Adventure & Quest, LLC

A troubled teen struggling with fractured family relationships forms an unexpected bond with a lost, blind horse that transforms her life, teaching her the true meaning of courage, resilience, and healing.

Excerpt

A week on the ranch had really transformed me. I looked the part, like I’d lived here all my life. Before jetting from Seattle, I had an expectation of riding a fast horse over a wide prairie, the wind whipping my hair. Never had I imagined myself in baggy-butt jeans with pockets that sunk to my knees. They were heavier than any I’d ever owned, and fastened high on my waist, as if pulled up with suspenders. The shirt tail draped my back, and I had to roll the sleeves five times.
But the boots! Oh, I loved how they made me taller. They fit like clamps, as if my feet were growing in bark.
I clomped to the large picture window, plunked the sombrero Sabion gave me on my head. “Eesh.”
I look like a mushroom.
If Mom had told me from the beginning that Pap didn’t have horses, maybe I wouldn’t have thought twice about coming. I had the idea of wearing the giddy-up home—I would walk right past her at the airport and she wouldn’t even know me. But then, what would’ve happened to Radar?
No. Destiny had brought me here.
Pap’s boots stammered on the porch. I couldn't resist a cocky stroll past him—long, lanky strides that thunked my foot heel to toe. He sipped smugly from his coffee mug. Well, of course—nothing unusual to him. Just a set of sensible clothes.
Oh, well…as long as he’s happy—
* * *
Sabion’s smirk held a snicker. “Ah, si. You look…now you look right.”
I rolled my eyes. “Glug—”
Radar was pungent with horse sweat. Was it his timid nature that made me brave for him? A fearless front to give us both courage, like a parent protecting their child? Well, some parents. He sniffed my pant leg, and blew a snort that spewed junk on my knee. Now they’re broken in…
“How much time do I have today?” I asked. Sabion had honored his agreement to let me use Jennie half a day for training, but I’d already wasted a slip of his morning trying to make the blasted blue jeans work.
He looked at his watch. “None today. I am here too long already.”
“An hour?” I pleaded.
Sabion shook a finger. “Yesterday you say to me, ‘This day I will make repairs to the corral.’ You forget this? Now you say, ‘Este día voy a hacer reparaciones.’ Mas importante.”
I tried not to laugh. Sabion could never scold. Though he tried to sound tough, it only made him look leathery. It was kinda weird that I was beginning to understand him when I didn’t even speak the lingo.
“But you’re here already. I can make the repairs when you leave.” My plan today wasn’t to repair the corral; my plan was to string those blasted bells together while I had the workbench to myself. Then I’d reveal my fun training plan to Sabion when he returned.
His shoulders caved, the argument lost. “One hour okay is all.” His words netted altogether.

 

About the Author

Katlyn Bates writes contemporary fiction for young adults. Her debut novel, Nightflower of Comanche Mound was named a 2025 Spur Finalist by Western Writers of America (WWA) in the Juvenile-Young Adult Fiction category. The recognition, along with multiple 5-Star book reviews from Readers’ Favorite, encouraged her to dust off old stuff she wrote just for fun, and look at them with fresh eyes.

Drawn to action and adventure that is grounded in real life, Katlyn finds inspiration in the wildness of the world around us. “Nature doesn’t care what we think. It’s wild and ferocious and unpredictable—a good reminder not to take ourselves too seriously. The downright ridiculous seems to call for a twist of humor. What I can’t see, I can imagine.” Juggling family, work, and life, over the years Katlyn grasped whatever time she had available for a writing class when she could—poetry, creative, a bit of journalism. What she discovered was that stories come from deep within us…a moment. A memory. An experience or impression or dream. Only when they surface, can you add texture and color.

A late-bloomer by her own description, Katlyn’s writing kicked off when she joined Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators (SCBWI), a community of like-minded people who selflessly share, uplift, and guide, one meeting at a time. “There’s so much to learn, just for the listening. Other writers energize me, challenge me to ‘say it better’. Everyone has a natural style, and it always amazes me how many ways there are to tell a story. From SCBWI to the Writers’ League of Texas (WLT)—where Nightflower of Comanche Mound was a 2022 Thriller/Action-Adventure Finalist in the Manuscript Contest—on to Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West (WWW), Katlyn has found that it’s networks of writers that encourage her “No matter what stage of writing skill, anyone, at any age, with a yearning to write should seek out others who love what you love. Don’t wait.”

A native Texan, Katlyn Bates lives near Dallas, TX, outside a small town that—like so many inter-connected communities, is quickly becoming absorbed by the sprawl. “As for me, it’s open skies and nature and landscape that frame a plot, and lend power to a story.”

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Goodreads

Purchase Link

Amazon

Erotica Feature: No Excuses, No Regrets by Wanda Violeta O. #excerpt #comingsoon #bdsm #erotica #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours @ChangelingPress

BDSM Erotica

Date Published: August 7, 2026

Tonight, Marley will beg for every forbidden thing she’s too proud to ask for.

Marley -- I built the model. Denton stole the credit, sabotaged my numbers, and tried to bury me in front of the client. Then Lucan walks in. Three nights ago, he was the Dom who bound my wrists, stripped away my control, and made me scream inside Sanctum Black. Today, he’s the client who can save my career -- or destroy it. He demands I lead the account. Demands a direct line to me. And when he orders me back to his private room, kneeling and waiting, I know exactly what he wants. Worse, I know exactly how badly I want to give it to him.

Lucan -- Marley thinks she can hide behind sharp suits, sharper words, and professional boundaries. She’s wrong. I saw what she needed the first night I had her under my hands. I saw the hunger, the surrender, the beautiful way she fought herself before giving in. Her boss tried to take what belonged to her. I handled that. Now I’ll handle Marley. I won’t break her. I’ll bind her, test her, praise her, punish her, and make her beg. She’s mine. By the time I’m done, she’ll say it. More? She’ll believe it.

 

EXCERPT

 

Marley

I sat at my desk, staring at my finished project. Three weeks of work stacked into a clean PowerPoint. The numbers aligned. The previous projections had been spot on, and I had worked to complete this project and move to the next phase for over two years. Now waves had started in upper management. The completed work would not be presented by me.

My boss, Denton, had made that clear in his email yesterday. He would lead. I would attend as backup for any questions he couldn’t answer. The email didn’t mention why he’d pulled the rug out from under me, but I had a good idea.

My phone buzzed. A text from the front: Denton wanting me in the conference room now. I’d already sent him my presentation for review so I couldn’t imagine why he’d want me early. Even with him doing the bulk of the meeting, I still had prep work to finish.

With a sigh, I shut my laptop and slipped it into my briefcase before leaving my tiny cubicle. The open-plan office stretched around me. No one looked up… which was the first warning. The conference room sat at the far end of the floor, all glass walls and polished table. I could see two junior associates already seated inside, their postures attentive, laptops open. Denton stood at the head of the table with the room’s projection screen pulled down. The navy suit he wore looked expensive and tailored, his tie perfectly straight.

I stepped inside and the door closed behind me with a soft click. Denton did not look up from his phone. “Marley. Thank you for joining us.” He set his phone down and reached for the laptop in front of him. “I’ve made a few adjustments to the presentation.”

He opened the file to the first slide. My name in the bottom corner was now gone, replaced by his name in a large, bold font.

He glanced up at me. “Optics. I’m sure you understand.” His curt explanation cut me off before I fully processed he’d actually taken credit for my work. His voice stayed level. I opened my mouth to object but heard how petty I’d sound in front of my colleagues. “The client expects senior leadership on engagements of this size. It’s about inserting confidence into the relationship between our companies.”

Neither of the other two men in the room spoke up. Instead, they both kept their eyes on their own screens.

“This is an editorial decision, not a reflection on your work.” Denton smiled, though there was nothing remotely friendly or pleasant about the expression on his face. “You’ll be in the room. You’ll have the opportunity to contribute during Q&A.”

My heart pounded in alarm. He was edging me out. Denton had every intention of taking credit for the work we’d done on the first phase. He knew enough about the next steps to make everything work, but I doubted he could explain the finer points, or keep the project on track to meet the projections for phase two which would mean a significant delay in phase three. Assuming the assigned team made it to phase three.

“I understand the optics,” I said. My voice came out clipped, precise. Anything louder would give him what he wanted. “But the analysis is mine. The client should know who built it in case there are adjustments leading into phase two.”

“Of course.” Denton nodded as if I had said something helpful. Then he pulled up a slide with a page I had never seen. A figure chart with numbers that did not match any data set I’d worked with.

“I did want to raise one concern.” He turned the slide toward the juniors. “This figure. The correlation coefficient here is significantly off from the rest of the model. I caught it during my review.”

The room went very quiet. I stared at the slide. The numbers were wrong. They weren’t numbers I had generated and they definitely didn’t belong in my analysis. Nor had I put them there. Suddenly, everything made sense. The way he’d undercut me in the first meeting when he’d replaced my topic without notice. The way he’d taken credit for my work. He wanted point on this project and the prestige that went with it.

“This is exactly the kind of oversight that concerns me,” Denton continued. His tone had shifted to something gentler, almost paternal. “Attention to detail matters at this level. The client will have questions. We need to be prepared with answers.”

My whole body broke out into a sweat, the visceral reaction to the way I’d just been undercut. My jaw tightened. The furrow between my brows deepened, a physical response I could not control.

“That slide isn’t mine,” I said. The words came out steady. Barely.

Denton’s expression did not change. “The file was submitted to me under your name.”

“I didn’t build that chart. The numbers are wrong.”

“Then we’ll correct it.” He set the slide down. “The important thing is that we caught it before the client saw it. That’s what a senior review process is for.” Could he sound more patronizing?

Through the glass walls, I could see heads turning toward the conference room. Not staring directly. The careful, sidelong attention of people who understood exactly what was happening without needing to hear the words. The shape of a public correction. The unmistakable geometry of a superior establishing dominance.

 

About the Author

Welcome to Wanda Violet O.'s world of bedtime fantasy, where you'll find a variety of sexy creatures ready to drink their fill. Wanda specializes in extreme kink. Monsters, BDSM role play... she's got it all. Come take a look for yourself!

 

Wanda on Facebook

Wanda on Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

Young Adult Feature: Ivy Leigh Ever After by Gael Lynch #youngadult #excerpt #giveaway #rabtbooktours @gaellynch @RABTBookTours

 

Young Adult

Date Published: January 30, 2026

Publisher: Small Circles Press

When Ivy Leigh's mom dies, her life turns upside down. Another year has passed, and she wants to remain the girl she once was, mucking in the mud, hiking in the woods, chasing after frogs and butterflies, all the little girl things she did when Mom sometimes came along with her. Now, Ivy is eleven turning twelve. The past year was marked with an awful set of nightmares and a huge hole she can't quite find a way to fill.

Even greater trouble arrives when Ivy finds out her arch nemesis, Winona, starts bullying her. Soon, Ivy will learn that like her mom had told her, even bullies have backstories too.

With a family and friends-Ivy is surrounded by a small circle of people who love her. She remembers what her mom always taught her-to spread that love, to be kind and compassionate above all else, no matter what challenges in life arise.

Excerpt

Chapter One: The Package

“She’s coming for you, Peachy.”

He leaped off the bed and scrambled toward me. Together, we stood at the window, watching. I’d heard the roar of that muffler. The sound of the crash. It all spelled trouble. Up until now, Peachy was unknown to her. But I knew it would never stay that way. Dad was at work. She always knew the perfect time to strike.

“That was Mom’s gnome!” Nat’s shriek pierced the air, and I knew this was going to be bad. I took the stairs two at a time, in boxers and a tank top, with Peachy trailing behind. It was early on a Saturday, Viv was still in bed, and I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. But that never mattered to Grandma. This was a surprise attack; we were in her sights, and she had a total takeover in mind. I tucked Peachy away in his crate and latched him in tight before heading out to the front porch to see what was going on.

And there she was. Bulb shaped and full of bluster, Grandma stood with Nat at her side, staring down at the smashed garden gnome. He was pink-faced with a green hat and a little red jacket. Mom named him ‘Happy.’ He made her laugh just to look at him in the midst of her treatments and trips to and from the hospital. But now Happy was here all smashed up in the garden, and Mom had been gone for almost a whole awful year.

“That is the tackiest thing! People will question the sort of people who live in a house with a thing like that out front!”

Things went quiet for a moment, I don’t think Nat even knew what to say to that.

But I knew this wasn’t going to be about the garden gnome. She’d come about Peachy who we’d hidden from her for a whole two weeks. But I’d had a funny feeling about that lately, Grandma had eyes and ears everywhere.

A minute later, I heard the squeak of metal behind me. And then, to my shock and surprise, the screen door flew open. Within seconds, Peachy bolted out, lunged at Grandma and nearly knocked her off her feet. How on earth did he get out of there, I thought.

“This! she bellowed. “This is exactly why I’m here!” Her face was wrinkled, powdered and puffed, with a coat of bright red lipstick smeared across her lips. Cruella had nothing on her. A true animal hater, she shrieked again at the sight of him.

I came running down the sidewalk then and scooped Peachy up in my arms. “It’s okay, boy,” I said, rubbing his peach-colored fur and holding him close.

“It is not okay! That dog has accosted the neighbors and now he’s attacked me! Always on the loose, with no training and no hope of it at all. Why was I not told about him?”

About the Author

 

 Gael Lynch is a writer and storyteller who traces her roots back to her dad’s carefully crafted bedtime stories of fairy queens and villains, beggars of old, the rags to riches sagas of the ancients, always set in the rich green tones of the Irish countryside. Her own greatest ideas, though, are not those of far away and long ago, but ones that exist right under her nose. In what seems to be the ordinary, Gael loves nothing more than a chance encounter while waiting on a line at the grocery store. Perfect strangers offer a world of little gems, experiences she might never have had herself.

The Newbury Award winning author, Patricia Reilly Giff, mentored Gael for many of her writing years. Always a person of pure encouragement, it was Pat’s gentle wisdom that kept her writing and believing in herself for many years.

Her debut novel, IVY LEIGH EVER AFTER, is the story of an eleven, almost twelve-year-old girl whose mom has died and whose life is in a swirl of change. With a mix of humor and heart-rending moments, Ivy will learn that by extending a hand to others, she can also help herself.

If Gael is not at her desk writing, she’s off riding waves, tossing balls in the air for her large golden retriever, Wrigley, or listening to live music under a starlit sky alongside her longtime husband, Tom. She lives in coastal North Carolina with its warm nights and soft ocean breezes. But Newtown, with its pastoral beauty and its warm-hearted people, will always be the place she calls home.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Purchase Link

Amazon