Destined by Fate

By Wild Rose Press

This is a collection of sample chapters from the following novels.

Dixieland Dead by Penny Burwell Ewing
It's a Wonderful Undead Life by R E Mullins
Bewitching Breeze by K. M. Daughters
The White Feather by Heidi Wessman Kneale
Deception Island by Judith A. Boss
Evil Speaks Softly by Maureen Bonatch
Alien Innkeeper by Roxanne Barbour
Magic of the Loch by Karen Michelle Nutt
Beloved Enemy by Hywela Lyn
Mind Waves by Amanda Uhl

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509227877

Book preview

purchasing

Destined by Fate

A Fantasy Romance Sample ebook

from

The Wild Rose Press Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Destined by Fate

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by The Wild Rose Press Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

Digital ISBN: 978-1-5092-2787-7

First Sample Chapter Edition, 2019

Published in the United States of America

Sample Chapters of…

Dixieland Dead by Penny Burwell Ewing

It's a Wonderful Undead Life by R E Mullins

Bewitching Breeze by K. M. Daughters

The White Feather by Heidi Wessman Kneale

Deception Island by Judith A. Boss

Evil Speaks Softly by Maureen Bonatch

Alien Innkeeper by Roxanne Barbour

Magic of the Loch by Karen Michelle Nutt

Beloved Enemy by Hywela Lyn

Mind Waves by Amanda Uhl

Dixieland Dead

by

Penny Burwell Ewing

The Haunted Salon Series

Chapter One

The Dead Don’t Speak, Right?

In a small town like Whiskey Creek, Georgia, where the statue of a local Confederate war hero still stands tall in the courthouse square, there’s a strong sense of community for the living and the dead. The old wrought-iron gates at Peaceful Valley Cemetery were open year round for residents wishing to celebrate birthdays or holidays with family members who’d passed over to the Other Side.

The Easter holiday had brought me here to visit my father and grandparents this early Saturday morning. Looking around, it seemed I had the place to myself, so I exchanged heels for flats and climbed out of my Mustang convertible. Armed with several fresh bouquets of Easter lilies, I picked my way through the gravestones until I stopped beneath a timeworn oak, its heavy branches dusted with shades of leafy green.

Good morning, my dears, I said, placing the bouquets on a stone bench beside their graves, and bent down to remove the wind-beaten silk flowers from the bronze vases. The rest of the family will be stopping by later on, but I wanted some private time alone with y’all.

My father’s parents had both taken the journey to their final reward when I was just a young child, but I remembered them well. Grandpa Tucker always smelled of sweet pipe tobacco, and Granny Tucker, well, I remembered her soft, comforting voice, most of all. And then, four years later when I was only twelve, we lost Daddy. He was killed in a bank robbery attempt in Atlanta while on a business trip. One moment he was standing in line to cash a check and the next, gone forever. The thing I remembered the most about that time was Mama’s strange behavior. She refused to talk about the shooting with me and my two younger sisters, Deena and Billie Jo. And because of that, deep down inside, I’ve always felt as if there was some dark secret surrounding his death.

Daddy used to say that secrets were like candy. At first, they’re sweet on the tongue and bring such pleasure, but then with time the decay sets in, and you find yourself wishing you’d left that bonbon alone.

I brushed away my depressing thoughts and finished arranging the lilies in the vases. Once finished, I sat down on the bench to enjoy the beauty of the warm morning before I had to rush off to work. Hopefully, the chocolate-covered donuts I’d picked up earlier from the bakery would be okay for a little longer in the front seat of my car. I didn’t want them to melt before the staff meeting at the salon, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet.

I closed my eyes as birds sung overhead and took a deep, relaxing breath, wishing I could hear Daddy’s voice once again.

"Jolene honey, open your eyes."

My eyes popped open at Granny Tucker’s voice. Startled, I studied my surroundings, but no one lingered nearby. Feeling a little silly, I stood up from the bench and went to stand over her grave.

Okay. That was weird.

Again, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. A family had congregated nearby, and I could just make out a couple of words as they placed flowers on the grave, so it must’ve been them I’d heard and not the voice of my long-dead grandmother.

Which made perfect sense. According to Pastor Inman over at the First Baptist Church, once we’d left behind our fleshly homes, we weren’t allowed to cross back over into the land of the living. The dead can’t speak, only the living. Right?

Briefly, a long-buried memory of another disembodied voice from my childhood flashed into my consciousness and then fled as quickly as it had surfaced. Now completely weirded-out, I said a hasty goodbye, put the discarded silk flowers in my trunk, exchanged shoes a second time, and headed for the salon.

On Main Street, I passed a cluster of shops where tourists and local residents strolled down the tree-shaded, rustic brick sidewalks, peering into storefront windows or entering the establishments in search of the best sales. Farther down, restored Victorian homes offered respite from the heat with broad, covered porches filled with decorative wicker furniture. Tall, ancient magnolias branched out like sentries, and beneath their leafy canopies, bright swaths of azaleas, hydrangeas, camellias, and roses dotted the well-manicured lawns.

I zipped past Colonel Nathaniel Taft, keeping his ever watchful eye on the town from the courthouse square. Two streets over, I pulled onto Love Avenue and drove around to the rear of Dixieland Salon where I usually parked and spied my two younger sisters gesturing toward the back of the shop. When I pulled my car into a vacant space beside Billie Jo’s old Dodge Charger, I saw the back door standing open, splintered wood littering the walkway.

Oh, no, not a break-in. Not today!

I joined my sisters at the front of my baby sister’s car. I knew there was a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood, but I never expected this to happen to us. How bad is it? Did you check to see if anyone is still in there?

No, Deena wouldn’t let me, Billie Jo said. So I called 9-1-1. The dispatcher advised us to wait out by our cars until an officer arrives and checks out the inside.

Deena pushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes. I wish they’d hurry. It’s awfully hot for April. I believe my makeup is melting.

Several more minutes passed without help arriving. Impatience made me antsy. Is the property insurance up to date? I regretted the words the moment I uttered them. At times, Deena was as touchy and snippy as her Chihuahua puppy, Gator Bait, and the expression on her face said I’d smashed her self-esteem again. I sighed inwardly. The slow economy had me fretful about the future. We’d even expanded the salon to include skin care in hopes of attracting more business. A scary move in these times, and I kept my fingers crossed that it would pay off.

I’m sorry, sis, I said, backpedaling. You’re the best manager Dixieland Salon has ever had.

Sounds right since I’m the only one we’ve ever had, she said, rolling her eyes but looking mollified.

Just then, a police cruiser pulled up, and a young, fresh-faced officer climbed out. Warning us to stay put, he disappeared through the broken doorway.

I dabbed a Kleenex across my brow. This heat is murder, and I have a dozen chocolate-covered donuts in my car.

Several minutes later, he emerged from the rear of the shop where we joined him.

Well, someone broke into your cash register, ladies. He slipped his gun back into its holster. Everything else looks undisturbed, but I’ll let you go in and check the premises shortly.

I craned my neck around him to peer into the shop. How long is this gonna take? I’d like to see the damage before the staff arrives.

This morning, I’d squeezed into a low-cut jean dress that emphasized my ample curves, and as I dabbed the tissue on my abundant cleavage, I noticed the officer’s gaze riveted there. I gave him a raised eyebrow, and he flushed.

There’s the backup now, if you’ll excuse me. The officer started toward the arriving squad car, but then he stopped, turned back with a smile. Oh, and the name’s Clark, ma’am. He tipped his hat. Officer Charles Clark.

Officer Clark headed off to greet the uniformed man retrieving a large silver box from the back seat of his squad car. Both men disappeared inside the rear entrance leaving us to wait, again, in the thick, humid air.

Deena’s sharp gaze locked onto my attire. You know why he did that, don’t you?

I answered with a sisterly smile. No, but I believe you’re going to tell me.

"You’re spilling out of that dress. And it’s entirely too tight for a woman of your advanced age. You look like Barbie’s mother."

Billie Jo’s smile turned into a chuckle. I wish I looked like Barbie’s mother.

I gave my youngest sister a beaming smile. Billie Jo and I share many similar characteristic traits, although physically we’re very different. She’d been born blonde and petite, whereas I’d inherited Mama’s large frame and kinky, dark blonde hair. Deena, two years younger than I am, at thirty-five, fell through the cracks somewhere in the family gene pool. She had a nice figure and glossy brown tresses—from Daddy’s side of the tree.

Thankfully,