Mark Houston has done the unthinkable. The United States Marine has fallen in love with his best friend’s fiancée. Now he has to tell Libby Clifton that Jon was killed in action. When Mark accompanies his friend’s body home to the quiet farming community of Spencer, Wisconsin, he discovers that all was not well between Libby and Jon. He dares to hope there might still be room in her heart for him—until she confides in him that he’s the only friend she has—the very last thing a man wants to hear. Or be.
She’s trying to move on. After the very public funeral of her war hero fiancée, Libby trades the sedate country life for nursing school in big city Chicago. Little does she realize that kilos of opium lay six-feet underground with the man she’s just buried. The cold-blooded cartel boss has proven he will go to extreme lengths to get his drugs back. Mark Houston, now working for Alex Stewart and his covert surveillance team, is determined to protect Libby. Three paths are on a collision course of murder, deceit, and betrayal.
Opium isn’t the only thing that’s buried . . .
Check out this awesome snippet from Mark:
Still trying to calm down, he checked her pulse again and smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, hips and thighs. It didn’t look like she had anything major wrong with her, no broken legs or arms, but there was plenty of what looked like road-rash across her extremities and dried blood in her hair. As bad as she looked, he was afraid of a gunshot, but he found nothing. A concussion was a possibility, but it’s not like he was a doctor. He had had some medical training in the Corps. A man didn't survive warfare without knowing how to tourniquet a bloody limb or plug a sucking chest wound, but this was different. This was a woman.
Damn. What do I do now?
Whisper nestled his big black snout over Alex’s shoulder like he was offering free advice with his whine.
“I know.” Alex scratched the dog’s nose. “You found her. Now what do we do with her? You got any bright ideas?”
Whisper slapped the porch once with his moose-sized paw.
“No. You can’t keep her. She’s not a toy,” Alex muttered.
Irish Winters is an award-winning author who dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teenage years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah home. For now.
The wife of one handsome husband and the mother of three perfect sons, Irish divides her time between writing at home and travelling the country with her man while - writing. (Seriously, what else?)
She believes in making every day count for something and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, "Look out the window and see something!"
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