*Book Tour & Giveaway* The Weight of Cold Things

 

While searching for her missing boss, a Wyoming Deputy Sheriff accidentally discovers a secret facility and conspiracy of silence surrounding a series of mysterious deaths in Deadhorse, Alaska. 

The Weight of Cold Things

by Lisa Towles

Genre: Psychological Thriller, Arctic Noir

Wyoming Deputy Sheriff Gree Gooding has one mission: find her missing boss. The trail leads four thousand miles north—to Deadhorse, Alaska, an oil-drilling outpost clinging to the edge of the Arctic Circle. A place where daylight is rationed, where the cold can kill in minutes, and where her husband AJ, a petroleum geologist, vanished six months ago.

The clues don't just point to her boss's disappearance. They reach back into Gree's own past— to the Wyoming ranch she left behind, to the family secrets buried in its soil, and to the grief frozen like permafrost inside her.

When the investigation cinches around a decades-long cover-up — a black ops program called Arc Dominion — Gree realizes someone's been waiting for her. Someone knew she'd follow the thread. This was never about a missing sheriff. It's about the conspiracy AJ died trying to expose — and whether she can finish what he started.

The cold doesn't forgive.
It doesn't forget.
And it's about to give up its dead.

For fans of Yellowstone and The X-Files — where neo-Western grit meets a decades-long government conspiracy buried beneath the Arctic ice.

 

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Prologue

Winter, 1974 - Prudhoe Bay, Northwest Alaska

 

They gutted an iceberg with two sticks of dynamite, forty years ago when the shabby construction camps rose on the iconic Dalton Highway. Oil was struck in Prudhoe Bay in 1968, setting off an irreversible string of events: an ecological nightmare, an eight-billion-dollar pipeline transporting crude oil 800 miles south from the North Slope to Valdez, and passage for seventy thousand oil workers to the most menacing outpost on earth: Deadhorse.

A stolen scrap of bread. Chronic insomnia. Drug abuse. One worker snapped, nicking dynamite from the munitions depot, flailing his arms, all the while forgetting how fast the detonating cord burns to the quick. The shock wave bulleted shards of ice in every direction, thrusting the assailant twelve feet in the air in a whirl of fire and black smoke. He became the first prize, the Number One. His victim, the second man, escaped.

It took two days for the particles to clear the air, finally revealing an exquisite, dome-like crevasse in the ice the depth of five residential garages — one after the other in a long, hollow train. Except this garage had no yard outside because nothing grew in this place but resentment. No gas grill on a redwood deck, no family huddled in the adjacent house. Only the unrelenting cold and ice: on the floor, walls, ceiling. He loved it that way, the Caretaker, the exclusivity of his access and the singularity of his dark secret.

That spring, the suited men came in droves sporting fine clothing and city shoes to explain the gravity of their problem, which later evolved into their pitch. Well, their problem had just solved itself, hadn’t it? No one knew about this place and nobody but him would ever find it. Some secrets were just not for sale.

 

 

Chapter 1

Present Day December 18 - Inglewood Ranch, Cody, WY

 

I could feel it in my bones, this unspeakable energy of change. Not a buzz, it was more like a low hum I could almost hear when I closed my eyes and got real still. I’d woken with it today, of all days, this visceral knowing that despite the regularity of my errand, it would have a disruptive impact on my life, such as it was. My work in Jackson, a five hour drive from our family ranch in Cody, was an odd arrangement to begin with, and the two-bedroom condo I rented near the Teton County Sheriff’s Office was uninhabitable without AJ. Even still, there was something else in the air today. Cholo, our ranch hand and my lifelong friend, sensed something too, though it wasn’t his way to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he put cinnamon in the coffee, his quiet way of offering comfort. I could smell it the whole way in from the barn.

I’d gone out before first light, watching the fluff of gray dawn cover my beloved Inglewood, hoping to shake the image of a recurring dream and to brush AJ’s quarter horse, Rain. At first, it was to console him, knowing horses had unique and profound ways of grieving. Lately, though, the cold vigil seemed more about me. Rogue, the word had been coming to me since AJ’s death — a blurry dream-hand opening to a tiny piece of paper on which a single word was written. Was it him reaching out from his watery grave? What did it mean?

Cholo passed me a cup when I reached the kitchen, shutting out the ten-degree wind chill behind me. I unzipped my coat and sipped quietly just inside the door, letting the hot coffee slide down my throat, waiting for whatever his face was preparing.

“Been three weeks now.”

I nodded, three weeks since Sheriff Peter Barrett disappeared — my boss, mentor, now another silent ache in my heart.

“I heard about the fire,” he added. “How many is that now?”

“Does it matter?” I asked him. “Seven.”

“You think they’re connected. Don’t you?”

I shrugged, pretending. But any sane person would. “I’m not an arson investigator. Bryce at the State Fire Marshal’s Office is looking into it.”

“Really?”

 I laughed. “Come on. Bryce has a good team working for him. I know two of those guys.”

“They haven’t been out here since Thanksgiving.” Cholo stared back, thick brows angled over large, black eyes.

“I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not the sheriff.” The words caught in my throat.

“You never know about people,” he said with that quiet wisdom I’d never seen in anyone else, like he understood the longings in my heart for answers that hadn’t yet come. Peter Barrett, Jackson’s most beloved sheriff, vanished three weeks ago today.

 Cholo was right about Bryce, too. Interagency politics aside, I’d need to call and follow up on the arson investigation they said they were running. Add it to the growing list.

He took a long sip, still watching me.

“Well, spit it out already,” I said.

“I can’t take you to the airport.”

“It’s alright, I’ll get an Uber.”

 Cholo’s jaw was set tight but his eyes were uncertain, like he was trying to think of an excuse but couldn’t do it.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Woody’s gonna take you.”

“Woody!” My voice cracked like a whip. I set the cup on the counter with a clunk and rezipped my coat. Ah…the cinnamon. Son of a bitch.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Does he now?” I grabbed the warm mug for reinforcement and sucked down the last three gulps. “Does he want to talk about how he stole two of our horses, stole money from me? He robbed us, Cholo, all of us. And by doing so, he broke something precious.” I didn’t like the sound of that word, precious. Made it seem like Woody was important to me, and despite the intrusive logic of that truth, there was no place for Woody here anymore.

“He says he’s sorry.”

“Not to me he didn’t. Besides, sorry’s just a word.” Already mad at seven in the morning, great. I zipped my coat and turned my back to him, facing the door. “A real apology is a change in behavior.” My eyes were wide as I waited for him to take my challenge. To come to Woody’s rescue, explain how the drugs made him do it or the excuse-of-the-day.

Still fuming, I left via Uber at 7:30 a.m. without another word to either Cholo or my dad. Woody could kiss my ass as far as I was concerned. I’d have to pay for my cold heart, of course. The world has a quiet way of keeping score.

 

***

 

By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the corner of Wave and McClellan Streets in Monterey, California. Eleven hundred miles away in historic Cannery Row, a sliver of sea was visible between the brownstones on Lighthouse Avenue. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms. Mid December in California, I’ll be damned. A premonition, I couldn’t put my finger on it, made me take notice, warning me to be careful. Something bad was coming.

Ash was right, I was loath to admit. There were holiday decorations and tacky music everywhere, but it just didn’t feel like Christmas in a hilltop penthouse overlooking the ocean, waves beneath me reflecting a cloudy sky. The beauty of California’s coast was unmistakable, but in my heart, Christmas was indelibly marked by snow.

“Is that you?” Cholo asked me later, answering his mobile on the third ring.

“I guess. Some version of me, anyway.”

“What are you doing out there, Gree? You hate California.”

He knew, of course; we’d discussed it back and forth for weeks. Why go now, why go at all? After being on and off the market for ten years, my mother’s condo had finally found a buyer. I came here to sign papers, to once again acknowledge the sting of her death and bring my feet one step closer to the present. But that wasn’t what he was asking. Like all Cholo’s questions, they were part real world and part spirit world. I knew what he meant. I just wasn’t sure I was willing to answer yet.

“How’s Dad?” I deflected.

“He’s concerned about how it will look to the community, you leaving town after Peter’s disappearance.”

“I don’t recall asking his opinion.” He was right, though. It was too sudden, but it would be a short trip. Besides, everything was broken right now anyway.

“No, but he’s always willing to share it, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I laughed.

“He’s splitting wood right now,” Cholo said.

“Great idea for a man who just had a heart attack.”

“Come on, it was a mild one. He didn’t even know he was having it. Besides, it’s gonna be zero tonight. We’ll be using that wood.”

I guess I shouldn’t complain. The fact that they were staying in the same house, after such a long standoff, was nothing short of miraculous and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe the rock of resentment got too heavy to haul around anymore. I was dying to know who thawed first, but I’d never ask. You didn’t do things that way out here. Not in Wyoming, not in this family.

 

“Could you make sure he’s got a jacket on? For God’s sake keep an eye on him. If left to his own devices he’d chop wood in a—”

“Gretchen.”

It was my dad’s voice now, Ash Gooding, former Sheriff of Park County, who to this day insists on calling me by my birth name instead of the nickname my mother gave me.

“How’s sunny California?”

It was meant as an insult. Everyone in town got lots of mileage from the fact that I wasn’t a native of Wyoming, even though I’d lived there since I was five.

“It’s midnight, Wyoming time. What are you doing up this late? Do you miss me that much?” I joked to an awkward silence. I rambled on for a while, telling him about the dark orange sunset I’d seen from the balcony after signing a four-inch stack of papers. Hadn’t they ever heard of digital copies? Apparently, this mortgage company insisted on paper-everything. Ash listened. I heard the clinking of ice in his glass. Would this be his third or fourth by now? I decided not to mention the wood chopping.

“You didn’t tell her?” he mumbled to Cholo. “Mmm.”

“Tell me what?”

A murmur of conversation in the background. Maybe his hand was covering the phone. And maybe this was what Cholo was hiding from me this morning.

“Dad, what is it? Tell me.”

“I can’t. Gotta show you. Guess we’ll have to wait till you get back.”

 

 

Sonofabitch. I knew my dad, and that meant no manipulation or psychology would wriggle out of him whatever he was keeping from me. After signing over ownership of what had been my mother’s dream home, I left the key with the bankers and took with me a cedar box of my mother’s mementos, which I would undoubtedly squirrel away somewhere and forget about for the next decade. All the better, right? Avoidance, since AJ’s death six months ago, had become a sort of new religion. Didn’t avoidance almost always turn to cancer somewhere down the road?

When I got back, I didn’t bother going home first before looking for Ash. He’d planted an evil seed of dread and apprehension, and he knew it too. Maybe punishing me for something; he’s a Gemini after all. I flew into Cody from San Francisco instead of Jackson, where I’d worked for the past twelve years as deputy sheriff under Peter Barrett, one of the kindest men I’d ever met. Why did I feel like Ash’s secret had something to do with him? The buzzing in my bones this morning...maybe that was the warning. Jesus, no. Not that. The vague comfort of the word missing was too hard to give up.

Three in the afternoon to Ash Gooding meant five o’clock somewhere. There's this ratty bar on the edge of town called Stagecoach, Ash’s favorite. Drafty as hell with dusty floors, swivel stools, and random darts scattered on the floor looking for their board, threatening tetanus. Weird part about it was that the owner isn't a wrinkled prune of a man but someone belonging on the cast of Below Deck, a body intended for board shorts, tanned legs and a white polo shirt hauling up ropes with three-ply triceps. He was trying to be unassuming in a plain brown t-shirt stretched out at the neck, pretending he didn't care about his looks. His artificially whitened smile betrayed the deception - laughing eyes with something sinister behind them, a joke no one knew about but him.

“How’s it going?” the guy asked.

I exhaled. “G&T, please. Been a long day.”

“Coming up.”

When Runway Model set down the glass, I suddenly didn’t feel like talking. The weight of air travel, of the milestone I’d crossed and today’s sad anniversary, burned behind my eyes. They watered as I took the first swallow. I turned on the stool to look around. Ha, I knew it.

“Ash,” I said, walking across the creaking floorboards. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Drinking here alone, that’s what.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“You can come to my house in Jackson and drink with me. Wouldn't that be nicer?”

He laughed. “Not necessarily. Besides, too long a drive.”

“Look, you can stay here and punish yourself for Mom's death all you like. I know what day it is.”

The slap of the men’s room door distracted us from the tension. It was a sad old story with no ending. I smelled Cholo’s Irish Spring soap behind me. I turned, my left arm involuntarily reaching for him, tugging the frayed edge of his Carhartt jacket.

“Well.” I stood back a ways. “You two got real chummy in the one day I left town.” They were looking sideways at each other in some silent communication. Ranchers at a bar in the middle of the afternoon; it didn’t make sense. “What’s the deal?”

Cholo nodded. “You’d better sit down.”

 

Lisa Towles believes stories hold the world together - and the best ones expose what we hide even from ourselves. She builds that belief into her main characters - Mari Ellwyn, Angus Mariner, Kurt Farin - each one drowning in dark secrets, running from unthinkable truths. The award-winning author of 14 mystery thrillers, her books pull readers into worlds of global espionage, fringe technology, and shadow governments. Her titles include Terror Bay (NYC Big Book Award), Codex (BookFest First Place), The Ridders (American Fiction Award), and her E&A Series thrillers Hot House and Salt Island both reached Amazon Kindle #1 Bestseller. Her next thriller, The Weight of Cold Things - described as Yellowstone meets The X-Files - publishes in August 2026. When she's not writing, she interviews authors on her Story Impact Podcast and coaches writers on how to be visible and memorable to readers. Follow her to get notified of new releases.

 

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*Book Tour & Giveaway* Holes in the Somewhere-GUEST POST

 

Sometimes grief sneaks up on you and hunts you down.

Sometimes it walks right up and punches you.

Holes in the Somewhere 

by Richard R. Brown

Genre: Speculative Fiction, Horror Stories

Holes In The Somewhere is a collection of short works, anchored by a personal memoir of the author's own experience with grief and loss after the passing of his father from cancer, by speculative fiction author Richard R. Brown.

A single mother encounters insanity in the worst possible person; an estranged parent loses his reunited family to a mysterious bathroom wall; a group of strangers come together to fight a fungal pandemic; college students prepare for the extinction of the Sun... these are a few of the challenges faced by the desperate characters in Holes In The Somewhere. The choices they make, the dilemmas they wrestle with, all have very supernatural consequences, but are felt with very human emotions.

These stories will tug at strings your heart thought were too well-hidden for anyone to know about, and cause the mind to probe the gray areas between wrong and right. Between normal and paranormal. Behind what's real and only to the side of what's unreal. A perfect mix of quick, unsettling reads, and longer, heart-wrenching escapes.

 

What readers are saying:

"The debut is speculative fiction in form: weird, unsettling, occasionally cosmic. But it reads less like a genre exercise than like grief that has been given permission to take unusual shapes." - Justine Castellon, Author/Reviewer

"I guarantee there is a 'gotcha' story in there for just about anybody, and if you don't find at least one that bothers you just as you're about to fall asleep, you're made of sterner stuff than I am." - Kenneth Crist, editor-in-chief, Black Petals Magazine

“These stories are weird and creepy and heart-wrenching in all the best ways. If you enjoy fiction that makes you question everything and wrecks you emotionally, this is for you!” – Valerie S., 5 star Amazon Review

 

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Excerpt from ‘The Final Butterfly’, a novella in ‘Holes In The Somewhere’ 

Prologue

“Janice, honey, stay next to Mommy!” Janice’s mother knows the tell-tale signs of humans and wildlife noticing each other unexpectedly – her daughter’s sudden silence, the oddity of a four-year-old standing stock-still (and what does that mean? Are stocks more stationary than other inanimate objects?), Janice’s freshly-picked blackberry stopped in its inevitable trajectory to her mouth by her unmoving hand – but Peggy can’t see the wildlife that has so entranced her daughter.

She bends low to whisper in Janice’s ear. “Honey, what is it? What do you see?”

Janice slowly extends her berry-stained, purple hand and points to a red fox. It, too, stands still, watching the humans with the utmost concentration, ready to run.

Peggy is amazed. The fox is prepared to run away from them! It isn’t growling or barking.

“What is it, Mommy?” Janice’s voice is small and filled with wonder. 

“It’s a – “Then the fox breaks its intense stare. It no longer cares if the humans see it at all. It snaps at a butterfly that frantically flutters around the fox’s head. In moments, dozens of butterflies harass the fox.

Peggy gasps in horror, then picks her daughter up with an arm around the young girl’s waist, and runs. Ten meters away, Peggy enters the code and opens the door to the bomb shelter. As she turns to close and seal the door, she pauses long enough to look for the fox. It is completely hidden, but Peggy instantly finds the writhing mass of thousands of brightly colored butterflies that cover the healthy but unfortunate fox. She slams the door shut.

“What happened, Mommy?” Janice has tears brimming in her eyes.

The time has come.

“Honey, that was a fox. It’s a wild animal.” Peggy tells her child.

“What’s a mammimal?” Janice asks.

Oh boy. This is going to take a while.

“Umm… it’s something that’s alive, like us. People are animals. Animals live all over the world,” Peggy begins.

“How come we never see any?” Janice asks.

There it is. Peggy wishes Bert was there to help her with this.

“Five years ago, there was a car crash. A lot of people said that’s what started it, but your Aunt Candace- “ 

“She lets me call her Auntie Candy,” Janice says, pride beaming from her face in the revelation of this honor.

“Does she?” Peggy is impressed. “Well, she told me that it actually started when Aunt- Auntie Candy…bumped into a man who couldn’t see.” Peggy stops. The import of what she had seen outside dawns on her. “Before I tell you this, you have to promise me something very, very important. You’ll never go outside without me, okay? And you’ll tell me right away if you ever see anything, I mean anything, move. Okay?”

Janice nods, wide-eyed.

“Say it,” her mother persists.

“I promise.”

“Even if it’s pretty, like those butterflies,” Peggy insists.

Janice nods again. That is an easy promise to make. Janice loves showing her mommy pretty things.

Peggy nods in return. “Okay, here goes…”

 

Richard R. Brown is a legally-blind author of speculative fiction, horror, and thrillers. He writes from experience, having lived through paranormal events, alien attacks, and cosmic horrors -- at least, in his mind and in the books he listens to. He and his Guide Dog live in the Pacific Northwest. Richard is between Guide Dogs at the moment as Edison retired last summer. Edison was at Richard's side through every story in his book. Richard has no such guidance for his current novel, but will likely have one for editing help.

 

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 GUEST POST

What are you passionate about these days? 

I am a writer. Therefore, I feel societal pressure to feel passionate about literacy levels, the rise of generative AI, and the Oxford comma. Professionally speaking, I do feel passionate about these things (write books kids like to read, limit their screen time, abolish generative AI, and use the Oxford comma so that you don’t cause confusion and look like a fool at the same time). But my biggest “cause” that I try to advocate for in my profession is audiobooks. Books written in Braille are gigantic! Your favorite guilty-pleasure novel would take up an entire bookcase if printed in Braille…and, to be honest, Braille literacy is virtually at rock-bottom. It’s really only used for signs and maybe menus, anymore. Elevator buttons. Can’t forget those. Anyway, visually-impaired and blind people need audiobooks! When I was growing up, so many decades ago, I remember that reading books to blind people was an actual career path. Well, it still is, only it’s called audiobook narration. When I lost my sight so much that I couldn’t find work and couldn’t finish school, audiobooks kept me alive. Seriously. They didn’t lift me completely out of my depression, but they kept me from sinking just that little bit lower. So, please, ask your favorite authors to make audio editions of their books. 

I am passionate about leaving something for my kids. We’ve had some serious ups and downs in our relationships…and I haven’t done anything else in my life at all noteworthy…so I’m trying to build a publishing legacy and a catalog of books that will live on after I am gone, that my kids and future generations can benefit from. Every penny I earn from book sales is being saved for them. Now, if movie deals come along… THAT money goes to me. 

What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?

I haven’t been on any ‘literary pilgrimages’, per se, but I’ll gladly endorse SK Tours, in Bangor, Maine. My friend and I, and Edison (my ex-Guide Dog…remember him?) were warmly welcomed, treated like VIPs with a tour all to ourselves, and spent hours learning about trivia, details, and inspirations for and about all of Stephen King’s Derry-based novels. We visited the Standpipe from IT, the sewer grate where we were all introduced to Pennywise the clown for the first time (I have a picture of Pennywise reaching up to pet Edison!), the inspiration for Needful Things, Up-Mile Hill, and the Barrens. We saw the King home (only the outside – the owners weren’t home). We saw some of their early homes, and the inspiration for Beverly Marsh’s home in IT. We saw Mt. Hope Cemetery, where King may have taken some famous names from, and where he definitely filmed a scene in Pet Sematary. That was a really cool day. Check them out if you’re a King fan. 

What can we expect from you in the future? 

I am currently working on my first novel (I hope). The working title is The Stalking Stone. It’s about a shiftless, directionless, but hard-working young man who chances upon an opportunity to meet and work for an up and coming celebrity…and he gets mesmerized. We get to watch his descent into obsession and fanatical jealousy, which leads to violence, theft, and some sci-fi/fantasy elements. Who doesn’t love a good mix of sci-fi and psychological thrills? 

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*PreOrder Blitz & Giveaway* The Healing Heart

 

 The Healing Heart is a second-chance, forced-proximity romance where he falls first and hardest, complete with a hilarious girl squad who keep it real, plenty of witty banter, and a protective, "touch-her-and-die" Alpha hero fighting to break his family's curse—one swoon-worthy, heated night at a time.

 

The Healing Heart

Boys of Bragg Book 5

by Randa Knight

Genre: Military Romance

One tragedy changed everything.

Lizzy
One reckless night. One unforgettable taste of him.
The moment I broke my rules and gave in, I knew I was playing with fire. His smoldering cerulean eyes and the way he whispered my name? Irresistible. He didn’t want forever—but I needed more.
Now, he’s back, acting like the boyfriend dreams are made of. Sweet. Attentive. Protective. Maybe even ready to love me the way I crave.
But how do I trust a man who’s made walking away into an art form?
Is a second chance worth the burn?

Josh
I left her. Not because I didn’t want her—but because I wanted her too much.
Marriage. Kids. The white picket fantasy. I told myself I couldn’t be that man… because I’m my father’s son. And he broke my mother in ways I can never forget.
So I let Lizzy go.
But fate had other plans. Now I’m here, ready to fight for her, to protect what’s mine—with teeth, fists, and fury if I have to.
She says she doesn’t trust me.
But I’ll prove it—one kiss, one promise, one heated night at a time.

 

**Releases Sep 14 – PreOrder Now!**

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“Hey, did you have a good run?” Lizzy asks, looking me up and down like I’m a dessert she can’t wait to eat. I love that she can’t hide how much she still wants me. 

Maybe this will be easier than I thought. “It was… therapeutic.” She nods, knowing running is how I clear my head. “I’m going to shower.” Smooth, dumbass. You have better game than this. 

But Lizzy has always made me into a babbling idiot stumbling over my words. My therapist told me it’s because I actually give a shit about Lizzy and care what she thinks. Halfway down the hallway, I stop, remembering I decided to change things with Lizzy, beginning with a date. “Do you have plans tonight?”

She glares at me and snarks, “What, do you have a hot date and want the apartment to yourself?”

I shouldn’t mess with her like this, but she’s asking for it by thinking I would look at, let alone be with, anyone but her. “Weeellll, I’m not sure yet. It depends on her.”

“Such a fucking gentleman. I can stay with Dee. Actually, I probably should’ve moved out by now. I’ll do that while you’re on your hot date.” Anger oozes from her even though she’s trying to hide it, but I know her too well. After slapping her laptop closed, she heads to the guestroom, but I stop her when she’s within arm’s reach. 

Fuck. I’m messing this up already. 

“I didn’t ask if you had plans, so you’d leave. The last thing I want is for you to leave tonight… or any night. I was hoping you would be my hot date.” I brush my palm against her cheek and see her take a deep breath. I haven’t lost her yet. I whisper, “I’m going to shower and get ready for this smokin’ hot blonde who makes my heart race.”

“Makes your heart race? Too bad it’s not enough for you to make a long-term commitment to her.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I breathe in her light scent and say in a gravelly voice, “If I did, she’s the only one I would ever think about making any type of commitment to.”

“If. I can’t live in a world of ifs. I need—” 

I interrupt her with my lips. At first, her lips are stiff, but in mere seconds, she melts into me. Thank God. 

My body relaxes into the kiss. Her lips soften and mold to mine, followed by her arms gripping the bottom of my shirt, showing me she’s trying not to get lost in this kiss—lost in us. She changes the kiss from soft and languid to desperate and demanding as she slips her hand under my shirt, skimming her fingertips along my abs. 

I break the kiss only so I can feast on her beautiful neck. I need to taste her—remind myself of everything about her. Those subtle sighs. Quiet moans. How she melts in my arms. 

I should stop us. Change our old patterns of falling into sex. But damn, I can’t think straight when she touches me. I always cave to her.

After Lizzy pushes my shirt up, I whip it off and she immediately runs her hands up my chest, causing my dick to become a steel rod. My lips continue to attack her neck and suck on that little spot right below her earlobe. Working my way down to her cleavage, pulling her tank top down, she gives me access to her beautiful tits that I need to cherish and ravish. I wrap my mouth around her nipple to suck, kiss, and flick her desire from her. 

“I hate you,” she moans, directing my head back to her mouth.

“I can tell you hate me so damn much.”

“I hate how sexy you look after a five-mile run.”

“Try thirteen miles today since I couldn’t get this gorgeous woman off my mind.” I groan and swirl my tongue around her nipple, causing her to give me a long moan. 

Her fingers dig into my hair, further turning me on. I love it when she marks me with her nails, even when I used to get counseled and lectured for allowing my girl to damage government property. Instead of telling her to stop or at least mark me where my uniform covers, I rewarded her with more orgasms. I pray she does the same tonight. 

Switching to the other side with the same fervor, I wrap her legs around my waist and grind myself to her warmth. I can feel how turned on she is through her tiny athletic shorts. 

“I hate how sweet you are to Cristian.”

“Let’s not talk about our godson right now.” That kid has a knack for killing a boner. He’s been a cockblock a few times when we were babysitting him. My dick is trained for Cristian being a no-fly zone until he goes to sleep. 

“We shouldn’t—” 

I interrupt her with my lips, knowing she’s trying to talk herself out of being with me in any capacity. If we stop, she won’t go to dinner with me either. She’ll shut me out. I can’t do that again. I need this woman with every fiber of my being. 

As I’m about to roll my hip into hers, she pushes my shorts down, releasing my hard cock. Her lust-filled eyes tell me what she wants from me, and no way am I going to deny her anything. I have her shorts off in a matter of seconds. I almost shoot my load when she wraps her hands around my dick, strokes me a few times, and rubs me along her wetness. Fucking teasing me. I smirk, pulling her right nipple into my mouth and doing a combination of flicking and sucking, which I know drives her wild. 

“I hate that you know me so well.”

I thicken my accent, knowing how much it turns her on. “Back at ya, darlin’.” 

She continues rubbing my dick up and down her slit, but when she moves me down, I slip into her completely, causing her nails to dig into my shoulders and down my arms. I didn’t realize her hands moved until I felt them. Yeah, that’s going to leave a mark. 

“I hate—right there, sexy… God, yes—how you fuck me.”

“Obviously,” I say, kissing her neck. I can feel her tightening around me, and I pray I can hold out until she finishes. Jesus, she’s fucking heaven. 

“I hate—”

“I hate how much you’re talking.”

“Then shut me up.” She flashes me a challenging look. 

 

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Randa Knight was born and raised in a small town on the Ohio/Indiana border. Her love of reading began when her grandmother curled up together with a new book every weekend. She studied Literature with a Creative Writing minor at Indiana University (Go Hoosiers!) where she fell in love with writing. The idea for the Boys of Bragg series began during a creative writing course and has evolved over the years.

 

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*Book Tour & Giveaway* Secrets of the Cryptids

 

She never belonged to the pack—until fate led her to him.

Secrets of the Cryptids

Cowboys and Cryptids Book 1

by Sharon Buchbinder

Genre: Paranormal Romance, Romantasy

She never belonged to the pack—until fate led her to him.

Cybersecurity expert Hayil Rufus Rose has spent her life hiding one impossible truth: she’s a werewolf who has never shifted, a failure by her pack’s rules and a woman on the brink of exile. A solo hike in Glacier National Park is meant to clear her head—but instead, a chance meeting with Will Penn, a guarded federal agent with powerful instincts and secrets of his own, changes everything.

As Hayil becomes entangled in a missing persons case involving Will’s brother, she uncovers corruption, cartel money laundering, and violence threatening the Blackfeet Nation. She forms an unexpected bond with a Bigfoot family, who are not monsters, but an ancient people who recognize her latent power. Through trauma, loyalty, and near‑fatal danger, Hayil finally undergoes her full transformation, claiming her identity at last.

Secrets of the Cryptids launches a thrilling paranormal romance series about found family, fierce hearts, and the courage it takes to become who you were always meant to be.

 

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Hayil had the advantage of excellent night vision—super vision compared to other humans. Plus, she possessed an almost uncanny ability to connect with most wild and domestic animals. Hayil mentally grimaced. She could also thank her grandmother for her long overdue ability to shift. What would it take to trigger her body into the lupine version of herself? Was it like a growth spurt that hadn’t hit her body yet? Or was Hayil destined to remain the one person in her pack who wasn’t able to wolf out?

 

Once again, her mother’s constant refrain came back to her: “You’re a late bloomer, like your grandmother. She was older than you when she shifted. All in good time. You’ll see.”

 

Sure, Mom.

 

Hayil knew her mother wanted the best for her, but found her cheerfulness a bit forced. Beneath her mother’s optimism, Hayil sensed an undercurrent of concern about her thirty-year-old daughter’s ability to integrate into the red wolf clan. This missing piece of Hayil’s identity called to her like a siren’s song, demanding she complete herself. Would she ever be a true part of the pack? Or would she forever be the unmated one? What then? She was an anomaly, something the pack didn’t tolerate well. Tradition dictated that if a pack member didn’t shift by the end of their third decade, they were banished.

A chilling thought struck Hayil mid-stride.

 

If I don’t shift this year, will they force me out of the pack?

 

They were the only family she’d ever known. Her mother would fight for her to stay and would probably win. But at what cost?

 

Hayil would be an outcast. She’d never be invited to pack meetings, deliberations or celebrations. Those were reserved for shifters. If she married a non-shifter, the pack would drive her out, of that she was sure. What if her offspring were able to shift? Would that make things better? Would the pack let her stay then? It wasn’t as if she could go to a genetic counselor and ask for a DNA test for werewolves.

 

The thought of losing her extended family through no fault of her own made her gulp back tears. Angry at herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that dark rabbit hole, Hayil reminded herself she was a scientist. Review the facts, not the fears.

 

Fact one: Grandma had been in labor with Hayil’s mother when she’d shifted for the first time.

 

Fact two: The majority of the pack members had shifted when they’d hit puberty.

 

Fact three: Hormones! It had to be related to hormones! The rush of hormones at puberty and the flood of pregnancy hormones had to be related somehow.

 

Hayil was long past puberty and the associated mood swings and acne, thank you very much. She was not ready to be pregnant. For starters, she would need a romantic partner in her life. She’d had zero luck on that score so far.

 

“I still have time. It’s not too late. I won’t give up hope.”

 

Shaking her head to clear her mind, Hayil double-checked her wild animal deterrents. All in place. Then she tugged her knit cap down over her ears and pulled her hands-free headlamp into place. She zipped her fleece jacket against the breeze and adjusted her twenty-five-pound backpack. With an altitude gain of almost nineteen hundred feet, she planned to take her time, pacing herself for the strenuous four-hour hike. She grasped her lightweight hiking poles and took a last look up at the stars. Time to see that spectacular view at the top.

 

As promised by the trail blog, the dirt path was well maintained. The morning air was cold and crisp, layered with the woodsy scent of damp earth and pine needles. An owl hooted, and Hayil spotted movement in the brush between the thick pines beside the trail. Her headlamp reflected in the eyes of small critters, all of whom skittered deeper into the woods.

 

For three hours, all she heard was the crunch of her hiking boots on dirt and gravel, the rasp of her own breaths, the glug of water when she drank and the jingle of her bear bells. She looked at yet another incline on the trail and decided she needed a hiking song for inspiration.

 

“Country roads, take me home,” she sang, belting out “Mountain Mama”—and something crashed through the bushes ahead on the trail. Something large.

 

She froze.

 

An enormous black bear stood on its hind legs at the top of the hill.

 

Shit, shit, shit. If only I could shift, shift, shift!

 

The animal had its back to her, but if it got her scent, it could turn and charge at her in a flash.

 

Heart pounding like a jackhammer, she placed her hand on the bear spray.

 

A breeze sprang up, making her eyes water with its intensity. The good news was that it meant she was downwind of the bear. The bad news was that the air smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a dead animal. The worst news was that the bear turned and looked right at her.

 

Omigod. It’s not a bear. What the heck is it?

Sharon Buchbinder is an award-winning author who has been writing stories since she could hold a pen. The paranormal romance genre is her writing home, a place where the impossible is simply the beginning, where women find their power in the most extraordinary circumstances, and where love is always worth the danger of seeking it.

A Maryland-based author with a background in healthcare and higher education that has informed her vivid, grounded storytelling, Sharon is drawn to heroines who have been underestimated — women who carry something extraordinary inside them and spend the whole book learning to trust it. Sharon believes passionately that readers deserve stories where the heroine doesn’t just survive — she transforms. When she’s not writing, Sharon can usually be found unplugging in her garden, obsessing over cryptid mythology, and convincing her pets they are not, in fact, supernatural.

 

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