>Good morning!  It’s soggy and rainy here in Alabama, but the dreary mess can’t hide my smiles.  My first book is released in e format today.  If you like shifters, you’ll love Howl Raven, my arrogant werewolf.  One commentor today will win a teaser page from my shifter novella Cullen’s Luck, which is almost ready to submit. You’ll be the first to read it, other than me of course, lol.

Here’s an excerpt from Gypsy Moon.

He pressed his snout to the wet earth and breathed deep. Mmm, she was close. The musky scent of his mate lingered here, but there was more, a hunter. His hackles rose. Humans mean death. His ears pricked up as a crack broke the country silence. Hot metal burrowed deep into his flesh. Pain ripped through him as he ran. His anguished howl turned to human scream as werewolf shifted into man.

Clutching his bleeding arm to his chest, he ground his teeth against the white hot pain. It wasn’t often he recalled events while he was werewolf, but he remembered the few moments before he’d changed and being shot. How had he become wolf outside of the full moon? He figured the injury was enough to shift him back into human form, but it wasn’t as if he had a guide to go by, he thought bitterly. Sure, let’s just drag out the old magic werewolf book and see if it says anything about silver bullets, or shifting to heal. Yeah, right.


He grimaced and sank down to the base of a pine tree. A little moan slipped free while he leaned his head back, panting with a combination of lethargy and searing pain. Not bloody likely, but right at this moment, he would be willing to pay a fortune he didn’t have for a manual.


Hell, things had been quiet lately. A little too quiet, if he was honest, but after the close call in Seattle, he’d thought he had found the one little backwater town in the world where he’d be safe. He rapped his head against the tree once. Instantly he regretted the stupidity of his temper. He should have known better. Shady Creek, Alabama had its nosy gossips, same as any small town. One of them had talked to Van Michaels.

* * *

Ana Brannon sipped a late night cup of coffee while she watched over her snoozing furball. She’d found the pitifully wet, black cat scratching furiously on her back door, and had taken her in, of course. What else? Rousted from her birthing place by the storms, the stray now nursed four kittens by her fireplace. Each one, all girls, was as black as coal. She had a particular fondness for black cats. “You’re a lucky cat, Circe. Lucky you found me, that is.” Circe blinked her feline eyes to concede the point, licked her paw and meowed toward the fire.

“Cold, Circe?” She chuckled and pointed casually toward the fireplace. Flames lurched up from the embers and soon the fire was crackling warm. “Got a few tricks up my sleeve, don’t I? Ah, but there’s more.” Another finger wave materialized a saucer of warm milk and a dish of canned tuna.

Ana stretched her arms high over her head in exhaustion, feeling the aching muscles of her back ripple from waist to neck in a painful sort of bliss. The cat hadn’t had an easy birthing. The feline curled in her once sewing basket by the fire with her brood, already a happy new member of the family. She glanced at the microwave clock, two in the morning. Yawning, Ana poured the last of her coffee down the drain. She flicked a glance at the coffee maker, willed her magic, and the switch flipped itself to off.

 Rinsing out her cup, Ana set it in the dish drainer and blinked again. The kitchen light went dim as well. One booted foot rested on the stairs when Taffy, her golden retriever, bolted past her and hunched in front of the locked doggy door, and howled madly. Circe yowled from her basket.


“Taffy! What’s gotten into you?” She shook her head. Taffy was usually a mild mannered dog, not that she had always been. Age had settled her down and tamed her urge to jump on everybody that crossed her path. She figured Taffy would keep howling unless she went out and investigated the cause of her trouble. Resigned, Ana wearily retraced her steps and reached for the shotgun she kept behind the kitchen door.

Be blessed,
Beth