Red Farlow travels to Camp Ridgemont for Boys for a reunion with his summer
camp friends. On arrival, he discovers two camp counselors have been found
in the woods, hacked to death. Red’s investigation soon widens with
more mysterious deaths, one of them a close friend.
Far-right extremist Troy Unsworthy knows the hills and hollows after a
lifetime of growing up in these mountains. Red soon learns all the victims
are connected to Unsworthy in the years leading up to a deadly auto accident
which put him in prison.
When he learns Unsworthy was released just before the counselors’
deaths, Red goes into the mountains. His trek requires sure-footedness over
rocky terrain and old-growth forest as he explores caves with endless
tunnels, shafts, and deep-water pools searching for his suspect.
But, did Unsworthy really murder these people, or should Red turn his
attention to other suspects?
Red treads a treacherous path on his quest to find the killer and bring him
to justice.
W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication
executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and
city council meetings for his hometown paper, The Quitman Free Press. He
also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The
Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta
Journal-Constitution.
Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s
Sorrow, available on Amazon.
He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.
FBI Agent Joseph Trammell retires to a beachfront home on a Georgia island.
Six months later, PI Red Farlow finds him dying in a pool of blood. Someone shot him four times. Five shell casings litter the floor. Drops of blood lead out of the house and onto East Beach on St. Simons Island. Red sets out to find out who killed Joe Trammell and why.
Did the local drug and arms smuggler hire a hit? And who caught the fifth bullet?
Farlow wades into the murky water of intrigue, conflicting love affairs, and danger as he tracks down the killer. It’s not exactly a relaxing day at the beach.
The August day dawned sunny, hot, and humid on the morning Rehna Wilkerson met the man from East Beach.
A vacation rental sign at the East Beach cottage had fallen overnight in a late summer rainstorm. As she drove by, Rehna saw the sign flat on the ground and pulled over to the grassy curb. She let her late-model luxury car idle while she got out, leaving the door open, and walked over the wet grass in her heels to re-stake the metal frame. She took care to place it at the proper angle for maximum visibility from the street.
Rehna Wilkerson prided herself on the details. The small things. The things that didn’t matter to anyone else. Satisfied the sign stood just right, she took a moment to admire the words. Rehna’s Cottage Rentals, My Island is Your Vacation Paradise, and her phone number. She turned to go back to the car.
At that moment, she heard tires squeal and looked up. A man in an old Army vehicle barreled around the corner and sped up the residential street toward her. She saw him looking at something, perhaps his cell phone. He was driving too fast and not paying attention.
Rehna thought of her open door. Too late. Bam! She raised her hands over her face. The man’s vehicle struck and smashed the driver side door into the car’s newly
washed, shiny English Forest Green body. Rehna removed her hands and saw the damage. She screamed. The driver brought his vehicle to a stop just shy of a royal palm tree. He sat there
and looked around for something. The man must have realized he’d smashed the hell out of someone’s high-end
car. He jumped out of the four-by-four and walked in Rehna’s direction. Rehna didn’t recognize him but figured he was a tradesman or landscaper. She
knew everyone who was anyone in East Beach, but she’d never before seen this person.
She felt herself boiling up and caught her temper. Never know when you’ll get a new renter or referral. She walked slowly to examine the damage to her prized car. Not good.
The man held his hands up and said how sorry he was.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “I’ll make this right for you, ma’am, and rent you a car until the damages are fully repaired.”
It was then that Rehna got a good look at the man. Tall, gray-haired, handsome as the devil himself, and contrite. Those were all things she related to about men. Males who attracted her bore those traits, appearance, and allure. She encountered few of this type in her husband’s ministry.
Secretly and deep down on that hot August morning, she thought the cur had ruined her car. She prayed to God to give her peace as this thing got sorted out.
“Well, yes, it is a mess, isn’t it?” she said. Remember, don’t blame him. That was her first angel’s logic. The devil inside her—and sweet Rehna had a devil in her— commanded her other thoughts. To hell with this bastard for ruining my car. Another
angel, the second and slightly wicked one—burst into her head—God, Rehna, entice him to disrobe you and toss you on his bed.
The first angel’s retort. Careful what you wish for, dear.
Rehna heard all kinds of voices, but these three meant something to her. She listened to them. At that moment, they all came at once, and she didn’t know which one to follow.
The man walked up close to her. “Again, I am sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll call the police, and then we’ll talk about getting you a loaner.”
Rehna, for a long moment, just looked at him.
Finally, she walked to the car and opened the trunk. She took out a purse and a large shoulder bag. She closed the lid and looked around as the man stood there waiting for her response.
The sky had dawned a clear blue as the front the night before moved out to sea. A gentle summer breeze whipped her face. God was good. She would be OK.
She told the man everything would work out.
“Yes, I’ll make certain of that,” he said. “By the way, my name is Joe Trammell. Most people call me Tram. I just moved here last week.”
About the Author:
W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and city council meetings at his hometown newspaper, The Quitman Free Press. He also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s Sorrow. He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.
FBI Agent Joseph Trammell retires to a beachfront home on a Georgia island.
Six months later, PI Red Farlow finds him dying in a pool of blood. Someone shot him four times. Five shell casings litter the floor. Drops of blood lead out of the house and onto East Beach on St. Simons Island. Red sets out to find out who killed Joe Trammell and why.
Did the local drug and arms smuggler hire a hit? And who caught the fifth bullet?
Farlow wades into the murky water of intrigue, conflicting love affairs, and danger as he tracks down the killer. It’s not exactly a relaxing day at the beach.
W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and city council meetings at his hometown newspaper, The Quitman Free Press. He also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s Sorrow. He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.
Genres: Adult, Time Travel, Contemporary, Historical, Scottish, Standalone, Romance
SYNOPSIS:
A love three hundred years in the making — After being knocked out in battle, Angus Cameron wakes in a terrifying new world with flying beasts, horseless carriages, crazy music, and strangely dressed people. Has he gone mad? When Angel Adair discovers a man in 1975’s San Francisco Lands End park dressed in little more than a Scottish kilt, is he just a confused drifter or her dream-lover come to life?
Everyone remembers their first kiss. That moment fraught with nervous trepidation. According to several research articles, both men and women experience a certain amount of anxiousness when they kiss.
And then there’s that first kiss with the person who will become our great love—that kiss is never forgotten. Your feet, your palms, your fingertips all possess high sensory receptors, but the lips are one of the most sensitive sensory nerve areas in your body. When you kiss your brain floods with a range of hormones, the pulse increases, you may feel dizzy, or overheated. Experts credit kissing with a wide range of health benefits such as reducing stress, improving relationship satisfaction, increasing sexual stimulation, and are you ready for this, reducing cholesterol! We all need to engage in a lot more kissing!
Here’s the first kiss between my lovers, Brian and Angel.
My San Francisco Highlander – First Kiss
Exhausted, she slumped against a tree and slid to the ground. “Where are you, Brian? Please answer me.” No one could possibly hear that whispered plea.
She rolled over on her belly and scanned underneath the thick brush. There! A weird clump of greenish-blue and brown cloth peeked out between a wide tree trunk and a cluster of wild rhododendron bushes. She crawled under the prickly branches and found Brian rolled into a fetal position, unconscious, with streaks of blood staining the dirt. She touched his shoulder gently, afraid he’d wake thrashing and ready to fight. He didn’t move.
“Brian,” she shook his shoulder. “Angus Brian Cameron, wake up.” When he didn’t move, she lay down behind him, wrapped her arms around his muscled body, and carefully moved his hand from his ear.
“Brian, you have to wake up now.” He moaned and tucked tighter into a fetal position.
She leaned up on one elbow and wiped sweat and dirt from his brow. She bent to his ear, “Brian, it’s Angel.”
She didn’t know what possessed her to kiss him, but she began to feather light kisses over his temple, down along his jaw and back up. When she reached his ear, she sucked his earlobe between her teeth and bit down. Lightly at first, and then she nipped his neck at the juncture of his shoulder, this time with more force.
He rolled over until she found herself partially pinned beneath his hard body, staring up into eyes as green as the overhead canopy. His burnt chestnut hair fell over his forehead in disarrayed clumps. Her breath stopped, but she didn’t flinch or turn away. She held his gaze, his beautiful, startled gaze. The hard body pressed against her chest and hips did strange things to her insides. He dipped his head and pressed a light brush of lips over her mouth, then glazed her lips with his tongue until she opened her mouth and welcomed his intrusion.
When he lifted his head, she attempted a bit of levity, always her awkward first response to passion. “You’re not supposed to make a girl run all over creation trying to catch you.”
She looked down at his leg pressed between her thighs where his erection hardened against her hip. “And I think you’re bleeding all over my jeans.”
My San Francisco Highlander is Aleigha’s second full-length romance novel in her Finding My Highland Series. Now, an Amazon best-selling author of Time-Travel romance, she is working on the third book in her Finding My Highlander Series as well as a collection of romance poems. She’s also working on early character sheets for a Regency Romance series.
After more than twenty-five years writing and delivering management and other training programs, Aleigha Siron turned her writing efforts to fiction and poetry. When not writing, you’ll often find Aleigha walking along the shore with her trusty four-legged companion, Strider. The whoosh of waves across glistening sand and the turbulent swell of the sea at sunset dissolves the noise of the day. If this fails to conjure the muses and stimulate her creative juices, she’ll sip a glass of wine and read.
Aleigha loves all forms of writing, but historical and romance fiction provide a favorite escape, especially those with time-travel themes. A firm believer that everyone secretly yearns for the romance novels’ essential HEA, she knew this was her genre.
