Lady Hawkeye: 8/29/21

Friday, September 3, 2021

BOOK TOUR & GIVEAWAY ~ Rumpled Rhett by Rachel Rossano

Rumpled Rhett

Once Upon a Duchy Book 3

by Rachel Rossano

Genre: Romantic Medieval Fairytale Retelling

Rhett is a Huntsman, skilled, secretive, and mysterious. A wanted man, he spends his life on the move. His sole retreat is the outskirts of an isolated village in the northern reaches of the duchies. Then one fall, he arrives to find his hovel burned to the ground and the village reeve offering a new arrangement.

Catherine knows her father, the village miller, only cares about what she can bring him. The latest scheme of marrying her to the Huntsman is not the miller’s first attempt to sell her. Cat’s dread wanes when she meets the Huntsman. There is something honorable about him, and he treats her with respect, unlike her father or brother. Perhaps she can escape her father’s influence forever.

Despite his suspicions, Rhett agrees to the deal and frees Cat from her father’s tyranny, at least for a time. But can he protect her when enemies from his past catch up to him?

Inspired by Rumpelstiltskin.

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Rhett

“Ah, the nomad returns!” Duggan raised a half-filled beer mug to take a swig. A rotund man, the reeve’s belly sagged over his belt as he got to his feet.

The few other patrons warily quaffed the last of their drinks and made their way to the door. All of them avoided even glancing my way. I didn’t care. I had business with the man before me, not them.

“My house burned down.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrowed my gaze on Duggan’s flushed features.

“It went up in flames one night.” Duggan huffed out a dramatic sigh before draining the last of his beer. “We tried to stop the blaze, but—” He shrugged one of his plump shoulders beneath his fur-lined robe.

“We had an agreement. I protect the village, and in exchange, I get land and its tending while I am away.” I let the facts and my glowering silence sink through his thick skull.

He owed me. The village owed me. My reputation as the Huntsman kept most thieves and bandits from targeting the community. Only the foolish and foolhardy occasionally attempted to harass me, but I swiftly enlightened them.

In return, I had requested only two things. I wished to live at peace for a few months every winter, and I needed someone to guard my shelter when I was gone the rest of the year.

“We tried to save it,” he protested mildly.

“And didn’t bother to rebuild it,” I pointed out. Frost-tipped grass had peeked through the ash heaps. Months had passed since the fire by the looks of things.

“We considered it.” His voice was even and calm, but he continued to avoid looking at me. “But we needed the wood to expand the mill and—”

“The tavern.”

“We had none left to rebuild your house as well. So, we decided to work out a better situation.”

I let my silence speak for me. I had been content with my situation. It suited me well.

True, I hadn’t been particularly fond of the hovel I had been allotted, but it had been enough. I valued its attributes: warmth, isolation on the edge of the village, and comfort enough for my winterly retreat from my reputation.

“Come, let me show you.” He motioned toward the square outside.

“No.” He had planned this for all I knew, and the village’s enforcers awaited me beyond the expensive new tavern windows. “First, you explain.”

Duggan pursed his mouth like a spoiled child who had just been reprimanded by his mother.

“Explain.”

“We all discussed it…asked ourselves what a man needs…decided there were a few ways to improve things…”

I cleared my throat.

“So, we took it upon ourselves to—”

“The point?” My voice lowered and warned of my waning patience.

“We have chosen to give you land, a house, and a wife.” Duggan turned and banged his mug on the bar top. “Another!” he bellowed.

“A wife?” I stared at him in complete confusion. “How did you come to the conclusion that I needed a wife?”

“A house without a wife is empty.”

Exactly how I like it, I thought. But Duggan continued.

“She can cook for you, clean for you, and fill the house with comforts that make it a home. There is nothing like coming home to a warm meal on the table, hot mulled wine in one’s cup, and the pleasures of a woman’s company to keep one content.”

The image in my head was much less appealing—chatter, demands for expensive accouterments, expectations of me being home on time, and…children. My mind caught on the last thought. I did need children to carry on my family name and the traditions of the huntsman. Distant memories of my mother’s stories impressing upon me the importance of my father’s lineage and the bloodline I carried pressed in on me. Shaking free from their hold, I grimaced. That didn’t mean I had to do it now or even ever.

“Don’t discount it until you have tried it, Huntsman. A woman’s touch is what you need.”

“No. I need a secure place to rest.”

Duggan shouted his approval. “A house, a wife, some land, it is about time you settled down.”

“I have no intention of…”

Duggan was already out the tavern door and yelling to someone across the village square. “Master Billier! The Huntsman has returned. Bring your daughter to the meeting house.”

My lip curled of its own accord. Billier was the town miller, and fat, thanks to his position running the only mill for miles around. That didn’t stop the man from being despicable. I avoided him when I could and wrestled my temper and conscience every time I couldn’t. I wanted nothing to do with any scheme in which he was involved. Last year he had claimed that his daughter could spin straw into gold in an effort to sell her off to a traveling nobleman. I wouldn’t entrust any living thing into his care, not even a cat, and I cherished no love for the furry creatures, thanks to their effect on my eyes and nose.

Duggan beckoned from outside. “Come, Huntsman. Billierfetches his daughter to the meeting house. She’s as fair and biddable a lass as any other.”

A woman was far less deserving of Billier’s care than a cat. I decided to allow the farce to continue a bit longer, the better to understand their intentions. Surreptitiously checking my access to my weapons, I followed the reeve in the direction of the dark meeting hall.

As Duggan rushed about lighting a fire in the hearth and a few of the lanterns against the walls, I staked out the corner farthest from the door. The reeve had only lit the corner nearest the door before it opened to admit the greasy-haired miller and his daughter.

She was small. Petite and barely a handful of feet high, she could fit beneath one of my arms, and I could carry her off without much effort. Not that I would. However, there was a dignity, a solidness to her tiny frame that made her father keep his distance despite his evident eagerness to sell her assets.

“She cooks, cleans, and keeps house well enough for a girl. Has a fair enough figure, so I am told. Come on, girl, show off your wares.” Billier shoved his daughter forward so that she stumbled.

Only a brief glare in her father’s direction betrayed her anger. Still, she obeyed. Back straight and shoulders tight, she walked with confidence despite a slight limp. Perhaps she had an injured hip, knee…no. I watched for a few more steps. Something was wrong with her foot, and walking on it pained her, causing a slight hitch in her breathing. Her betrayal of the weakness was so minute that I had almost missed it.

My attention swung to her father. Had he injured her? It would fit his malicious personality. What he could not bully, he humiliated. One look at his daughter’s tightly wound body, and it was easy to imagine him pressuring her to do something solely for his benefit. But what was he getting out of her marrying me?

“Leave,” I demanded.

“What? If she doesn’t please you—” Billier sputtered.

“You two.” I jerked my chin at the two men. “Leave.”

“Come.” Duggan caught Billier’s arm. “Best let him talk to her.”

Billier’s glare at his daughter intensified as the reeve guided him toward the door outside. “You mess this up, girl, and—” Whatever he intended went unsaid as Duggan closed the door behind the two of them with a sharp tug.

The girl relaxed infinitesimally. However, she also eyed me warily and oriented herself to duck behind a table should I become more clearly dangerous.

“What is your name?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her about the village before, but then I rarely spent any time in the village.

“Catherine, but everyone calls me Cat.”

I laughed. It came out as a rusty sound, as though I didn’t do it often, which I didn’t.

Her eyes narrowed. “My name isn’t funny.”

“No, but the irony is.” Then I realized by her blank expression that I would need to explain. “Cats make me sick, the four-legged variety that is.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she simply nodded. “Then it is good I am not that kind of cat.”

“It is.”

Silence descended between us. Faintly through the door behind her, we could hear her father raging. My concern for Cat’s safety grew. I didn’t think Billier was capable of murder, but one never could tell by looking at a person. Also, accidental murders happened, like beating someone to death in a fit of rage.

Rachel Rossano is a happily married mother of three children. She spends her days teaching, mothering, and keeping the chaos at bay. After the little ones are in bed, she immerses herself in the fantasy worlds of her books. Tales of romance, adventure, and virtue set in a medieval fantasy world are her preference, but she also writes speculative fantasy and a bit of science fiction.

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BOOK TOUR & GIVEAWAY ~ Growth & Change Are Highly Overrated by Tom Starita

Growth & Change Are Highly Overrated

by Tom Starita

Genre: Humor, Satire

Growth & Change Are Highly Overrated is a twist on the classic coming-of-age story that takes a unique and comic look at what we all fear— having to grow up and abandon our dreams.

For a charismatic man like Lucas James, life is a breeze because everyone else provides the wind. This adolescent front man for a mediocre cover band has been mooching off of his fiancée, Jackie, for years until she finally decides she's had enough. Faced with reality and having no income to support his carefree lifestyle, Lucas James abandons his principles and gets a job working in the stockroom at "That Store." How does he cope with this new found sense of responsibility?

He casually steals...

After a life spent bucking authority, how will Lucas James deal with his manager, 'Victor the Dictator'? How long can he tolerate Ralph, a starry-eyed coworker who desires nothing more than to be best friends? Will Lori, a twenty-something cashier, be like everyone else and fall for his charms? Will he ever find a place to live? And is "growing up" just another way of saying "selling out"?

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My brother Eddie would never let me play with his friends. It didn’t matter if they were one short for a football game or had to use a trash can as the goalie, there was no way Eddie was letting me in with him and his gang. Some might say I chose music over sports because of the constant refusal by my older brother to let me join in on the fun. The old “I’ll show him” deal. Eddie was never the supportive, nurturing type, but we’ll get to that eventually. This is my story.

When you’re a kid, there is nothing better than summer nights, especially when you live on a raucous block like we did. This particular story took place when I was nine years old. The Fourth of July had recently passed, and there was still evidence of a celebration randomly scattered on the street and by the curbs. The residents of Stieg Road had finished their dinner, and the block was alive with nighttime activity. Neighbors were gathered on stoops, little kids were running around playing tag, Franky played with the toys of our next-door neighbor, and my older brother, Eddie, had resumed the stickball game he and his friends had been playing all afternoon.

Where was Lucas James?

Good question.

I was desperate to play with my big brother and his loser friends. They didn’t feel the same, so I sat there, watching them have their fun. Like I said, this was the norm, and I decided I had to do something brash to win them over. I had to do something that would impress them, something that would earn their begrudging respect and, perhaps, result in them carrying me down the street on their shoulders in celebration while Eddie crossed his arms and cursed as dust kicked up in his face.

For weeks I thought of what I could do to win their approval, some kind of feat of strength or daredevil maneuver that would change everything. Nothing I could think of was impressive enough or unbelievable enough to make them change their minds about little Lucas James. Then, that night at dinner it came to me.

I could jump over a moving car.

Now I know how it sounds, but trust me, I worked out the physics well ahead of time. And by well ahead of time, I mean during dinner.

We lived on a residential street with stop signs on either end. If a car was doing thirty down our block he was called Mario Andretti by the neighbors. To this day I have no idea why a speeding motorist was mocked with an Italian name. Most of the time the passing traffic was made up of leisurely cars taking their leisurely time while the kids on the street waited impatiently for them to pass.

When the stickball game resumed after dinner, I made sure to get a prime seat—the green cable box protruding from our little strip of grass by the curb. The older kids called where I was sitting “the clit,” something that later on made much more sense. This spot was aligned with home plate, and when Eddie saw me sitting there his displeasure was apparent. Like I said, he didn’t want me remotely near him and his friends. The only thing that saved me from an “Eddie Special”—five rabbit punches to the shoulder and one to the stomach—was my mom, who heard Eddie yelling and told him I wasn’t hurting anyone sitting there on the box, and he should leave me be.

I knew right then and there I was dead meat. Not only had I defied Eddie, but I had inadvertently gotten Mom involved, embarrassing him in front of his friends. There were a couple of “Eddie Specials” in my future. Unless, of course, I pulled off my death-defying stunt and changed the course of history.

I let a couple of cars pass, gauging their speed. I also watched the guys as they waited for the cars to pass. Someone would spot the vehicle coming down the block and creatively yell, “Car!” Invariably, the cars came at the worst times, like base hits in the gap, runners rounding third, the kind of plays that were impeded by an automobile meandering across the infield. Once the car left the playing area, someone came up with the bright idea to yell out the phrase, “Game on,” and chaos ensued.

Finally, during the bottom of the eighth inning, it was my time to shine. Eddie roped a double into the gap, and it was now second and third with one out and Bryan Shannon waiting to hit as the tying run. In the outfield, deep down the block because Shannon could mash, Al Susto yelled “Car” and everyone moved to the side, waiting for the car to pass.

I leaned forward on the green box, planting my left foot at the edge of the curb while my right foot nervously tapped the ground, anticipating the next step. I was going to rush out to home plate and perfectly time my leap at the exact moment the car arrived. This felt like a foolproof plan, forgetting for a second the possibility that I was a bigger fool than previously considered.

When we’d finished dinner that night, I had gone in my room to practice my leaping ability. After a couple of practice jumps, I managed to hold my body in the air almost a full second. The way I figured, if I could do that in my bedroom with no pressure and, more important, no adrenaline, I could definitely hold my jump at least three or four more seconds. As I understood it, adrenaline basically gave people superpowers, like when mothers lifted up cars with their bare hands to save their babies. The way I figured, there was nothing to worry about. Not only could I jump and have access to secret superpowers —the cars cruised down the block! Although I knew people were going to say this was the greatest stunt of all time, I knew the truth: it wasn’t a big deal.

Finally it was time. My date with destiny had arrived. The car was coming down the block and unknowingly driving into immortality. The moment I took off was the moment I also realized that the driver behind the wheel of this Toyota Camry was not obeying the normal conventions of suburban driving. He was going fast, much faster than anticipated. I could already hear several adults enunciating the first syllable in the phrase “Mario Andretti,” each trying to get that cheap laugh. The way my subconscious understood science, a faster car made the whole thing not only more impressive, but easier than I originally thought. After all, if the car was going faster I wouldn’t have to stay in the air three or four seconds. My one-second jump would be plenty enough as the car whizzed on by.

I can still see Bryan mouth the words What the hell as I made my way to home plate at the exact moment the car reached the same spot. I jumped, and in my mind’s eye already envisioned this act of daredevilry being recorded in the annals of heroic events. I was going to be famous before I turned ten! I closed my eyes, jumped, and the next thing I knew...

I hit the windshield and was tossed high into the atmosphere until I hurdled horribly back down to the earth. I was a modern-day Icarus, careening off Mario Andretti’s car and plummeting to the pavement. Then...nothing.

The next tangible thought to light up the synapses and neurons in my brain occurred sometime in the middle of the night. I woke up, in excruciating pain, unsure of my surroundings. So I did what any nine- year-old boy would do when faced with such a harrowing environment: I cried.

That was the cue my mother needed to come racing over, screaming, cursing, crying, kissing, a million different emotions all pouring forth at once. I was in the hospital. My stunt had broken my left collarbone, left wrist, sprained my left ankle and right wrist, given me a slight concussion, and there were lacerations all over my face. I was lucky I wasn’t killed. I moved my head slightly to the left and saw Eddie and Franky staring at me from a couple of chairs. I could tell by the streaks on his face and his red, puffy cheeks Franky had been crying. Eddie looked the way Eddie always looked when it came to me—pissed. I had ruined his game, and now he was stuck in a hospital staring at his stupid brother sleeping for hours. I’d go into more of Eddie and his reactions, but this isn’t his story so we’ll get to him a little bit later. While my mother explained to me the stupidity of my decision and implored me to tell her what the hell I was thinking and made me promise to never do such a stupid thing ever again, I could think of only one thing: I’m famous.

The epilogue to that story involves a lawyer who saw dollar signs, an injured nine-year-old, and an easily manipulated legal system. Despite my own stupidity, the driver, who it turned out wasn’t Italian, saw the writing on the wall and settled out of court with us. Later on, I found out that money helped us get through a rocky couple of years. Did my mom ever thank me for sacrificing myself for the good of the family? Of course not.

Naturally, I became a legend in the neighborhood and at school. Eventually, the story spiraled out of control to where I landed on the roof of the car, surfed down the block, and only got hurt because the car crashed into a fence. I milked that bad boy with the girls all the way to high school.

I tell you this tale not as a note of caution, because I don’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to try to mimic my stupidity. Although I suppose for legal reasons I should tell you to not be a fucking idiot. No, I say these words in order for you to grasp the premise of how my mind works. I would put myself in front of impending doom if it meant possible fame and fortune. With an outlook like that, no wonder I was drawn to the bright lights of rock and roll.

Tom Starita is the author of two novels, "Two Ways to Sunday" and "Growth and Change Are Highly Overrated" and makes an impact on everyone he encounters. When asked for her thoughts about him, Oprah Winfrey said, "Who?" Tom Hanks refused to respond to an email asking for a quote and former Mets great Mookie Wilson once waved to him from a passing taxi.

Originally from Staten Island, NY Starita has now found a home in the beautiful beach community of Stratford, Connecticut with his wife Shannon and their dog Lola. He remains a loyal fan of the New York Mets.

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