Merry Christmas—

A gift for you, in thanks for all that you do: reviews, sharing my books with your family and friends, and just being part of this story journey, means so much.

My wish for you this holiday season is peace and joy no matter what or how you celebrate.

This book is a romantic suspense about Gemma and Bryce, and it was the first in the West Coast series. There are three so far but each are stand-alone novels and connected by place. Dogs are a big part of the storylines 😊

Here is a short excerpt:

Chapter One

“I’m on my way,” Gemma told the dispatcher for Misty Beach Police Force, her foot accelerating on the gas pedal of her patrol car from thirty miles an hour to forty, then fifty. Traffic on the two-lane main drag was clear as she sped toward the edge of town, leaving the strip of businesses behind for pine trees and older homes.

“Angie seems bad this time,” Corrine said with concern. The dispatcher was fifty and sounded like she consumed a pack of Marlboro reds a day though she’d never smoked. She’d told Gemma that her online degree in psychology gave her an insight into human nature—though men she’d never understand. “Slurring her words.”

Gemma turned left onto Anchor Road, confident she could handle Jimmy Peterson. Unfortunately, this was not the first time, or even the tenth, that she’d responded to a domestic violence situation at the Peterson trailer.

Jimmy regularly smacked Angie Peterson around and when it went too far to Angie’s way of thinking, Angie would phone the cops. He’d go to jail and sober up. Gemma would offer to call the ambulance for Angie, who usually had a cut lip or black eye. Angie would refuse medical help. Gemma’s jaw clenched as she passed the mailboxes at the end of the paved road and turned right, onto a dirt road. The Petersons were half a mile down, toward the beach.

Gemma always reminded Angie that there were programs available to help Angie out of the house and into a new life. Abuse was never, ever okay.

Angie would sob and swear to think about it, refuse all assistance, and go inside to finish her own drink before bailing Jimmy out in the morning. They’d been married ten tumultuous years.

Gemma did her best to not judge. God knows her upbringing had its share of bruises, but as an adult, you had choices. Choice was really what it all boiled down to, at the end of the day. She’d do her best to help Angie leave before it was too late.

She’d gone through the police academy and later earned her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. Her goal was to keep her community safe. She didn’t need to be chief or sergeant or a detective. She loved being Patrol Officer Cortez.

“I’m here,” she told Corrine.

“Be careful,” the dispatcher rasped.

The unusual warning caused Gemma to pause before exiting the vehicle and ensure she had everything she required for a domestic dispute gone awry. Taser, baton, gun, cuffs. Twelve years of training. She’d joined out of high school with no regrets.

Gemma opened her patrol car door and took stock of the scene. The couple lived on a quarter acre of weeded lot surrounded by pine. The sound of waves hitting the shore behind their property could be heard if you listened real close. Birds and deer had learned to steer clear of the Peterson’s or end up shot for food.

At eight on a late summer Friday evening, the door to the Peterson’s trailer was propped open. Where was their mutt, Rusty? He guarded the lopsided home as if it were a freaking mansion and not a metal box with peeling paint.

Jimmy refused offers to help spruce the place up and she’d overheard Jimmy tell Angie that she didn’t deserve anything nice.

That had stuck with Gemma, who wanted to show Angie that there was more to life than constantly being put down.

“Rusty?” she whispered.

No answer. She searched the surrounding trees. No movement. Under the house? No dog there either.

Alarmed, Gemma fought her first instinct to race into the double-wide and shout Angie’s name. Jimmy usually hollered like a wounded bear when intoxicated and Angie wailed like a banshee. Crickets chirruped. Birds tweeted. Yet something was off that Gemma didn’t like—there was a heavy weight to the air. The peppery tang of…a gun?

For only the third time in twelve years, Gemma unlocked the gun holster at her side and flexed her fingers.

“Angie’s no longer on the line, Gemma,” Corrine said through the radio attached to Gemma’s bullet-resistant vest.

“Kay. Going in. Muting you.”

She pressed the mute button. Corrine would be able to hear Gemma but not the other way around.

Her heart hammered and her mouth dried. This was not the normal Peterson situation. Gemma mentally ran through the memorized rules of police conduct before going inside. Listen. Assess. Act. Do not escalate. Calm.

Gemma stilled and concentrated on the noises around her. The birds belonged. The crickets. The waves crashing to shore.

She considered it a blessing that the Petersons had no children to perpetuate the drinking, drugs, and abuse, as she’d grown up. Gemma had learned to be her own hero—she’d had to be tough to survive and she called on that courage now. Her adrenaline revved as she neared the home.

Half-step, half-step, pause. The television inside the trailer was on low. She heard sniffles and a moan.

Imagining the layout of the trailer she tried to place where that sound was coming from. To the left of the front door was the TV area, to the right, the kitchen. The far back had two small bedrooms and a bathroom.

The sniff came again.

By the front door. Low. As if the person was on the ground.

Had Jimmy knocked Angie unconscious? He was bald, wiry, and mean with maybe six teeth left in his mouth. Ninety pounds at most, Angie was barely five feet. She lived off booze and cigarettes.

Gemma kept her weapon unlocked but holstered, her fingers hovering over the handle in case she needed to grab it fast. The Petersons had licensed weapons for killing game to eat. So far the guns had stayed locked away during their arguments.

Four metal steps led to the entrance. She placed her foot on the bottom step, then stopped to listen for Angie. She squinted and leaned close.

She went up another step.

Evaluated.

The sniffs stopped.

She swallowed. She couldn’t listen any harder as her entire body tensed and assessed. Gemma reached the top stair and peered inside.

It wasn’t Angie on the linoleum floor, but Jimmy. Jimmy lay on his side, his face away from Gemma. She couldn’t see Rusty, or Angie. Blood pooled beneath Jimmy’s head and she leaned down to find a pulse at his jugular.

Faint.

Alive.

She straightened. Scuffling noises came from the back of the trailer. The bedrooms. The landline attached to the kitchen wall had the handset dangling down by the beige cord.

Jimmy was injured. Not Angie on the floor.

Shift gears. “Angie?” she called in a calm tone.

No answer.

Goosebumps broke out over her skin.

This was unlike the many other times she’d been here in this trailer. Usually Jimmy was blubbering his apologies to a righteous Angie by now. This was different.

Gemma entered the living area. TV on the wall—tuned to a sports station. Brown sofa. Coffee table over a throw rug. No Rusty. Nothing out of place.

She checked the open kitchen.

A mug with a lipstick stain sat on the square fake wood table. Coffee. An empty pint of whiskey next to the mug. The chair had been tipped over. A bloody handprint smeared across the refrigerator door.

The glass coffee pot had shattered, shards in the sink. Her dry throat tickled.

No Angie here.

They must have argued over who knew what but it had gotten violent enough for blood. Out of control enough that Angie had called the station.

Gemma peered back at Jimmy on the linoleum by the front door. His eyes were closed tight. A shard of glass protruded from his temple. She’d bet from the coffee pot.

Had Angie fought him? Was she hiding now, with Rusty? Scared that Jimmy would make her pay for not just taking his abuse.

Gemma walked another few steps down the hall, quietly.

“Angie?” She spoke in a low voice, not wanting to startle the woman. Eight pm meant she was probably already well into her hard liquor.

She knocked on the first bedroom door. No answer. She twisted the knob and peered inside. Cardboard boxes listed as towers rose toward the ceiling. Clothes and sheets strewn over the floor were the norm as they used this space for storage.

Angie wasn’t there.

Gemma backed from the room with a calming breath. Peeked into the bathroom next. Nobody there—just the regular mess of toothpaste smudge and soap rings.

She knocked on the last bedroom door. “Angie?”

Sniffles sounded. A low growl.

Relief bowed her shoulders at finding them alive. “Angie. It’s Gemma. Hon, open the door, all right?”

“No.” An inhale of breaths then a defiant, “I can’t.”

“You can. I’m here.” She jiggled the knob. “Come on out.”

The door pulled back and the tiny bottle-blonde showed her face.

Gemma hid her reaction of shock. Jimmy had gone too damn far. Angie had one eye swollen shut, purple and red bruising across her forehead as her other eye was about to close too. Nose bloody.

“I killed him, Gemma.” Angie’s chin quivered. “I did.”