Friday, March 24, 2017

#FREEBIE #FRIDAY Except from WELCOME TO PARADISE by London Saint James #Erotic #Romance


Today's excerpt is from Welcome to Paradise by London Saint James. But first, London is sharing a super secret recipe...

We hope you enjoy today's tease!


Hi everyone. I’m London. *Waves* Welcome to Roane Publishing’s Freebie Friday. What do I have in store for you today? A little something from my novella, Welcome to Paradise which happens to be the introduction to my contemporary, erotic, western romance series, Paradise Ranch.

Since Sutton and her ranch is located in West Texas I figured what better way to celebrate Freebie Friday than to share a good old homemade Texas Barbecue Sauce with ya’all. And of course an excerpt from the book.

First, the recipe. Trust me. It’s finger licking good. Here’s what you need to make some:

Homemade Texas BBQ Juice

1 tablespoon paprika
2 teaspoons black pepper
2 teaspoons American chili powder
1 teaspoon cumin powder
1 tablespoon of butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 cup Lone Star beer (or any other lager)
1/4 cup ketchup
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
3 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
3 tablespoons steak sauce
2 tablespoons brown sugar
Hot sauce to taste (start with 2 teaspoons of Tabasco sauce for mild heat)
2 cups beef, veal, or chicken stock

1) Mix the paprika, black pepper, American chili powder, and cumin in a small bowl.
2) In a one quart saucepan, melt the butter or bacon fat and gently cook the onion over medium heat until translucent.
3) Add the garlic, bell pepper, and the spice mix you made in step (1). Stir, and cook for two minutes to extract the flavors.
4) Add the stock and the rest of the ingredients. Stir until well blended. Simmer on medium for 15 minutes. Leftovers will keep in the fridge for a month or so.

Here’s an excerpt from Welcome to Paradise.

The field of wildflowers surrounding our family cemetery swayed in the gentle
breeze, making a wave in the colorful carpet nature provided. The day was, I supposed,
too beautiful to be marred by sorrow. Nevertheless, overwhelming grief swallowed me.

Beneath the sprawling branches of a giant oak, was the final resting place of my parents,
struck down by a drunk driver on their way home from Houston when I was
only fourteen. The memory of the sheriff coming to my grandparent’s door to inform
Mommy Callaway her son—my father, and her daughter-in-law—my mother, were both
killed in an accident, will forever be burned into my memory. It was a few days later, I
stood almost where I am now, sandwiched between my protective grandparents, feeling
the chill of winter kiss my cheeks and watching the snow fall as we buried my parents
amidst the blur of white. That image, a simmering cinder, never ceased to ignite the fire
of an indescribable pain inside me. 

The year after I graduated from college with an English Literature degree, Poppy
Callaway passed on from acute respiratory failure, leaving his wife of fifty-some-odd
years behind. I clutched her hand as the storm clouds loomed when Poppy was laid to
rest. But today, as they lowered her casket into the ground, the sun shone in a sky the
perfect shade of azure.

There were no fancy speeches given. No formal pomp and circumstance. Only
the silver-haired preacher, a friend of the family for years, who read from The Thorn
Birds, one of my grandmother’s favorite books, as he stood stoic in front of the grave.

“There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than
any other creature on the face of the Earth. From the moment it leaves the nest, it
searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among
the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it
rises above its own agony to out carol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative
song, existence the price. But, the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven,
smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain.”

As the leaves on the ancient tree rustled, the service came to a close with one of
the ranch-hands bowing a somber tune on his fiddle.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Callaway,” Flint Palmer, the ranch foreman my
grandmother hired months before her death said in a drawl. He placed the black
Stetson gripped in a weathered hand on his head.

“Thank you.” 

“Sarah Callaway was a great woman.” 

“Yes. She was,” I said. 

“She’ll be missed.”

I nodded my agreement, then straightened my spine for the line of people who
were coming to offer their condolences.

When the last person walked away, the stark reality began to sink in. I was three
days away from turning thirty and everyone I held dear resided alongside Grandma
Sadie in plots perched atop the hillside I had just inherited.