It's release day for Witch's Mystic Woods, a new Coon Hollow Coven Tale by Marsha A. Moore

Today's the day! 
Here's a new adventure in Coon Hollow. 

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Description:

The Lockwood witches are the only tree mystics known to the Midwest, and soon Larena will be the last. Their heritage is crumbling—but not if Larena can save it.

With loving care, Larena helps her mother Irene face the final journey of severe dementia. Corporate vultures, envisioning a mall project, are circling to take the Lockwood land and antique store by eminent domain upon Irene’s death. Their success will lay claim to the souls of Larena’s deceased father and grandfather, both tied for all eternity to the family’s land.

Using rare, inherited magical skills, Larena communicates with trees and crafts their wood into enchanted furniture, which bring blessings to future owners. An unscrupulous witch, working with the corporation for a share of the profits, sabotages Larena’s mysticism to curtail her livelihood. One charming vulture, Reid Peterson, preys upon her heart. Armed with only grit and attitude, Larena fights to stand her ground.

Local seers and fae alike foresee a shift with the concurrence of Winter Solstice and the coming new moon. Otherworld energies will then become available to an unnamed person in desperate need. Larena must be that person—or her heart, home, and heritage will be wrenched away.

Series description:

The Coon Hollow Coven Tales series is about a coven of witches in a fictitious southern Indiana community, south of Bloomington, the neck of the woods where Marsha A. Moore spent her favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The books are rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel. There are interesting interactions between coven members and locals from the nearby small town of Bentbone. If magic wasn’t enough of a difference between the two groups, the coven folk adhere to the 1930s lifestyle that existed when the coven formed. 

A note to readers: ALL THE COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES NOVELS CAN BE READ AS STAND ALONE BOOKS. The series is about one community, and its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each book has its own unique and special story to be told.

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Excerpt:

Chapter One: Lockwoods’ Antiques and Collectibles

Larena thumbed through the stack of Monday’s mail and selected one curious letter. Hmm, addressed to Irene Lockwood, return address from Hasselwell Law Office. A lawyer?

Still squinting at the envelope, she stomped a light coating of snow from her boots and creaked open the back door of the farmhouse. In the kitchen, she tossed the rest of the mail onto the old butcher block table, which pretended to be under stress with a customary groan. She gave it a loving pat and examined the letter.

Larena used a nickname instead of her given name. Addressed to Irene, the mail could belong to either her or her mother. Normally, she’d listen for a clue from the paper to decide. She strained to hear even a choked whisper from the tortured pine pulp, but too much chemical processing had left the envelope mute.

Larena slit the flap with her finger, and a whoosh swept her honey-colored braid behind her shoulder. Obviously drafted on better grade paper, the letter inside spoke to her. She had no further doubt. Although the correspondence was addressed to her mother, the writer intended the content for her and her older brother Emery.

She set the letter down a moment and poured herself some coffee. With the cup’s delicate handle in one hand, Larena used her other hand to hold up the letter, then gasped.

Some of the coffee splattered. Oh, damn. Larena set down the cup and swept a cloth off the counter to wipe the small splashes on the floor. Did she read that letter right? When finished, she picked up the paper again and read more carefully, eyes bulging.

“The Kilfoyle Corporation wishes to purchase the entire five acres of the Lockwoods’ land for the sum of $500,000…”

Why in the world would Clement Kilfoyle’s estate want to purchase all of our property?

She sat down on a stool next to the butcher-block table to digest the news. Larena never expected to receive a letter from the Michael Hasselwell law firm in response to the sympathy card she sent two weeks ago after Clem’s passing.

The Kilfoyle farm sat adjacent to the Lockwood home and antique shop in a narrow valley of Coon Hollow. Clement survived his wife by more than a decade, and the couple had been childless. He kept to himself, and so did the Lockwood witches. The line between their properties marked the boundary of Coon Hollow Coven.

She huffed her breath out and considered what that much money could do. During the six years after Dad passed and her brother’s move to New Hampshire right after, she and Mom struggled with the antique store. And now, it barely chugged along since Mom’s memory loss had progressed to advanced dementia.

Larena ran the shop, attended auctions, refinished antiques, balanced the books, and kept the house, all by herself. She barely made ends meet while eking out the token fee for Betty, a neighboring witch from down the road, who watched Mom during work hours. At twenty-six, how did I become so burdened with responsibility—the store, Mom, and her illness? But fate had heaped all of it upon her, and she loved her Mom. With shaking hands, she clutched the page as if it were a guaranteed winning lottery ticket.

Her mother coughed from the dining room, which served as her make-shift bedroom since stairs had become insurmountable nine months ago.

Before attending to Mom, Larena skimmed the rest of the letter. She halted on the words “eminent domain,” and backed up to read, “If this offer is not accepted, upon death of the last-named person on the present deed, Irene May Lockwood, wife surviving Louie Lockwood, the Kilfoyle Corporation shall invoke eminent domain and take the Lockwood property to exercise functions of public character.” Larena’s eyes jumped across the words, unable to comprehend. She looked away to steady herself before returning to the letter. “At that time, payment of the above-mentioned compensation will be made to her heirs.” She scrunched her brows which elicited a stab of pain across her forehead. What? Does this mean I have no choice? Where will I go?

The rustling in the other room grew louder, so Larena went to help. “Are you ready to go out to the parlor and wait for Betty?”

Her mother looked up blankly from where her dwindled body had been settled into her wheelchair. Mom’s feeble hand held up a jingling set of old keys. She held onto them all the time, giving her a sense of comfort and security like a child with her teddy bear. “Ready. Ready for Betty. Are you Betty? Ready,” her mother stammered in a sing-song tone.

Larena maneuvered the chair to the bay window in the other room. She locked the wheels to keep it stable in case Mom tried to stand, then returned her attention to the intrusive legal notice.

Her mother’s gaze moved from the birds at the feeder outside to the letter. She strained toward it, her hand trembling as much as Larena’s. “What’s that? What you got?”

“Just a bill.” Unable to reread without distraction, Larena tucked the page into her purse, then placed it on top of the china cabinet out of her mom’s reach. The cupboard let out a crackling moan, as if it understood the content. She eyed the cherry piece, desperate to ask what additional meaning it might have grasped but afraid to worry her mother. Both that and studying the letter would have to wait.

Mom absently slurred Larena’s words like a mantra, “Just a bill. Yes. Just a bill. Just a bill.”

Larena checked her watch and kissed her mother’s soft, pale cheek. “It’s almost eight-thirty. Betty will be here soon. You can work on that new puzzle together. Won’t that be fun? Betty’s great with puzzles.”

Mom’s eyes sparked with a sudden glimmer of recognition, and Larena wondered if she had triggered a memory that opened her mom’s mind. Oh, how she wished for a key to unlock her mother’s entombed thoughts. She missed the mom she could depend on. She missed when they laughed together. Their roles were now reversed. Larena needed to be the mother, instead of the daughter. Larena’s brother helped very little with the medical bills. She felt like they were on a deserted island, abandoned and alone.

She shoved aside her own needs and met her mother’s gaze to encourage and appreciate whatever lucidity hid behind those aging pale blue eyes.

Mom mumbled, “Bein’ great don’t matter. Bein’ willin’ does.” She pressed her gray head against the windowpane. Her warm breath collecting on the cold glass seemed to startle her. She let out a grunt and experimented with the process, blowing new clouded spots.

Betty’s long, brown sedan pulled into the driveway that served both house and shop. Her car’s white-walled tires crunched on the ice-dusted gravel. She turned under the tree with the feeder. The engine purred, then cut without sputtering like Larena’s old delivery truck.

The Coven Council’s regulations to keep a 1930’s lifestyle in Coon Hollow felt like wearing shackles. Larena owned a nice Econoline van, which she used for distant trips to estate sales. But within the coven, she had to drive a lousy 1935 Box-Truck, which always needed repairs. The Coven feared their witchcraft might change if they went modern, but all it did for Larena was cost her money.

The Council ruling didn’t matter so much with her clothing since she liked to sew and knit, adding magic she’d inherited from her mother. Larena’s creations suited her own taste, which pushed the limits of acceptance but still wasn’t modern—her own unique style. As the only family of witches in the coven capable of calling up the magic in wood, a tree mystic or forest sage, she’d always been comfortable standing out from the crowd. Dad had taught her to be proud of her heritage, as well as how to turn a buck with the rare ability he’d passed to Larena. At least the odd Council requirement did bring a steady stream of customers to their shop. It was often filled with witches who needed approved antique home furnishings charmed with ways to bring luck, good fortune, health, new babies, marriage, and whatever else a person desired.

Larena patted her mother’s arm, then gathered her purse and moved into the mudroom, where she tossed on a heavy hand-knit sweater from the bench. She met Betty at the back door and held it open. “Mom’s eager to do that jigsaw puzzle with you.”

“Mornin’. Glad to hear she’s chipper today,” the chunky woman huffed, out of breath from the short walk and steep steps. In her mid-sixties without family nearby and kept close to home by high blood pressure, Betty appreciated the company while looking after Irene. And Larena appreciated Betty’s patience. It took a lot of both to deal with Mom sometimes.

“If the shop’s quiet at dinner hour, I’ll come back and eat with you all. Don’t count on it, though. We’re getting nearer Christmas, and there’ll likely be customers, even on a Monday night. At least I hope so, anyway.”

Betty swiped a chin-length strand of iron gray from her face. “Gimme a call, an’ I’ll have a plate ready for you if you have to stay at the store.” She pulled off her horn-rimmed glasses and frowned at the lenses fogged with condensing warm inside air, then squinted at Larena. “Oh, did you hear that Sibeal Soot and Tyne Tynker won the two Council seats in Saturday’s election?”

“No, I hadn’t. I heard talk about Sibeal and wondered.”

Betty’s thin silver brows arched. “I did, too. Not sure what to make of it. Sibeal’s always been an odd bird and not one to like being on the sidelines, ’specially since her best friend Adara Tabard vanished.”

“Things sure have changed fast since Logan took the job of high priest away from Adara—all for the better. Was the Council vote close?”

“It was; Sibeal won by only two percent. Tyne was an easy win.”

Larena nodded and called toward the parlor, “Bye, Mom.” After waiting for the weak but cherished goodbye, Larena headed along the cracked sidewalk toward the shop. On the driveway, she paused to look back at the bay window and waved, already missing what was left of Mom. Larena hoped no more would be lost to the dreaded illness during this extra-long work day.

Although Mom liked Betty, weekends were hard, extended weekends harder. Stress from changing their routine made her worse. Larena shivered but not from the cold. This first weekend of December had begun a new store schedule. She kept late night hours Friday and Monday, in addition to longer hours on Saturdays and Sundays, to catch more of the Christmas trade. This time of year, tourists by the thousands visited the numerous artists’ galleries in nearby Bentbone. With that village only a half-mile away, Lockwoods’ Antiques & Collectibles took in its fair share. On these evenings, she closed at nine, too late to have dinner with Mom or see her to bed. Larena sighed. She’d give anything to be able to close up early and be with her, but that wouldn’t pay the bills. Now with the new Christmas hours, the house would be dark and quiet when she returned home.

During early stages of the illness, Larena seldom slept since Mom roamed the house at all hours encountering newly forgotten and potentially dangerous objects. Now she slept long, in a fitful daze, unless fully roused by nightmares, leaving Larena alone and lonely, almost missing the miserable chaos of Mom’s early dementia. Lately, most nights Larena welcomed setting an alarm to check on Mom, helping her to the bathroom, or even cleaning up any accidents. If not for those times and the limited bits of communication with the wooden furniture that’d known Larena since she was a child, she might go crazy.

A car turned into the drive. A potential customer. But Larena couldn’t tear herself away from looking back at Mom in the farmhouse bay window. She seldom registered Larena by name, although an unspoken warmth still seemed connect them. Larena lived for glimpses of that bond.

Betty appeared in the window and wrapped an arm around Mom’s shoulder. They both waved, Mom following Betty’s lead. Warmth surged through the void in Larena’s heart. Betty’s kindness meant a lot.

Larena turned and scurried the hundred feet to the shop’s door. Keys in hand, she nodded to the driver, now parked in the store lot. The fancy black Studebaker, with its chrome polished to a high shine, belonged to Sibeal Soot, one of the two coven seers and newly elected Coven Council member. She had money, and Larena hoped this visit would score a big sale.

She’d voted for Sibeal in the Council election. After Larena cast her ballot, she heard a group of women in a heated discussion outside the Council meeting building. Some claimed Sibeal had threatened a new healer, Grammy Flora’s granddaughter, by killing her cat. Another woman scoffed and said that the girl didn’t know her magic and probably poisoned the cat by accident. Larena needed to get back to her shop that day and couldn’t stay long, but the conversation stuck with her. Now facing Sibeal on her doorstep, Larena felt at a disadvantage. Shame on me for not informing myself about the candidates.

Sibeal Soot stepped out, her thin lips crinkled into a twisted smile. She wore a long black knit skirt that pouched at her belly, even past a good attempt at camouflage with a tailored black wool jacket. Sibeal’s trademark white rounded Peter Pan collar highlighted her strange, off-kilter head. It was much narrower from ear to ear than front to back, and her pointed nose thrust forward from close-set beady eyes. Only her hair, uncontrollable salt and pepper curls that slipped from her bun, offered any softness. Why Sibeal dressed to draw attention to her face, Larena didn’t know. Maybe the woman prided herself on her uniqueness, something Larena admired.

“Hi, Ms. Soot. What can I do for you today?” Larena asked, her voice bright.

“Hi, Larena. I’m here on official Coven Council business. You do know that I’m now on the Council?” the seer rasped with a high-pitched nasal voice. Her dark eyes flashed across Larena, but she continued without waiting for her to answer. “We have a new public attraction in the works, a new shoppin’ area that’ll boost revenue for the coven.”

“How’s that different than the coven’s Saturday market?” Larena stood straighter. This new opportunity might give her another way to earn money.

“For one thing, it needs to be closer to Bentbone to bring in more of the tourist trade.” Sibeal blew on her hands and rubbed them together.

Larena unlocked the heavy planked door, pulled it open a foot, and looked back to invite the seer in from the cold.

But before Larena could offer, Sibeal blurted, “And I’m thinkin’ your property’s best suited—what with its location so close to town. And it’s a large building, old with plenty of charm, that can be divided into small booth stores.”

“What?” Larena’s jaw dropped and she let the door shut. The bells that hung on the inside jangled like the thoughts in her mind. “You intend to lease stores inside my shop?”

Sibeal’s mouth curled at the corners. “The Kilfoyle Corporation’s law firm said they’d contacted you and asked me to help smooth over the transition.”

“What transition?” Larena’s voice wavered. “I don’t want any part of this. It’s my family’s land, our store. You can’t take it.”

The seer pursed her lips and shook her head. “Of course, you’ll be able to keep your business.”

Larena planted her back against the door, as if to protect the building. “I’m not selling.”

“Accordin’ to the lawyers, you don’t have a say. Your mama’s in charge.”

“I haven’t heard anything about this from High Priest Logan.”

Sibeal wrinkled her long nose. “If you’re wantin’ to keep your business here on the property, I can arrange to have a favorable lease drawn up. But that’s only if you don’t fight the eminent domain, which I wouldn’t do.” Several strands of hair crackled with static electricity as they worked loose from her bun. Her eyes narrowed and bored into Larena. “Them lawyers mean business. And so do I. They have an eye for what’s right for the coven. I’m glad to have their guidance. There’s big things I can help this coven achieve.”

Larena stared at Sibeal, dumbfounded. Though she didn’t want to believe, it seemed clear the old witch was using her new position on the Council for her own advantage. Larena had respected this woman. As an Earth witch, Larena didn’t possess half the skills of Sibeal, a learned woman from a wealthy family. Larena envied them; she didn’t have their advantages. Although she did have her dad and uncles, now all gone, who taught her the magic of listening and communicating with trees and their wood. All she had was her family. That was slipping away. She needed this five acres of their magic and memories and didn’t care about what was right for the coven. Very few had stepped up to help Larena cope.

What Mom had said a few minutes ago shot through Larena’s mind. A shortened, twisted version of one of the mottos her mother always followed. Life’s not about whether you’ve stood near the great, but whether you’ve sat with the broken.

Larena flattened her palms to the door, the dense oak solid at her back and silently asked it, “Will you stand with me?”

“Till the end,” the door answered with a creak that shuddered along the front wall of the barn-like building.

“I won’t sell,” Larena declared, head high.

“Best you change your mind soon…or you’ll lose this property and plenty more,” Sibeal hurled the words one at a time at Larena’s face. The seer paused, her pulled-down nose almost touching her creased lips. She huffed and stomped to her car.

Larena clutched her keys to her chest and watched the sleek sedan glide away. She wouldn’t stand with people who called themselves great, and like hell she wasn’t going to be broken. She owed her parents, who’d worked hard building this business, more than that. Selling it now might destroy what little remained of her mother.

Coon Hollow Coven Tales series includes:

Witch's Moonstone Locket 

Witch's Cursed Cabin 

Blood Ice and Oak Moon 
Witch's Mystic Woods

Author Bio:

Marsha A. Moore loves to write fantasy and paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she uses to weave highly imaginative tales.

The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing, as well as other pursuits of watercolor painting and drawing. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered yoga teacher. Her practice helps weave the mystical into her writing. After a move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a Floridian, in love with the outdoors where she’s always on the lookout for portals to other worlds. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives with her husband on a large saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out is a real treat. She never has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at stories with toes wiggling in the sand. Every day at the beach is magical!

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Marsha A. Moore is a writer of fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. 

JOIN MARSHA'S MAILING LIST and receive a free copy of her paranormal romance story RULER OF THE NIGHT.

Read Marsha's COON HOLLOW TALES of paranormal romance and her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS for adventurous epic fantasy romance. For a FREE ebook download, read her historic fantasy, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazon and Smashwords.

Cover Reveal! Witch's Cursed Cabin: A Coon Hollow Coven Tale

Here's the cover for my upcoming release, Witch's Cursed Cabin, the second book in my Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. The release date will be April 27th. I can't wait!

Genre: Paranormal romance

Book Description:

Eager to be on her own away from home, twenty-year-old Aggie Anders accepts a relative’s invitation to live in Coon Hollow Coven. Although she’s a witch from a different coven, what locals say about the Hollow confuses her. How can witchcraft there live and breathe through souls of the dead? 

Aggie’s new residence in this strange southern Indiana world is a deserted homestead cabin. The property’s carriage house serves as the coven’s haunted Halloween fundraiser. It’s a great opportunity for her to make new friends, especially with the coven’s sexy new High Priest Logan. 

But living in the homestead also brings Aggie enemies. Outsiders aren’t welcome. A cantankerous, old neighbor tries to frighten her off by warning her that the homestead is cursed. Local witches who practice black magic attempt to use their evil to drive Aggie away and rid their coven of her unusual powers as a sun witch.  

Determined to stay and fit in, Aggie discovers not only that the cabin is cursed, but she alone is destined to break the curse before moonrise on Samhain. If she fails, neither the living nor the dead will be safe. 

 Series description:

The series is about a coven of witches in a fictitious southern Indiana community, south of Bloomington, the neck of the woods where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The books are rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel. There are interesting interactions between coven members and locals from the nearby small town of Bentbone. If magic wasn’t enough of a difference between the two groups, the coven folk adhere to the 1930s lifestyle that existed when the coven formed. 

Here's the Goodreads link for you to add the book to your TBR list. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29410037-witch-s-cursed-cabin

For a reminder when the book releases, sign up for my newsletter using this link: http://bit.ly/MarshaAMooreNewsletter

Excerpt:

from Chapter One: The Homestead

A shove of my shoulder pried the rusty hinges on the heavy log cabin door loose. I flung my blond braid to my back and peered inside. Beings and critters, alive and furry as well as undead and translucent, flew, crawled, or slithered across dark recesses of the hallway, sitting room, and stairwell.

“You weren’t kidding. This place is haunted.” I shuddered and looked over my shoulder at Cerise. She looked perky as always with her dark bobbed hair and lively brown eyes beneath horn-rimmed eyeglasses. “Were those things relations or varmints?” I took a cautious step over the threshold to escape the blustery weather and unbuttoned my corduroy jacket.

“Oh, both, Aggie. Ghosts of witch kin and their talking animal familiars,” she said and moved past me to lift sheets off the sitting room furniture.

I raised a brow, curious about what talking familiars were but was too afraid to ask. She didn’t seem to think they were bad, and I needed a place to stay.

Cerise dropped the sheets in a pile and wiped her dusty hands on her skirt. “Those sorts of ghosts are in all the homes here in Coon Hollow Coven. Maybe some animal spirits, too, from the surrounding woods. This property has at least fifty acres of forest. The ghosts are harmless, part of the family. At least no neighbors have complained, that I’ve heard.”

Eyeing corners of the parlor and the length of the hall, I wondered if I could ever get used to living with ghosts of people who’d lived here before. In New Wish, Indiana, where I’d spent my entire twenty years, we only had an occasional ghost. Usually lost souls who, for some reason, hadn’t found their peace before death took them. Most times, those folks had been tormented by darkness and experimented with black magic while they’d lived. Or so Mom told me, but I always thought that was just her way of keeping me in line.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I wanted a place of my own more than anything else, and not in the tiny town of New Wish where everyone knew me…or thought they did. They all said I was the spitting image of my Aunt Faye, with the same light blond straight hair, deep blue eyes, dark brows, and quiet personality. Everyone thought I’d grow up to be like her with a houseful of kids, seven or more. Fact was, they didn’t know me. I wasn’t sure I even knew myself. There was so much I wanted to learn and do that wouldn’t happen if I stayed at my parents’ home.

Cerise struggled to open the stuck window. “Aggie, can you help me here? Some fresh air might tempt a few spirits outside. This place has been vacant since my mother passed in 2009. We might find just about anything in here after five years.”

*~*~*

Marsha A. Moore is a writer of fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. Read her COON HOLLOW TALES of paranormal romance and her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS for adventurous epic fantasy romance. For a FREE ebook download, read her historic fantasy, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazon and Smashwords.

Announcing the winners of the Witch's Moonstone Locket tour contest

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Here's some information about what these lucky folks won!

I've been writing Coon Hollow Coven Tales in my mind for several years. It's set in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington, where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The book is rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel.

Genre: New adult Paranormal romance

Description:

Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead. 

Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her jealous desire to possess him. Desperate for closure with her mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with magic, romance, and danger.  

If you missed the contest, or weren't chosen as a winner, you can purchase a copy at Amazon.

Here's the Goodreads link for you to add the book to your TBR list. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24807853-witch-s-moonstone-locket

For special book contests and news about my upcoming releases, sign up for my newsletter using this link: http://bit.ly/MarshaAMooreNewsletter

Excerpt:

from Chapter One: Great Aunt Starla’s Cornbread

Warm rain mixed with Jancie’s tears, and she rose to stand beside her mother’s grave. She bent at the waist and her fingers followed the arc of her mother’s name—Faye Sadler—in the headstone. From numerous visits, she knew the unyielding shape well. The word goodbye stuck in her throat. She’d said it aloud many times since her mother died six months ago, only to have the cemetery’s vast silence swallow her farewells. Rain beaded on the polished granite. Her hand, bearing her mother’s silver ring, slid down the stone and fell to her side.

If only she could’ve said goodbye to her mother before she died. After years of caring for her mom while she suffered with cancer, Jancie had missed the final parting moment while getting a quick bite of dinner. The pain still cut like a knife in her gut.

On foot, she retraced the too-familiar path toward her work at the Federal Bank. Although she’d landed a job as manager at the largest of the three banks in the small town of Bentbone, the position was a dead end. Within the first six months, she’d mastered all the necessary skills. Now, after a year, only the paycheck kept her there.

Jancie turned onto Maple Street. As usual, wind swept up the corridor, between old shade trees protecting houses, and met her at the top of the tall hill. September rain pelted her face and battled the Indian summer noontime temperatures. She zipped the rain parka to keep her dress dry, pulled on the strings of the hood, and corralled strands of ginger-colored hair that whipped into her eyes. She gazed farther into the valley, where the view spanned almost a mile out to the edge of town. Usually, farmers moved tractors across the road or boys raced skateboards and bikes down Maple Street’s long slope.

Today, on the deserted acreage just east of Bentbone, people moving in and out through a gate of the tall wooden fence breathed life into the rundown carnival. Surprised, Jancie crossed the street for a better view. She’d lost track of life around her since Mom passed. The coming Labor Day weekend in Bentbone meant the valley coven’s yearly carnival. She and her girlfriends always looked forward to the cute guys, fair food, and amazing magical rides and decorations, even if her father didn’t approve of witches or magic. The residents of the sleepy town awoke to welcome a host of tourists wanting to see the spectacle created by the witches of Coon Hollow Coven.

Somehow, Jancie had forgotten the big event this year. Last year, she didn’t go since Mom was so sick and couldn’t be left. Jancie sighed and turned onto the main street toward the bank. She’d lost so much since her mother passed. Really, since the diagnosis of cancer.

At that time, four years ago, Jancie withdrew as a sophomore from Hanover College, a select, private school in southern Indiana near the Kentucky border—too far away. Instead, she returned to stay with her mother and commuted to Indiana University. Balancing hours with the home health care nurse, Jancie had few choices of career paths. Not that it mattered, since her remarried father expected her to find a job in Bentbone and continue taking care of her mother. Despite the sacrifices, Jancie loved her mother, who’d always managed money for a few special things for Jancie—a new bike, birthday parties, prom dresses—even though their income was tight. Mom had paid for her tuition and listened to every new and exciting college experience.

Jancie smiled at the memory of Mom’s twinkling brown eyes, that mirrored her own, when she asked about what happened during the day’s classes: if Jancie liked the professor; if she’d made new friends.

When she rounded the last corner, she returned to her work day. At the bleak, limestone bank building, reality hit. Jancie pulled against the heavy glass door, and a gust swept her inside. She peeled off the drenched jacket and hung it on the coat rack of her small, plain office.

Through the afternoon’s doldrums, punctuated by only a handful of customers, her mind wandered to the carnival. She’d gone dozens of times before and loved it. But since Mom passed, nothing seemed fun anymore, like she couldn’t connect with herself and had forgotten how to have a good time. She organized a stack of notes, anything to put the concern out of her mind.

***

After work, Jancie drove her old blue Camry the five miles to the other end of town where she lived in her mother’s white frame house, the home where she grew up, now hers. Glad to own her own place, unlike her friends who rented, she’d made a few easy changes. In the living room, a new brown leather couch with a matching chair and ottoman. She replaced the bedroom furniture with a new oak suite for herself in what used to be her mother’s room. With pay saved from the bank, Jancie could remodel or build on, but she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Her great aunt Starla had told her to just wait and hold onto her money; she’d know soon enough.

Pouring rain soaked the hem of her dress as she darted between the garage shed and back stoop of the small ranch house.

Glad she’d chosen to get her run in this morning before work, she changed into cozy sweats, pulled the long part of her tapered hair into a ponytail, and headed for the kitchen.

Her phone alerted her of a text, and she read the message from her friend Rachelle, always the social director of their group: R we going to the carnival?

Jancie typed a response. I guess. R Lizbeth and Willow going?

Yep whole gang. What day?

Don’t know yet. Get back to u. Jancie worried she’d spoil their fun. Even though they’d all been her best friends since high school and would understand her moodiness, she didn’t want to ruin one of the best times of the year for them. Since Mom passed, they’d taken her out to movies and shopping in Bloomington, but this was different. Could it ever match up to the fun of all the times before? “I don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said into open door of the old Kenmore refrigerator while rummaging for leftovers of fried chicken and corn.

The meal satisfied and made her thankful she’d learned how to cook during those years with Mom. Not enough dishes to bother with the dishwasher, one of the modern upgrades to the original kitchen, Jancie washed the dishes by hand and then called Starla. When she answered, Jancie asked, “Can I come over tonight? There’s something I’m needing your opinion on.”

“Why sure, Jancie. C’mon over,” the eighty-five-year-old replied with her usual warm drawl. “Are you wantin’ dinner? I made me some soup beans with a big hambone just butchered from Bob’s hog. My neighbor Ellie came over and had some. She said they were the best she’s eaten.”

Jancie glanced at the soggy rain parka and opted for an umbrella instead. “No, I just ate. Be right over.” Keys and purse in hand, she hung up and darted for the shed.

Five minutes later, she turned onto the drive of the eldercare apartments and parked under the steel awning where Starla gave her a whole arm wave from her picture window. Jancie made her way to number twelve on the first floor.

The door opened, and Starla engulfed Jancie in a bear hug, pulling her into the pillow of a large, sagging bosom. Starla smelled of her signature scent—rosewater and liniment.

Jancie had loved her great aunt’s hugs as long as she could remember. Stress and worry melted away, and she hugged back. Her arm grazed Starla’s white curls along the collar of her blue knit top embroidered with white stars—her great aunt’s favorite emblem.

“It’s so good to see you. Come sit a spell, while I get us some iced tea.” Starla pulled away and gestured to the microsuede couch decorated with three crocheted afghans in a rainbow of colors. “I thought we were done with this hot weather, but not quite yet. That rain today’s been a gully washer but didn’t cool things off much.” The large-boned woman scuffed her pink-house-slippered feet toward the kitchen. “Would you rather have pound cake from the IGA or homemade cornbread?”

Jancie laughed and followed her into the kitchen. She wouldn’t get through the visit without eating. “You’re just fishin’ for a compliment. You know your homemade cornbread is better.”

Starla arranged plates with thick slices of warm cornbread and big pats of butter on top, while Jancie transferred the refreshments to the aluminum dinette table.

“With your hair pulled back like that, you’re a dead ringer for your Ma. So pretty with that same sweetheart-shaped face.” Starla folded herself onto a chair beside Jancie. “You look to be getting on well…considering what all you’ve been through.”

“I’m doing okay,” Jancie said through a mouthful of the moist cornbread. She washed it down with a swallow of brisk tea that tasted fresh-brewed. “But sometimes, lots of times, I feel lost, like I can’t move on.” She ran a hand across her forehead. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I spent time with her through all those years, and it shouldn’t matter, but it does every time I visit her grave and most every night in my dreams.”

“Oh, honey. I know it hurts.” Starla smoothed Jancie’s ponytail down the middle of her back and spoke with a voice so slow and warm, it felt like a handmade quilt wrapping around her.  “You spent all that time and gave so much. Just like when I cared for my husband some twenty years back. I know. I never got the chance to tell Harry goodbye either. Time will heal all hurts.”

Jancie looked down at the marbleized tabletop to hide her teary eyes. “I don’t think I’m ever going to heal, Aunt Starla. I don’t know if I can ever move on.”

“There is one thing you can try. I’d have done it, if I’d have known before decades softened my aching heart. Way back, I was desperate like you.”

Jancie looked into Starla’s blue-gray eyes, set deep inside wrinkled lids.

Her aunt leaned closer. “Not many know about this,” she whispered as if someone outside the apartment door might hear. “There’s an old story about how a member of the Coon Hollow Coven, one who’s recently lost a loved one, is made the teller of the moonstone tale.”

Jancie rolled her eyes. “That’s just a silly story, one of lots that Mom and Dad told to scare me when I was little, so I’d stay away from the coven. When the moonstone locket opens at the end of the tale, you’ll get your wish but also be cursed.”

“Oh no.” Starla shook her head and pushed away from the table. “Let me get Aunt Maggie’s old diary. I got this in a box of old family things when Cousin Dorothy passed.” She lumbered to her spare bedroom and returned with a worn, black-leather volume only a little larger than her wide palm. Once seated, she thumbed through the yellowed pages. “Here.” She pointed a finger and placed the book between them.

*~*~*

Marsha A. Moore is a writer of fantasy and fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. Read her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS for adventurous, epic fantasy romance. Or enjoy a magical realism tale of a haunted yoga studio with SHADOWS OF SERENITY. For a FREE ebook sample of her writing, read her historic fantasy short story, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazon and Smashwords.

Cover Reveal ~ Witch's Moonstone Locket: A Coon Hollow Coven Tale, a PNR by Marsha A. Moore

I can't wait to share this new series! I've been writing this one in my mind for several years. It's set in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington, where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The book is rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel.

Genre: New adult Paranormal romance

Description:

Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead. 

Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her jealous desire to possess him. Desperate for closure with her mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with magic, romance, and danger.  

Release date: March 24, 2015

Here's the Goodreads link for you to add the book to your TBR list. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24807853-witch-s-moonstone-locket

For a reminder when the book releases, sign up for my newsletter using this link: http://bit.ly/MarshaAMooreNewsletter

Excerpt:

from Chapter One: Great Aunt Starla’s Cornbread

Warm rain mixed with Jancie’s tears, and she rose to stand beside her mother’s grave. Not ready to let go, she bent at the waist and her fingers followed the arc of her mother’s name—Faye Sadler—in the headstone. She knew the unyielding shape well. The word goodbye stuck in her throat. She’d said it aloud many times since her mother died almost a year ago, only to have the cemetery’s vast silence swallow her farewells. Rain beaded on the polished granite. Her hand, bearing her mother’s silver ring, slid down the stone and fell to her side.

If only she could’ve said goodbye to her mother before. After years of caring for her mom while she suffered with cancer, Jancie had missed the final parting moment while getting a quick bite of dinner. The pain still cut like a knife in her gut.

On foot, she retraced the too-familiar path toward her work at the Federal Bank. Although she’d landed a job as manager at the largest of the three banks in the small town of Bentbone, the position was a dead end. Within the first six months, she’d mastered all the necessary skills. Now, after a year, only the paycheck kept her there.

Jancie turned onto Maple Street. As usual, wind swept up the corridor, between old shade trees protecting houses, and met her at the top of the tall hill. September rain pelted her face and battled the Indian summer noontime temperatures. She zipped the rain parka to keep her dress dry, pulled on the strings of the hood, and corralled strands of ginger-colored hair that whipped into her eyes. Once able to see, she gazed farther into the valley, where the view spanned almost a mile out to the edge of town. Usually, farmers moved tractors across the road or boys raced skateboards and bikes down Maple Street’s long slope.

Today, on the deserted acreage just east of Bentbone, people moving in and out through a gate of the tall wooden fence breathed life into the rundown carnival. Surprised, Jancie crossed the street for a better view. She’d lost track of time since Mom passed. The coming Labor Day weekend in Bentbone meant the valley coven’s yearly carnival. She and her close group of girlfriends always looked forward to the cute guys, fair food, and amazing magical rides and decorations…even if her father didn’t approve of witches or magic. The residents of the sleepy town awoke to welcome a host of tourists wanting to see the spectacle created by the witches of Coon Hollow Coven.

Somehow, Jancie had forgotten the big event this year. Last year, she didn’t go since Mom was so sick and couldn’t be left. Jancie sighed and turned onto the main street toward the bank. She’d lost so much since her mother passed. Really, since the diagnosis of cancer.

At that time, four years ago, Jancie withdrew as a sophomore from Hanover College, a select, private school in southern Indiana near the Kentucky border—too far away. Instead, she returned to stay with her mother and commuted to Indiana University. Balancing hours with the home health care nurse, Jancie had few choices of career paths. Not that it mattered, since her remarried father expected her to find a job in Bentbone and continue taking care of her mother. Despite the sacrifices, Jancie loved her mother, who’d always managed money for a few special things for Jancie—a new bike, birthday parties, prom dresses—even though their income was tight. Mom had paid for her tuition and listened to every new and exciting college experience.

Jancie smiled at the memory of Mom’s twinkling brown eyes, that mirrored her own, when she asked about what happened during the day’s classes: if Jancie liked the professor; if she’d made new friends.

When she rounded the last corner, her thoughts returned to the work day. At the bleak, limestone bank building, reality hit. Jancie pulled against the heavy glass door, and a gust swept her inside. She peeled off the drenched jacket and hung it on the coat rack of her small, plain office. At her desk again, she took her position.

Through the afternoon’s doldrums, punctuated by only a handful of customers, her mind wandered to the carnival. She’d gone dozens of times before and loved it. But since Mom passed, nothing seemed fun anymore, like she couldn’t connect with herself and had forgotten how to have a good time. She organized a stack of notes, anything to put the concern out of her mind.

***

After work, Jancie drove her old blue Camry the five miles to the other end of town where she lived in her mother’s white frame house, the home where she grew up, now hers. Glad to own her own place, unlike her friends who rented, she’d made a few easy changes. In the living room, a new brown leather couch with a matching chair and ottoman. She replaced the bedroom furniture with a new oak suite for herself in what used to be her mother’s room. With pay saved from the bank, Jancie could remodel or build on, but she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Her great aunt Starla had told her to just wait and hold onto her money; she’d know soon enough.

Pouring rain soaked the hem of her dress as she darted between the garage shed and back stoop of the small ranch house.

Glad she’d chosen to get her run in this morning before work, she changed into cozy sweats, pulled the long part of her tapered hair into a ponytail, and headed for the kitchen.

Her phone alerted her of a text, and she read the message from her friend Rachelle, always the social director of their group: R we going to the carnival?

Jancie typed a response. I guess. R Lizbeth and Willow going?

Yep whole gang. What day?

Don’t know yet. Get back to u. Jancie worried she’d spoil their fun. Even though they’d all been her best friends since high school and would understand her moodiness, she didn’t want to ruin one of the best times of the year for them. Since Mom passed, they’d taken her out to movies and shopping in Bloomington, but this was different. Could it ever match up to the fun of all the times before? “I don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said into open door of the old Kenmore refrigerator while rummaging for leftovers of fried chicken and corn.

The meal satisfied and made her thankful she’d learned how to cook during those years with Mom. Not enough dishes to bother with the dishwasher, one of the modern upgrades to the original kitchen, Jancie washed the dishes by hand and then called Starla. When she answered, Jancie asked, “Can I come over tonight? There’s something I’m needing your opinion on.”

“Why sure, Jancie. C’mon over,” the eighty-five-year-old replied with her usual warm drawl. “Are you wantin’ dinner? I made me some soup beans with a big hambone just butchered from Bob’s hog. My neighbor Ellie came over and had some. She said they were the best she’s eaten.”

Jancie glanced at the soggy rain parka and opted for an umbrella instead. “No, I just ate. Be right over.” Keys and purse in hand, she hung up and darted for the shed.

Five minutes later, she turned onto the drive of the eldercare apartments and parked under the steel awning where Starla gave her a whole arm wave from her picture window. Jancie made her way to number twelve on the first floor.

The door opened, and Starla engulfed Jancie in a bear hug, pulling her into the pillow of a large, sagging bosom. Starla smelled of her signature scent—rosewater and liniment.

Jancie had loved her great aunt’s hugs as long as she could remember. Stress and worry melted away, and she hugged back. Her arm grazed Starla’s white curls along the collar of her blue knit top embroidered with white stars—her great aunt’s favorite emblem.

“It’s so good to see you. Come sit a spell, while I get us some iced tea.” Starla pulled away and gestured to the microsuede couch decorated with three crocheted afghans in a rainbow of colors. “I thought we were done with this hot weather, but not quite yet. That rain today’s been a gully washer but didn’t cool things off much.” The large-boned woman scuffed her pink-house-slippered feet toward the kitchen. “Would you rather have pound cake from the IGA or homemade cornbread?”

Jancie laughed and followed her into the kitchen. She wouldn’t get through the visit without eating. “You’re just fishin’ for a compliment. You know your homemade cornbread is better.”

Starla arranged plates with thick slices of warm cornbread and big pats of butter on top, while Jancie transferred the refreshments to the aluminum dinette table.

“With your hair pulled back like that, you’re a dead ringer for your Ma. So pretty with that same sweetheart-shaped face.” Starla folded herself onto a chair beside Jancie. “You look to be getting on well…considering what all you’ve been through.”

“I’m doing okay,” Jancie said through a mouthful of the moist cornbread. She washed it down with a swallow of brisk tea that tasted fresh-brewed. “But sometimes, lots of times, I feel lost, like I can’t move on.” She ran a hand across her forehead. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I spent time with her through all those years, and it shouldn’t matter, but it does every time I visit her grave and most every night in my dreams.”

“Oh, honey. I know it hurts.” Starla smoothed Jancie’s ponytail down the middle of her back and spoke with a voice so slow and warm, it felt like a handmade quilt wrapping around her.  “You spent all that time and gave so much. Just like when I cared for my husband some twenty years back. I know. I never got the chance to tell Harry goodbye either. Time will heal all hurts.”

Jancie looked down at the marbleized tabletop to hide her teary eyes. “I don’t think I’m ever going to heal, Aunt Starla. I don’t know if I can ever move on.”

“There is one thing you can try. I’d have done it, if I’d have known before decades softened my aching heart. Way back, I was desperate like you.”

Jancie looked into Starla’s blue-gray eyes, set deep inside wrinkled lids.

Her aunt leaned closer. “Not many know about this,” she whispered as if someone outside the apartment door might hear. “There’s an old story about how a member of the Coon Hollow Coven, one who’s recently lost a loved one, is made the teller of the moonstone tale.”

Jancie rolled her eyes. “That’s just a silly story, one of lots that Mom and Dad told to scare me when I was little, so I’d stay away from the coven. When the moonstone locket opens at the end of the tale, you’ll get your wish but also be cursed.”

“Oh no.” Starla shook her head and pushed away from the table. “Let me get Aunt Maggie’s old diary. I got this in a box of old family things when Cousin Dorothy passed. ” She lumbered to her spare bedroom and returned with a worn, black-leather volume only a little larger than her wide palm. Once seated, she thumbed through the yellowed pages. “Here.” She pointed a finger and placed the book between them.

*~*~*

Marsha A. Moore is a writer of fantasy and fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. Read her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS for adventurous, epic fantasy romance. Or enjoy a magical realism tale of a haunted yoga studio with SHADOWS OF SERENITY. For a FREE ebook sample of her writing, read her historic fantasy short story, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazon and Smashwords.