"Sonas"is a Gaelic word meaning "happiness and prosperity."
Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
The seventh book in the Celtic Journeys series, MAIDEN
OF THE WINDS, Keavy is a beautiful young woman of ancient Eire who has never forgotten her magical encounter years before with a magnificent golden eagle -- an eagle which, she is convinced, was actually a man with the legendary ability to take the form of a bird. She has never lost the feeling that she was meant for this man and no other. When Keavy’s frustrated family insists that she must take
a husband or be sent off from MAIDEN OF THE WINDS by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
The sound of his great wings made her look
up. MAIDEN OF THE WINDS will be a July 2003 release from Leisure LoveSpell.
Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page
The sixth book in the Celtic Journeys series, KEEPER
OF THE LIGHT, will be released in January of 2003 by Leisure LoveSpell ! Rioghan is a healer and mistress of magick living alone in a forest cave among the Sidhe, the Little People of ancient Eire. She is courted by Donaill, the handsome and jovial king’s champion. But after Rioghan helps a betrayed wife get justice against the woman who stole her husband, Rioghan finds that the man she herself loves has been placed under a dark and terrible enchantment -- and unless his love can be proven true, he will remain so forever. Now Rioghan must choose. Will she use the power of dark magick to battle an evil sorceress in a desperate effort to set Donaill free? Or will she do as the Little People urge her to do, and trust that the man she loves will find his way back to her because his heart is true? Will she become a wielder of dark power, or will she remain a KEEPER OF THE LIGHT? from KEEPER OF THE LIGHT by Janeen O'Kerry . . . Online public records engine. Best business manager software at our site. . Get familiar - gatwick airport parking. for you! “Rioghan!” cried Donaill, slowing his horse
to a trot and then to a walk. “Rioghan! I know you must be
near. You could not have gone much farther than this. Please
come out to me. I will take you to Sion, if you will allow me.” KEEPER OF THE LIGHT will be a January 2003 release from Leisure LoveSpell . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
The fifth book in the "Celtic Journeys" series,
SPIRIT OF THE MIST, is a July 2002 release from Leisure Books and is now available in bookstores nationwide! Muriel is a young woman of ancient Ireland who must marry no man but a king, for she will lose her magick if she marries any other. One night she saves the handsome Brendan from certain death at sea. He says he is a prince, one day to be a king . . . but evcn as her love for him grows, so do prophetic signs which say he is anything but royalty. . . . "Janeen O'Kerry breathes the misty atmosphere of ancient Celtic Ireland into a tale that mixes warriors, magic, legend, and a love that will not be denied into a romance that satisfies both the historical and paranormal reader."-- Romantic Times Magazine , August 2002 I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of SPIRIT OF THE MIST available. Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes shipping) to: Janeen O'Kerry 4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95 Glendale AZ 85308 from SPIRIT OF THE MIST by Janeen O'Kerry . . . Muriel ran headlong into the howling storm, struggling to fasten the heavy bronze brooch which would hold her cloak at her shoulder. She could see almost nothing in the heavy darkness and had to find the path to the sea from memory. Never had the journey seemed so long. At last, reaching the wet sand of the beach, she untied the strings of her folded leather boots, pulled them off, and threw them aside. Closing her eyes as the rain poured down, she waded ankle-deep into the cold white surf. Now in contact with the water of the sea, and the life within it, she held out her arms and spoke to the ones she treasured most . . . two sleek grey swimmers, smooth and swift, who laughed at storms and considered the roughest waves to be their playground. Come to me . . . come to me. There is one who needs your help. The lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled. A short distance away two dolphins arced up out of the ocean, one after the other. Near the rocks . . . the storm has him, but you are stronger. Help him . . . bring him here . . . bring him to me. The dolphins leaped again, and vanished beneath the waves. Muriel shielded her eyes against the cold rain and looked out toward the rocks, where she knew the man in the curragh struggled against the storm. He must surely be looking death in the face right now. Another flash, and this time she saw it -- the curragh riding high on the white-capped waves, heading straight toward the boulders at the foot of the cliff. Then there was only darkness and howling wind, and lashing rain and crashing surf. She took another step into the rushing sea. The sand tugged hard at the soles of her feet each time the waves receded. Help him , she said to the dolphins again, closing her eyes and stretching her hands towards the cliffs. You can do this thing . . . you can bring him here . . . you can save his life. She was almost afraid toher eyes, fearing she would see nothing but roaring waves. But she didthem, blinking against the rain, and looked hard into the darkness -- and a brilliant rippling flash showed her the little curragh bouncing and leaping toward her on the waves, pushed and guided by the two dolphins. But there was no sign of the man. Had she been too late? Had her friends rescued only a curragh, and not its passenger? The two creatures slapped the waves with their tails as they forced the craft to shore, almost at Muriel’s feet, and then turned away and headed back out to sea. Thank you . . . thank you! The two dolphins leaped up out of the sea once more, and then were gone. She grabbed hold of the boat’s sides and looked in. The man lay on the floor of the boat, exhausted from the struggle and from the cold, the last of his strength spent in his battle against the waves. “Get out! You must get out!” Muriel struggled to drag the heavy craft up onto the beach before the waves could grab hold of it again. “Get out!” But the man lay unmoving on his side, his face half-covered by the cold water pooling on the bottom of the boat. She reached in and got him by the shoulder. With some effort she managed to pull him over onto his back. Was he dead? She placed her fingers at his neck. The skin was cold with rain, but warm beneath, and the pulse steady and strong. He was alive -- but she had to get him out of the curragh before the sea dragged it away again. “Wake up! Come with me! Wake up! Wake up!” The man stirred a little, but then fell back again. She raised her hand and slapped him sharply on the face -- enough to sting his cheek and make himhis eyes. He sat up suddenly and caught her wrist. In an instant he had come fully awake. “Who are you?” he whispered, staring up at her. The lightning flashed and she caught her breath, for he had the strangest eyes she had ever seen. She’d only seen them for an instant, in the lightning, but they were unlike the eyes of any other man. The sight of them was enough to make her wonder just what it was she had rescued. Even as she stared at him, and the rain pelted her face, he began to lose his grip on her wrist. Muriel thought he had pulled away from her -- but he had not moved and neither had she. It was the sea grabbing hold of the curragh and dragging it off on the waves again. Muriel leaped back. “Get out! Get out!” she cried, as the boat moved farther and farther away. “I have not the power to help you again tonight! Get out!” In one move he vaulted out of the little boat and into the chest-high surf. He struggled against it, battling the sea with the last of his strength -- and then the waves took him down and he vanished beneath them. Muriel started to cry out, started to go to him, but there was nothing she could do. The sea would take her, too. Come back, come back . . . come back to me! SPIRIT OF THE MIST is a July 2002 release from Leisure LoveSpell . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
SISTER OF THE MOON
is set against the ancient pagan festival of Samhain, better known
to us as Halloween. It is the story of Scahta, who is Queen of the
Sidhe, the secretive Fair Folk of ancient Ireland.
The invading, iron-wielding Men are slowly destroying Scahta's people, but she has learned that hope may lie with a strong and determined Man called Anlon -- if she is willing lure him away and take him as her husband. "Janeen O'Kerry casts a delicate
spell of wonder and wishing in this tale of ancient Ireland." I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of SISTER OF
THE MOON available. from SISTER OF THE MOON by Janeen O'Kerry . . . Now began the most magical time of the day. Now began the time when it was truly neither day nor night. It was not day, for the sun was gone from the sky; yet neither was it night, for light remained. Now was the time for Scahta to show herself. From the edge of the forest where she had watched the Men, she moved through the trees to the place where their roots met the lake. Again she turned toward the campsite of the Men, where the Fianna talked and drank and laughed, where the fire leaped and crackled -- and, she knew, would reflect off the long, straight, polished bronze pin which held her cloak at her shoulder. For a time Anlon merely swam in the cool clear water and breathed deep of the sweet evening air, no doubt quite happy for a chance to relax and refresh himself after his endless hours of work for the other Men. Scahta took another step towards the water, turning slightly. She spoke his name, so quietly that even she could not hear it, allowing only the wind to catch her words and carry them out to where he swam. Suddenly he stopped. Something had clearly caught his attention. He looked quickly around and then gazed straight into the forest, straight up at her. She moved toward him, knowing that he would see little more than the gleam of her bronze pin. "Hello, Anlon," she said, and moved a little closer so that he could see her shadowed outline against the trees. His hazel eyes were large and searching. "Hello, beautiful lady," he answered. His voice was gentle but still taut with excitement. "You do not fear me?" she asked. "I do not." His strong arms moved beneath the water, keeping his place before her against the current of the lake. "You are a woman of the Sidhe." "So, you know of the Sidhe-folk." "I do. They are the ancient people, the ones who live in the hills and the caves and the deep forests -- the ones who lived here long before the coming of the Men." He smiled, and raised his palms out of the water. "I regret that I have nothing to offer you. When I return to the camp, I will share what I have with you at the edge of the forest." "The other Men share nothing with the Sidhe, Anlon. Why should you?" He allowed himself to drift a bit closer. "I am no nobleman's son," he said, with a shake of his head. "My father was a herdsman. I grew up in the thick of the forest and on the heights of the hills. The Sidhe wanted only to share a bit of our food from time to time. And they, too, were generous." "Generous?" "Once, when I placed milk and bread beneath the trees for them, they left me a beautiful bronze pin made straight and slender in the old way. It is the only fine thing I own." "I am not so sure that it is the only thing." Scahta smiled down at him. "Come to me." He hesitated, and again she used the wind-voice. Come to me . . . He moved to the rocky shoreline and climbed out of the lake, walking slowly up to Scahta until he was almost close enough to touch. Now there was nothing to set him apart from the other Men, nothing to say whether he was noble or servant or King. Instead of rough clothes and grime he wore nothing but night wind and twilight. Yet he was not ashamed, not uncomfortable before her; he did not even seem to feel the cold evening air on his wet skin. There was a gentleness about him, an innocence, that she had never seen in other Men. The first thing she noticed was his great height. The top of her head would just come up to his shoulder. His body was hard and muscled from hard work and training, yet long-limbed and graceful at the same time. There was more than a little of the fine grace which was usually seen only in her own people. His face, smooth and shaved clean, carried fine young features, with gentle hazel eyes and shining dark hair. "The other Men work you like an animal," she said. "Why do you allow this?" He smiled, and she noted the tender, curving mouth. "One who is not born to the ranks of the Fianna must work his way into them. It is rare that a chance is even given." He shook his head. "A herdsman's life can be a good one, but I cannot help but believe that I am meant for something more. And I want very much to find it." "Perhaps you are meant for something more . . . something much more." She walked around him, still in the deep shadows of the trees, studying the long lines of him and gazing calmly at his fair skin glistening in the rising moon. "You say you are a herdsman's son. It is not often that any herdsman is possessed of such beauty." He smiled back at her, almost shyly -- yet she could see the pride and strength shining through in his hazel eyes. "I know little of my father's family. I know only the story his own mother tells, that he was sired by a man of 'exceptional beauty' who came to her at the Beltine fires." Scahta smiled back at him, nodding gently. "So, Anlon, your father was a child of the spring rites. Do you not know that he, and you, must both be sons of the Sidhe?" "I always believed it might be true. I know that the Sidhe do sometimes approach the Beltine fires, to find mates just as we -- just as the Men do on that night." "That they do. Our women seek strong children, strong enough to survive in the world of Men. The men of the Sidhe have no wish to see their own blood vanish from the world, and know that the women of the Men often find them quite beautiful." They gazed at each other, stirred by thoughts of the spring mating ritual around the flaring bonfires, each drawn by the strange beauty of the other. "Anlon!" came the distant shout, drifting across the water on the breeze. "Anlon, the fire is dying down! Anlon!" His eyes flicked toward the sound, and then back to her. "I must go now," he said. "But as I said, I will leave a gift for you at the edge of the forest." "That is kind of you," she said. "Perhaps I will leave a gift for you as well." He started to lift one hand, as though to reach for her, but she only said, "Go now, Anlon. Go." He paused, and smiled, and then walked back into the water and began swimming to the camp. Scahta watched as he cut smoothly through the dark water, and smiled to herself. He was exactly what she was looking for. . . . SISTER OF THE MOON is now available from Leisure LoveSpell and Amazon Books . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
MISTRESS
OF THE WATERS is a time-travel romance which takes on the ancient
and powerful ritual of life and fertility called Beltane -- although our
heroine knows it only through its much-diluted modern descendant, May
Day. Strange things can happen, she discovers, when one is chosen
Queen of the May, and the hawthorn flowers are cut to make a crown . .
. I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of MISTRESS
OF THE WATERS available. Just send $6.00 by check
or money order (this includes shipping) to: from MISTRESS OF THE WATERS by Janeen O'Kerry . . . Ah, now, this was more to his liking. Lasairian had been wondering if any of the ladies would slip away from all the preparations and come up here to join him. Ever since his father and the king had ordered him to serve as a cowherd for the summer, most of the other young men and women had carefully avoided him. None wanted to be associated with the target of the king's displeasure. Lasairian had even put away his fine clothes and gold and taken to dressing in the plain coarse wools and simple copper ornaments of a herdboy, hoping that his father would be so appalled by the sight that he would intervene and persuade the king to change his mind . . . He had to admit that it did not seem likely. Of course, most of the people of Abhainn Aille would be quite well occupied getting ready for tonight's ritual, even as he was -- practicing his new music -- but he had hoped he would not have to pass the whole afternoon alone. He looked carefully through the branches of the hawthorn, where the lady stood hidden behind the leaves and flowers. Which one was it? He couldn't be sure. He saw only a slight and slender figure dressed in a very unusual shade of green -- a very pale, almost unnatural shade which he'd never seen before, with a wide belt as yellow as a samhaircin flower wrapped around her waist. On one finger he noticed a gleam of gold and the glimmer of some fine stone. Lasairian smiled. "Keelin? Monat?" he called, peering through the branches and trying to move them out of the way. He still could not quite make out who his visitor was. Well, if she wanted to play a little hiding game, he would be happy to oblige -- yet his curiosity was growing. Behind the rustling leaves he could see pale shining hair, long and fine, almost like a child's in the way it fell down loose past her shoulders; it was yellow, as though she had borrowed a touch of color from her sash. Skin smooth and fair as milk, with a faint blush of pink Her eyes, clear blue, were enormous and staring. "Ian," she said, in a voice little more than a whisper. "Ian?" He stepped out from behind the tree, and smiled at her. "That is not my name, beautiful lady," he said. "Though it could be, if you wish it so." She stared up at him, and up -- she was not very tall, he noted, her head would just come up to his shoulder -- and shook her head slightly. She kept her frightened gaze fixed on his face, as though she feared to look around. She spoke again, more rapidly this time, and he could not catch a word of it. "I am sorry, but I do not understand any of what you are saying. Do you not speak the language of Eire?" "Eire . . . " Now, though she did not move, her glance darted left and right and then back at him, as though she could not believe what she was seeing. And at last she spoke to him in words that made sense. "Who are you? What is this place? Why am I here?" She spoke haltingly, and with a strange accent, one he had never heard before. But he was most concerned about her demeanor -- trembling and pale, eyes wide with wonder, lips parted as though she wanted to speak again but didn't know where to start. After the briefest of glances left and right, she stared straight into his eyes. "Is this -- is this Eire?" Lasairian felt a chill. Just exactly what had he encountered here? He was certain he'd never seen her before. He would never have forgotten so pretty a young woman. "Why do you doubt that you are in Eire?" he asked gently, moving another step closer. "What has happened to you?" "I don't know," she said. "I remember only walking around the tree behind my home -- and singing the song -- and it all faded away, and all I heard was the music, and then I was here . . . here with you." Lasairian smiled, feeling certain that he could reassure her, win her over as he had always been able to do with every woman he'd ever encountered. "I can tell you that you are not from anywhere within a day's ride of here," he said. "But I can also tell you that no matter where you may have come from, you are indeed in the land of Eire." . . . MISTRESS OF THE WATERS is available from Leisure LoveSpell and Amazon Books . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
QUEEN OF THE SUN,
a time-travel romance, takes as its setting the very magical occurrences
surrounding the celebration of the Summer Solstice. I'm happy to tell you
that this book received four stars fromRomantic Times! " . . . an engrossing
tale of ancient Ireland . . . with accurate historical detail and well-crafted
characters." --
Romantic Times
Magazine
, July 1998 from QUEEN OF THE SUN by Janeen O'Kerry . . . “Let me tell you what I am searching for,” Conaire said. “I will never take an ordinary woman as my wife, for an ordinary woman would never make a queen. She would wither and fail in the attempt, and drain the life and strength from her people as she did. "Mind you, I am not looking just for 'my' queen. I am looking for the queen of Dun Cath, of my family, of the people who follow where I lead and depend upon me to protect them. No, I am quite serious when I tell you that I will have nothing less than a woman worth dying for as the queen of Dun Cath.” “I can understand that,” Terri said, after a moment. “But why are you so sure I’m the one?” “Oh, I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.” Her temper flared. “Not sure! When you’ve been telling me all this time that I’ve been sent here just for you? To be your wife, to be your -- “ “I believe you should be my queen. But you will have to be tested first.” She put her hands on her hips, not believing what she was hearing. “Tested.” “Of course.” He sat down against a lone young tree, the sun shining on his face, and grinned up at her, locking his fingers behind his head. “Do you want to tell me what these tests are?” “Since you are so interested -- and I’m so pleased that you are -- I will tell you.” He unclasped his hands and sat up before Terri could say a word. “There are three things that I require in a queen.” He began counting on his fingers. “One -- beauty. Two -- humility. Three -- courage.” “That’s all?” “That's everything.” “And you’re telling me that you have found no woman here who is beautiful, and humble, and brave?” He shrugged. “Oh, many women have exhibited one of those traits, and a few have shown me two, but not one has ever shown all three. Only when I see all three will I know that I have found my queen.” Terri stood right over him, looking down at his smooth bearded face with the coldest glare she could muster. “King Conaire, if you believe that I will go through some kind of test for you -- when I don’t even want to be queen in the first place! -- you are wrong! You will have to prove those things to me -- and I may not stop with just three things!” . . . QUEEN OF THE SUN is available from Leisure LoveSpell and Amazon Books . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page 
"Readers are whisked into the land of mists and warriors, Druids and legends, as Ms. O'Kerry spins a delightful yarn of undeniable love."
-- Romantic Times
Magazine
, August 1996 from LADY OF FIRE by Janeen O'Kerry . . . He was long-legged and broad-shouldered, and even under his conservative wool tweed jacket and crisp white shirt Christine could feel the enormous strength and power in him. The very room was filled with it. This man was no desk-bound academic. He looked to be in his thirties, older and far more sophisticated than the average student. His hair was feather-soft and blonde, neatly trimmed just to the edge of his white shirt collar. His eyes shone bright and his fair skin was flushed with excitement. And at this moment, the full force of his personality was directed at her with the intensity of the sun’s focused rays. “Bridget Christine . . . “ She blinked. He was an incredibly handsome man, and she had no doubt that if she’d ever seen him before she would have remembered him. Yet he seemed to know her. How was that possible? “My name is Bridget Christine,” she said, matching his burning gaze. “Are -- you looking for someone by that name?” Some of the light faded from his eyes. He seemed to draw inward, as if he had lowered a shield on the radiant force emanating from him and carefully placed himself at arms’s length from her. “I am,” he said. “I am looking for Bridget Christine, a red-haired lady of great beauty and extraordinary spirit.” His voice was gentle and warm, with a soft Irish accent. “But the Bridget Christine I seek already knows me. I am -- sorry.” He looked away, as if it hurt him to say the words. “I -- I only go by Christine,” she said hesitantly, as if that explained everything. There was a small sound of throat-clearing behind them. “Ah, this is the visiting historian I mentioned,” said Professor Vaughn. “May I introduce Mr. Donalson, of County Donegal, Ireland. Mr. Donalson, this is a former student of mine, Miss Christine Connolly -- as you already seem to know,” he muttered, sitting back down at his desk and shuffling yet another stack of papers. “I am sorry to have disturbed your meeting with the professor, Chris -- Miss Connolly.” With great reluctance, the handsome blonde man took a step backward and began reaching for the door. “Perhaps I should -- come back another time -- “ “Oh, no, no. Here -- let me show you.” She fumbled in her purse and hastily pulled out the golden torque. For a long moment, he gazed in silence at the strange object in her hand. His face softened and his eyes shone bright and clear, so bright that it seemed to Christine they were touched with tears. Slowly he raised one hand, reaching out as if to touch the torque, but then drew back again. “Do you recognize it?” she whispered. “Do you know what it is?” When he made no answer, something else occurred to her. “I bought it today at a yard sale on the edge of the campus. Is it yours? Was it lost, or stolen from you?” He looked up at her, and smiled gently. “It is not mine. It belongs to Brighid.” Now she was really confused. “To -- who?” He gestured at the torque, watching it closely as she turned it over in her hands. “Do you see the faces of the women at each end of it?” The red stones set into the sides behind their hair? This piece was dedicated to Brighid, long ago.” He paused, and whispered almost to himself. “A very long time ago.” Bridget . . . “Oh, yes,” Christine said. “Saint Bridget. The Irish saint. I know. I was born on her day, and named for her.” “So you were,” said Mr. Donalson. “But Bridget is an old and beautiful name. Why do you not use it, if I may ask?” Christine smiled at him. “Well, the other kids used to call me things like Bridget Bardot and Bridget the Midget, so I always insisted on being called Christine. But -- “ She glanced down at the torque, studying the strong young faces of the women. “This piece looks awfully -- well, pagan to me. How could it have been made for Saint Bridget?” “Oh, it was not made for a saint, Miss Connolly. I am sorry. I did not mean Saint Bridget. Your torque as made for her predecessor, Brighid, a Celtic goddess.” “A -- goddess?” “A goddess.” Once more he gazed at her, his blue-grey eyes shining right through to her very soul. “In the old Celtic world, Brighid was called the Lady of Fire. She was the keeper of the hearth and the patroness of words.” “Of words?” she whispered. “Of words. She loved to hear poetry and song, and especially loved to hear it sung on the battlefield by warriors asking her for strength and courage. “Her festival day was the first day of spring -- that was the first of February, back in the ancient world. We still remember it today as St. Bridget’s Day, or as Candlemas, or -- in your case -- as your birthday.” Christine simply gazed at him, held spellbound by his words and by his eyes and by the sheer magic of his presence. Never had she been near a man like this one. He was something completely new to her, a combination of warmth and intelligence and sheer physical power, something that she had never thought existed. She could have stood for hours, or days, just listening to the sound of his gentle Irish voice. . . . LADY OF FIRE is currently out of print! It is available at many public libraries and at auction on Amazon Books . Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page from APRIL'S CHRISTMAS by Janeen S. DeBoard and Hazel Ann Williams . . . I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read, hardback copies of
APRIL'S CHRISTMAS available. 
A
few minutes later, the horse and carriage rounded a corner. The harness
bells rang out as the grey horse trotted down the long street leading
back to the hotel, straight through the heart of the downtown.Harlan moved as close to April as he could and pulled the lap robe all the way up to his chin. His teeth were beginning to chatter and the knife-edge of the wind blew right through him, but he had to admit -- he was still having a good time. It seemed that no matter where he was or what he was doing, if April was there things always turned out for the best. "Say! That reminds me," Harlan said, reaching for April's gloved hand with his frozen fingers. "Pretty lady - how would you like to go to a Christmas party with me?" "A Christmas party?" "Yeah! I don't know how I could have forgotten. Luke Hazelton and his wife are having a fancy party out at their house in the country. I'm invited, and I'm allowed to bring a date -- and there's no one in Columbus I'd rather go with. What do you say?" "Oh . . . it does sound grand . . . " April stared at his face, so young and handsome even with his skin reddened from the snowy wind, and a small sting of pain ran through her. No one in Columbus, he had said. But -- she would not let that stop her! She had already vowed not to turn away again. "I would love to go, Harlan," she said, in a breathless whisper of excitement. "I -- I wouldn't miss it for the world." April was determined to spend every minute she could with Mr. Harlan Kennedy . . . and she hoped and prayed that he would feel the same way about her. "Good. It's on Saturday the twenty-second, seven in the evening." "That sounds wonderful, Harlan. I'll be there." I'll be anywhere you want me to be, she thought, with a sudden stab of certainty. Anywhere at all. She could no longer imagine her life without him. If this man were to ask her to go to Los Angeles, or to New York, or to the moon, April Dawn would gladly go with him -- as his wife. Harlan squeezed her hand, and they cuddled close together beneath the pink-and-white lap robe. The holidays were certainly turning out much better than he'd thought they would. It was very nice to see April beginning to relax and enjoy his company, and he found himself actually looking forward to the Hazelton party. Now it would be more than just another business obligation. No, it would not be easy leaving April Dawn behind when January came and his work in Columbus was finished. But while he was here, they could certainly make the most of whatever time they had together. The harness bells jingled merrily as the dapple grey horse trotted into the snowy night. . . . APRIL'S CHRISTMAS is currently out of print! It is available from Janeen O'Kerry (see above) and at many public libraries .
Return to Janeen O'Kerry's Web Page
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