Aces Down

ISBN Digital: 9781509201495
ISBN Print: 9781509201488
Page Count: 180
Word Count: 46260
Rating: Sensual
MSRP: 3.99

Solitary witch, Norah Cartwright, settled in Colorado’s silver country, seeking protection from vengeful werewolves and a place to rebuild her life. When former boyfriend, Tristan Byrnes, shows up at her bar, Aces Down, it seems there’s not enough silver in them hills after all. At least, not for a werewolf determined to win back his mate.

Instead of flowers, Tristan brings irrefutable proof the pack has been called off her trail, but he never guessed his proof was more time-bomb than peace-offering. When her past blows up in her face, is Norah strong enough to trust Tristan and defeat an attack from beyond the grave?


The front door of Aces Down opened and a gust of fresh air swept into the bar. Standing in the open door to the kitchen while I chatted with Pete, I was too far away to actually feel the breeze, but a shiver ran up my spine.

Someone’s walking on your grave, Mama would have said. And this time she might have been right. I’d set spells around the front door to Aces Down to warn me if a paranormal crossed the threshold, but this was more. I knew that shiver, fur on bare skin, a sensation that once would have made me weak in the knees—Tristan. Instead, every muscle in my body tensed while the image of the Six of Swords imposed itself between me and Pete.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath, my grip tightening on the kitchen door jamb with an audible crack of knuckles.

Pete looked up from the prep table where he was assembling the ingredients for the dinner menu. His cheerful expression shifted to a mixture of curiosity and concern. “You all right, Boss Lady?”

With a smile I hoped looked reassuring, I dropped my hand to my side. “Fine, Pete.” Only the familiar weight of my gun, snug against the small of my back, gave me enough confidence to resist the urge to race out the back door. Never run. It marks you as prey.

Over the babble of the late lunch group—crowd was too strong a word to use for the two tables of regulars—I could hear my bartender, Malcolm, giving his spiel about the day’s lunch specials. In the momentary lull while the jukebox switched CD’s, a barstool scraped on the wood floor and a cushion creaked. “Rainy Night in Georgia” poured into the air, covering any response I might have overheard.

I eased back flat against the open kitchen door and glanced toward the front of the barroom. My heartbeat stuttered when I looked at the figure seated at the bar. Plain brown leather jacket and worn jeans, his dark brown hair just long enough to brush the collar, he looked like an unaffiliated biker passing through, but I knew better. Over a year, and now he comes through my door.

Copyright © 2018 The Wild Rose Press, Inc.