Praise for the novels ofNew York Timesbestselling author Susan Krinard
âAnimal lovers as well as romance readers and those who enjoy stories about mystical creatures and what happens when their world collides with ours will all find Krinardâs book impossible to put down.â
âBooklist on Lord of the Beasts
âA poignant tale of redemption.â
âBooklist on To Tame a Wolf
âA master of atmosphere and description.â
âLibrary Journal
âSusan Krinard was born to write romance.â
âNew York Times bestselling author Amanda Quick
âMagical, mystical, and moving ⦠fans will be delighted.â
âBooklist on The Forest Lord
âA darkly magical story of love, betrayal, and redemption â¦
Krinard is a bestselling, highly regarded writer who is deservedly carving out a niche in the romance arena.â âLibrary Journal on The Forest Lord
âWith riveting dialogue and passionate characters, Ms Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.â
âRT Book Reviews on Secret of the Wolf
New York City, 1883
âMAMA? Mama!â
Portia Marron looked at Mariah the same way she had for the past week, her eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, as if she could no longer see the real world.
But the world as Mariah knew it hadnât been real to her mother for many years. Portia saw one much more beautiful, inhabited by wondrous creatures who sometimes crossed the barriers in her mind to whisper in her ear.
âMama,â Mariah said again, squeezing the frail hand. âPlease come back.â
Briefly, the faded blue eyes cleared. âIs that my little girl?â Portia asked in the croak of a voice seldom used. âNow, now. Donât you fret none.â
Mariah looked away. Mama had relapsed so far that she was living in the distant past, when Papa had still been working on the railroad with his own hands and muscle, and Mama had been a rancherâs daughter.
Papa had tried to put that past far behind him. Heâd done his best to buy his way into New York society, but his efforts had proved largely futile. Wealthy as he was, he was still one of the nouveau riche, without an ancient family name to open the gates.
Not that Mama had cared. In fact, it had always seemed that the harder Papa pushed his family to enter a society that rejected them, the deeper Mama retreated into her realms of fantasy.
Mariah patted the withered flesh stretched over the hills of blue veins. âYes, Mama,â she said. âEverything will be all right.â
The brief moment of coherence left Mamaâs eyes. âDo you hear them?â she asked dreamily. âTheyâre louder now. Theyâre calling me.â
It took all Mariahâs control not to squeeze too tight before she released Mamaâs hand. âNot yet, Mama. They donât want you yet.â
âBut they sing so beautifully. Canât you hear?â Mrs. Marron rolled her head on the down pillow. âSo sweet. You must hear them, my darling. They will be coming for you, too.â
Mariah shuddered, knowing her mother wouldnât see. âPerhaps someday, Mama.â
âSomeday,â Portia sighed, releasing her breath too slowly. Then she turned her head toward Mariah, and a strange ferocity took hold of her gaunt face.
âDonât let those doctors take me back,â she said. âPromise me, Merry. Promise me you wonât let them take me.â
Sickness surged in Mariahâs throat. âNo, Mama. I wonât.â
âPromise!â
âI promise.â She sketched a pattern across her chest just as sheâd done as a little girl. âCross my heart and hope to die.â
Mrs. Marron relaxed, the tension draining from her body. âYouâre a good girl, Merry. Always have been. You never cared about them snooty harpies. The best of them ainât as good as you.â She smiled again. âYou remember when you was little, and I read you them fairy stories? How you loved them.â
âYes, Mama.â She had loved them: fairy tales and all the romantic adventure stories about lost princes and hidden treasures. Sheâd half believed they were true. Not anymore.
Mama felt across the sheets for Mariahâs hand. âDonât give up, Merry,â she said. âSometimes the good things seem far away. Good things like love. But itâll find you, my girl. Sooner or later, youâll have to believe in something you canât see.â
That was the old Mama. The one who had been less and less in evidence as the months and years passed. The one who never would have survived in the asylum if not for her invisible companions.
The one Mariah missed so terribly.
She leaned over to kiss Mamaâs cheek. âYou should sleep now,â she said. âWhen you wake, Iâll bring you a nice cup of tea and a few of Cookâs fresh biscuits.â
âBiscuits.â Mama slipped away again. âI wonder if they have biscuits there. Iâll have to ask.â¦â She closed her eyes and almost immediately sank into a deep sleep.