Fresh out of prison, Jack “Gent” Darcy is bent on cutting ties with the Creds, but when you’re a war counselor in a national gang, they don’t let you just walk away.
Injured and on the run, Jack lands on Hank’s doorstep, and makes her a proposition she can’t refuse: write his story about life inside one of the most powerful gangs in the country. It’s simple—she’ll get her career groove back, and he’ll bury the gang, then disappear—his version of freedom.
The only problem? They can’t help falling for each other, and they’ve both got something to hide that could blow up in their faces. With time running out and gang enforcers closing in, will the trust they’ve forged survive the ultimate test?
A MIGHTY GOOD MAN is a fast, punchy read that puts a new spin on family, second chances, and the power of love.
A Mighty Good Man can be purchased from: Amazon
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Raised on a down home blend of Johnny Cash, Jack London, Sherlock Holmes, the Steelers, and all things small town, Rebecca feels blessed to have grown up in a close knit, fun loving and artistic family. Her mother, a voracious reader and scratch cook, and her father, an entrepreneur, English teacher and lover of literature, taught Rebecca and her brother to work hard, aim for the stars, and live life.
With music, books and laughter as constant companions, she grew up working, cooking and eating in the family’s restaurant business. A certified book and hoagie junkie, Rebecca thrives on live music, mysteries and the outdoors. She’s a cheddar enthusiast, lover of cats, teddy bears, hot coffee, cold beer, thunderstorms, the blast of a train’s whistle, the change of seasons, country roads, woodpeckers, spoon rings, cool office supplies, and the Food Network.
She’s a sucker for a happy ending, and strives to write the kind of stories she loves to read—those featuring authentic, edgy and vulnerable characters, smack dab in the middle of action that explodes from page one.
Careers, past and present, include freelance writing, accounting, mother, problem solver, doer and head bottle washer.
She is a PRO member of Romance Writers of America, and is honored to serve as a judge for several writing contests each year.
Rebecca can be found:
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A Mighty Good Man excerpt – CHAPTER 2
“They pulled it.”
Hank sucked in a breath and clutched her stomach like she’d been punched. Her smartphone pressed to her ear, she ceased her inventory of the walk-in cooler and slumped on the overturned five-gallon bucket she’d been using as a step stool.
Of course they’d pulled her story. The final betrayal. And it hurt almost as much, if not more than the first blow the bastard had dealt her.
She’d gunned for it, poured her heart into it, worked the angles, taken to the streets to do research. She’d given the underage prostitutes she’d interviewed a voice, a way to spur action. Their eyes, haunted, hopeless, would always stay with her. Hot tears clogged Hank’s throat. Her story, buried—a fate she hoped wouldn’t befall the young men and women she’d met. Goddamn him—and her—to hell.
The surprise and shock she’d thought herself immune to, that she no longer had a right to, reached out and took hold of her heart with two icy hands. As she shifted on the bucket, her foot struck an open gallon container of dill pickles, upending it. She sat, staring, motionless, as cold brine sloshed out of the jar and soaked her pink high top Converse, her sock, the floor.
“Hank? Are you there?”
She forced away the tears. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Ana was a friend; she didn’t, couldn’t know all that had happened. Hank’d never told anyone about Maurice. How could she? By calling her, Ana had done what a friend would do, and given her the dirt.
“What the hell is going on?” Ana’s voice was low, guarded. Hank pictured her in her cubicle, her head down, wary of discovery through the fabric dividers.
“I can’t talk right now. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Okay.” Ana sighed. “How is your aunt?”
“She’s going to be okay.” Hank had moved to auto pilot on that topic.
“Good. Well, call me . . . if you need anything.”
Yeah, maybe she would—for a reference. “I will.” Hank ended the call, then rested her chin on her phone, eyeballing the design of colored pencil shavings on its protective case. She set it down on one of the stainless shelves and rubbed her bare arms, her plans for taking inventory and rotating stock in the cooler forgotten for the moment. She was cold, but she didn’t care. She’d steal a moment’s peace where she could find it.
At this rate, she’d be punch drunk before long. Christ! The story was the icing on this morning’s cake. Criminals, guns, ex-cons—she hadn’t seen this much action living in New York City during the past year. She patted her pocket containing the .32, then leaned forward on the bucket, pushed the cooler door open, just enough so she could see Jack, plating up orders. Everything appeared to be under control. For the moment. She eased away, let the door swing shut again.
She toyed with the silver spoon rings on three of her fingers, one of her thumbs, noting they could use a polish. She almost snorted. So could I. Each ring was unique; some were delicate, their patterns intricate, others were wider, simpler. Each one she’d bought for herself, and in so doing, she’d begun an unplanned collection, and owned about ten now. They’d evolved into a powerful symbol of self, of her pride in non-conformity, beauty, strength. Quite a beating that self, that pride had taken.
She dug in her pocket, noted her dwindling supply of Cowboy killers. None of those highfalutin’, slim line cigarettes for her. She went at her nicotine the same way she did life—whole hog. She started to reach for her coffee in its insulated mug, but it was hours cold, and she’d already had her fill. Her belly churned, reminding her she’d missed breakfast.
How ironic was it she was right back where she started? Here, in Fiddler’s Elbow—the very place she’d resolved to escape—her career imploding, her dreams shattered, and betrayed to boot. Her aunt had made a life here, had fought to give her one, but Hank wanted more; way more than the confines of this rural hell, where football and deer hunting held reverence alongside Sunday services.