⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐NightBorn by Theresa Cheung #ParanormalThriller

 

When a brilliant dream psychologist begins appearing in thousands of strangers’ nightmares, she must confront a terrifying truth…

 

Title: NIGHTBORN

Author: Theresa Cheung

Publisher: Collective Ink

Pages: 220

Genre: Paranormal Thriller

Format: Paperback, Kindle

What if the line between your waking life and your darkest dreams disappeared forever?

Alice Sinclair, a driven psychology professor, is about to find out. When thousands of people begin experiencing terrifying, vivid nightmares … all centered around her, Alice’s quiet academic life is shattered. Haunted by the question of why she’s become the subject of these shared dreams, Alice embarks on a desperate search for answers, uncovering a chilling secret: someone – or something – hungry for global power has discovered a way to manipulate consciousness itself. The world is fast becoming a playground for those in control of the dreaming mind.  In a heart-stopping race against time, Alice must navigate a treacherous web of deception, where nothing – and no one – can be trusted, not even herself.

Read a sample.

NightBorn is available at Amazon US and Amazon UK.

Book Excerpt

Florida, USA—Sometime soon

Alice saw the wave. It was a beast.

It rose slowly at first, the way a predator prepares to strike—silent, inevitable. It quickly gained speed, swelling into a towering monster, a force of nature, as if the ocean itself had decided to swallow her whole. The wave surged, easily 30 feet high, dark and roaring with a ferocity she could feel in her bones. It moved toward her with the relentlessness of fate.

She turned, panic seizing her as she raced up the beach, her bare feet slipping in the wet sand. The ocean was closing in—the world was closing in on her. Her breath came in jagged gasps, but the wave, too quick, slammed into her, yanking her under.

Her body twisted through the water, eyes stinging, lungs burning, desperate for air, clawing at the debris swirling around her—plastic, broken wood, seaweed, dead fish—but there was no solid ground to cling to. The current pulled her deeper, its

grip tightening like cold fingers around her throat.

She gasped for air, choking on the water, the world a dark, crushing void. She couldn’t see. Every nerve in her body screamed for release, but the ocean kept pulling, tumbling her in every direction, turning her body like a puppet with broken strings. She was drowning. No—she was going to die.

Something in her snapped.

Her feet hit something solid. Hard. Stone? She couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that she had to rise. She shoved upward, throwing her weight toward the surface with every ounce of strength she had left. Her body screamed, but she pushed

harder, until her head broke through to air. For one split second, she inhaled—but the water dragged her down again, relentless, hungry for her life. She fought the instinct to panic.

She couldn’t let it win. Not today.

Just breathe. Just breathe, Alice. Instinctively she let herself float, stilling her body, letting the sea carry her, accepting the weight of the water around her. She couldn’t fight it anymore—but maybe she didn’t have to.

Her feet found solid ground again. She shoved upward, defiant, gasping as she broke through. Sunlight blinded her.

Alice jerked awake, the sharp taste of salt lingering on her tongue, her body tangled in the sheets. The echo of the wave still thundered in her ears. The sunlight slanted through the bedroom window, blinding. Her pulse thrummed in her neck as if the sea still had its grip on her.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. It was a dream. Just a nightmare.”

What if it wasn’t just a nightmare?

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Alice’s feet hit the cold floor. Had Swiss psychiatrist and dream analysis pioneer, Carl Jung ever felt this unsettled after one of his dreams? Had his own night visions ever made him question his grasp on reality?

Her eyes flickered to the bedside table and her Red Book: the dream journal she’d named after Jung’s own. Ever since she was young, she’d written down her dreams. But this one felt radically different from the rest.

It was too real, though it clearly wasn’t literal. She lived more than an hour from the nearest beach and had never been to it. Was the dream a symbolic glimpse into her own future? A warning? Or something darker, deeper?

It was just a dream. Maybe it was just all the energy she’d poured into teaching Jungian dream analysis spilling out cathartically in a nightmare.

The feeling of drowning clung to her.

She grabbed her journal and scribbled out every detail of the dream. The ocean. The wave. The suffocating terror. Jung had called the act of recording dreams an act of self-analysis—so why did this one feel more like a clear and present danger than an analysis? Was it the forbidden mystery Jung had hinted at in his Red Book—that thin line between genius and insanity where revelation could be found?

Was her obsession with dreams driving her mad?

It was her calling, her passion. Perhaps, as director of the new program in Jungian Studies at the University of Central Florida, she could teach her students what she had dreamt and encourage them to analyze it; maybe it would be cathartic for

them and for her.

What if her students were the key to unlocking the deeper meanings of her own dream? She could see herself standing before the class, scrawling on the blackboard, her voice filled with energy as she taught them about using their dreams to peer into possible futures, even to shape reality. Inception—she would reference that for sure, the perfect movie fix to illustrate how the subconscious could manipulate perception and even reality.

What better way to introduce her students to the power of their own dreaming minds?

Alice pushed herself out of bed as the sinking feeling of the dream still clung tight. Blinking rapidly in front of her bedroom mirror, she forced herself to take deep breaths. Her long dark hair framing the mismatched eyes staring right back at her: one

blue, one brown. She had always hated this difference. Always hidden it behind a pair of blue lenses.

A perfect illusion of normalcy, her blue lenses. They always worked—ever since she was 14, when her mother had taken her to the ophthalmologist to prevent the cruel teasing at school.

Alice slipped them on, as though the simple act could shield her from her nightmare.

The rhythm of her repeated blinking to help the lenses settle helped bring a semblance of calm.

Something was coming, though; she could feel it. Something was drawing her, pulling her into the unknown. Could she rise above and survive it?

Alice dressed the part for her day ahead and stepped out into the bright light of the day.

Was the drowning nightmare a message? A warning? And if so, a warning about what?

– Excerpted from NightBorn by Theresa Cheung, Collective Ink, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

Theresa Cheung is an internationally bestselling author and public speaker. She has been writing about spirituality, dreams and the paranormal for the past 25 years, and was listed by Watkins Mind Body and Spirit magazine as one of the 100 most spiritually influential living people in 2023. She has a degree in Theology and English from Kings College, Cambridge University, frequently collaborating with leading scientists and neuroscientists researching consciousness.

Theresa is regularly featured in national newspapers and magazines, and she is a frequent radio, podcast and television guest and ITV: This Morning’s regular dream decoding expert. She hosts her own popular spiritual podcast called White Shores and weekly live UK Health Radio Show: The Healing Power of Your Dreams.

Her latest book is the paranormal thriller, NightBorn, available at Amazon US and Amazon UK.

You can visit her website at www.theresacheung.com or connect with her on X, Facebook, Instagram or Goodreads.

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⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Fighter Pilot's Daughter by Mary Lawlor #Memoir

 

The story of the author as a young woman coming of age in an Irish Catholic, military family…

 

Title: Fighter Pilot's Daughter

Author: Mary Lawlor

Publisher: Rowman and Littlefield

Pages: 323 

Genre: Memoir 

Format: Hardcover, Paperback, Kindle, Audiobook

Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War tells the story of Mary Lawlor’s dramatic, roving life as a warrior’s child. A family biography and a young woman’s vision of the Cold War, Fighter Pilot’s Daughter narrates the more than many transfers the family made from Miami to California to Germany as the Cold War demanded. Each chapter describes the workings of this traveling household in a different place and time. The book’s climax takes us to Paris in May ’68, where Mary—until recently a dutiful military daughter—has joined the legendary student demonstrations against among other things, the Vietnam War. Meanwhile her father is flying missions out of Saigon for that very same war. Though they are on opposite sides of the political divide, a surprising reconciliation comes years later.

Read sample. 

Fighter Pilot’s Daughter is available at Amazon.

 

 

Book Excerpt 

The pilot’s house where I grew up was mostly a women’s world. There were five of us. We had the place to ourselves most of the time. My mother made the big decisions—where we went to school, which bank to keep our money in. She had to decide these things often because we moved every couple of years. The house is thus a figure of speech, a way of thinking about a long series of small, cement dwellings we occupied as one fictional home.

It was my father, however, who turned the wheel, his job that rotated us to so many different places. He was an aviator, first in the Marines, later in the Army. When he came home from his extended absences—missions, they were called—the rooms shrank around him. There wasn’t enough air. We didn’t breathe as freely as we did when he was gone, not because he was mean or demanding but because we worshipped him. Like satellites my sisters and I orbited him at a distance, waiting for the chance to come closer, to show him things we’d made, accept gifts, hear his stories. My mother wasn’t at the center of things anymore. She hovered, maneuvered, arranged, corrected. She was first lady, the dame in waiting. He was the center point of our circle, a flier, a winged sentry who spent most of his time far up over our heads. When he was home, the house was definitely his.

These were the early years of the Cold War. It was a time of vivid fears, pictured nowadays in photos of kids hunkered under their school desks. My sisters and I did that. The phrase “air raid drill” rang hard—the double-A sound a cold, metallic twang, ending with ill. It meant rehearsal for a time when you might get burnt by the air you breathed.

Every day we heard practice rounds of artillery fire and ordinance on the near horizon. We knew what all this training was for. It was to keep the world from ending. Our father was one of many dads who sweat at soldierly labor, part of an arsenal kept at the ready to scare off nuclear annihilation of life on earth. When we lived on post, my sisters and I saw uniformed men marching in straight lines everywhere. This was readiness, the soldiers rehearsing against Armageddon. The rectangular buildings where the commissary, the PX, the bowling alley, and beauty shop were housed had fallout shelters in the basements, marked with black and yellow wheels, the civil defense insignia. Our dad would often leave home for several days on maneuvers, readiness exercises in which he and other men played war games designed to match the visions of big generals and political men. Visions of how a Russian air and ground attack would happen. They had to be ready for it.

A clipped, nervous rhythm kept time on military bases. It was as if you needed to move efficiently to keep up with things, to be ready yourself, even if you were just a kid. We were chased by the feeling that life as we knew it could change in an hour.

This was the posture. On your mark, get set. But there was no go. It was a policy of meaningful waiting. Meaningful because it was the waiting itself that counted—where you did it, how many of the necessities you had, how long you could keep it up. Imagining long, sunless days with nothing to do but wait for an all-clear sign or for the threatening, consonant-heavy sounds of a foreign language overhead, I taught myself to pray hard.

– Excerpted from Fighter Pilot’s Daughter by Mary Lawlor, Rowman and Littlefield, 2013. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

 

Mary Lawlor is author of Fighter Pilot’s Daughter (Rowman & Littlefield 2013, paper 2015), Public Native America (Rutgers Univ. Press 2006), and Recalling the Wild (Rutgers Univ. Press, 2000). Her short stories and essays have appeared in Big Bridge and Politics/Letters. She studied the American University in Paris and earned a Ph.D. from New York University. She divides her time between an old farmhouse in Easton, Pennsylvania, and a cabin in the mountains of southern Spain.

You can visit her website at https://www.marylawlor.net/ or connect with her on Twitter or Facebook.

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⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop #HistoricalFiction

She never had anything and he lost everything, but together they create a Christmas to remember.

 

Title: CINDER BELLA ('TIS THE SEASON BOOK 3)

Author: Kathleen Shoop

Publisher: Independent

Pages: 228

Genre: Historical Fiction

Format: Hardcover, Paperback, Audiobook, Kindle / FREE on Kindle Unlimited

She never had anything.

He lost everything.

Together they create a Christmas to remember.

December, 1893–Shadyside, Pennsylvania

Bella Darling lives in a cozy barn at Maple Grove, an estate owned by industrialist Archibald Westminster. The Westminster family is stranded overseas and have sent word to relieve all employees of their duties except Margaret, the pregnant maid, James the butler, and Bella. Content with borrowed books and a toasty home festooned with pine boughs and cinnamon sticks, she coaxes the old hens to lay eggs–extraordinary eggs. Bella yearns for just one thing—someone to share her life with. Always inventive, she has a plan for that. She just needs the right egg into the hands of the right man.

Bartholomew Baines, a Harvard-educated banker, is reeling in the aftermath of his bank’s collapse. With his friends and fiancé ostracizing him for what he thought was an act of generosity, he is penniless and alone. A kind woman welcomes him into her boarding house under conditions that he reluctantly accepts. Completely undone by his current, lowly position, and by the motley crew of fellow boarders who view him as one of them, Bartholomew wrestles with how to rebuild.

With the special eggs as the impetus, the first meeting between Bella and Bartholomew gives each the wrong idea about the other. And when the boarding house burns down a week before Christmas it’s Bella who is there to lend a hand. She, Margaret, and James invite the homeless group to stay at the estate through the holidays. But as Christmas draws closer, eviction papers arrive. Maple Grove is being foreclosed upon. Can Bella work her magic and save their Christmas? Is the growing attraction between Bella and Bartholomew enough for them to see past their differences? 

Read a sample.

Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo. 

Book Excerpt

Chapter 4

Bartholomew

He didn’t know how long he’d been daydreaming before excited murmurs drew him back to the line he was standing in and his assigned errand. So distracted by his childhood memories, he hadn’t even noticed the egg girl arriving and fitting her bin into the table space the bread lady had cleared. But he did watch as the bread lady hugged the egg lady and though he could see her only from behind, he could tell the egg girl was much younger. A scuffle in the line drew his attention to two women in front of him, one shouldering ahead of another for the “best selection of the special eggs.”

The dustup died down when the bread lady huddled up to referee. The egg girl was prancing away looking like she had the world on a leash, like he used to feel every day. Imagine feeling like that in such dire times. He watched those ahead of him gently place eggs in their baskets, only permitted to select twelve at most. None of them picked up eggs and weighed them in their palm. Choosing in the hopes of winning a double yolk was apparently only the desire of Mrs. Tillman and as he inched closer to his turn he was growing more self-conscious about what he had been commissioned to do.

When it was his turn he followed his orders, picking up each egg, closing his eyes and feeling the weight or whatever in his palm before either placing the egg back in the box and selecting another or putting it into the basket.

When he’d gotten to egg number six the woman behind him pinched the back of his arm. Not that it hurt through layers of clothing, but it startled him. “What?”

“What is right, all right. Think I got all day and night to wait for you to court each egg like it’s the princess you’re taking to the Christmas ball?”

He flinched and stared at the woman. Sooty cheeks and raw hands gave her station in life away. And her treatment of him caused him to lose any chance of responding. How dare she?

“Cat got your tongue, fancy pants? Let’s go or I’ll butt right in front of you.”

“Yeah, get the lead out,” another voice came from farther down the line.

“Ain’t got all day, sailor,” a third heckler joined in.

He lifted his basket. “I’ve been issued specific instructions for—”

A snowball smacked into his back, shutting him up. He spun around and scanned the crowd for who’d thrown it.

“See, even people not in line with us are tired of your mouth. Move it.” The woman behind him held his gaze.

He’d never felt so… he didn’t even know how to describe how this treatment made him feel. He tried to stop himself from rattling off the specifics of his resume and instead went with the general query of, “Don’t you know who I am?”

Another snowball thwapped his back.

“A regular jackass,” someone said from down the line.

He turned again to see who’d hit him with the snowball and the woman behind him used the opening to slide in front. He turned back and stuck his hand into the box, blocking her out. “I’ll hurry. Just let me get the other six.”

She crossed her arms, the baskets resting in the crook of each bent elbow. “Six seconds for six eggs. Get on with it, moneybags.”

“Thank you,” he said. He reached for an egg and lifted it in his palm as he had the others.

The woman started counting one, two, three and the rest of the line joined in. They were serious about him moving quicker. Mrs. Tillman would just have to understand. He didn’t doubt they’d toss him out of line if he didn’t just pluck eggs from the box and move on. And so he did. The last thing he wanted was to break eggs and have to shovel coal or something to make up for it when he got back to Mrs. Tillman’s.

“I have things to do, too, you know,” Bartholomew said. “You folks aren’t the only ones with obligations and—”

“Yeah, whada you have to do today, change into other pairs of fancy pants another three times before burrowing into a bed laid with golden goose feathers?” the woman who’d pinched him asked.

His tongue tied, but he didn’t stop himself from responding. “Uh…”

“Uh? Smoke a pipe of the finest tobacco? Yeah, what else? Sit all day with the paper while someone shines your shoes?” another voice from down the line said.

He straightened, face burning hot, blindly plucking eggs from the pile and placing them into his sack. All of those things would have been fairly close to his daily life before. Before it all crashed around him. “No. Newspapers, yes, but for the market reports and…” Suddenly his studying the news of the day seemed like a luxury instead of the work it was when pronouncing the task to the particular crew waiting in line. Suddenly, he had no words at all. “Forget it.” It was as though none of them knew he was a nice guy. It was as though they assumed he’d done something awful—that it was written across his forehead. He hesitated before moving to pay, considering whether to give them an education in all his achievements and good works. But the woman muscling past him sapped the last bit of energy he had that morning.

He paid and stalked away having been saturated with enough degradation to last the day, to last a century.

– Excerpted from Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop, Independent, 2021. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

Bestselling author Kathleen Shoop, PhD writes historical fiction, women’s fiction, and romance. Shoop’s novels have garnered awards in the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY), Eric Hoffer Book Awards, Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and more. You can find Kathleen in person at various venues. She’s on the board of the Kerr Memorial Museum, teaches at writing/reader conferences, co-coordinates Mindful Writers Retreats and writing conferences, and gives talks at various book clubs, libraries, and historical societies.

Sign up for her newsletter at www.kshoop.com. 

Visit her website at www.kshoop.com or connect with her on X, Facebook, Instagram, BookBub, TikTok and Goodreads.

Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo. 

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⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Christmas in Newfoundlandland 3 by Mike Martin #HolidayMystery

Christmas traditions, old and new from Sgt. Windflower and his family and friends.

 

Title: CHRISTMAS IN NEWFOUNDLAND 3

Author: Mike Martin

Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing

Pages: 160

Genre: Mystery/HolidayFiction

Format: Paperback / Kindle / FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Sgt. Windflower loves Christmas and we’re happy to share what he and his family and friends do at Christmastime in Grand Bank or Marystown or Ramea, Newfoundland. Some of the stories feature Windflower and Sheila’s adorable daughters and of course Eddie Tizzard and his family make several spotlight appearances. Other stories take you back to Christmas seasons of many years long past and there’s even a return of a fabulous Newfoundland tradition, the Mummers.

Christmas is a time to celebrate but it is also a time to reminisce and remember. We hope that it will bring back pleasant memories for you and your family to share at Christmas and throughout the year. Come celebrate Christmas in Newfoundland with Sgt. Windflower Mysteries.

Read sample here.

Christmas in Newfoundland is available at Amazon.

Book Excerpt

A Christmas Wish

Richard Tizzard gazed out at the ocean from his small home in Grand Bank, Newfoundland. The wind was high, and the waves were crashing against the shore, sending spray up into the air. Already, his house had a thick coating of the stuff on the side facing the water and he could hear it creaking and groaning against this relentless onslaught.

But inside, with the wood stove piled high, Richard and his old dog, Rusty, were perfectly comfortable and content. Both of them were coming to the end of their lives and Richard had accepted that almost completely. His children were trying to keep him hanging on as long as possible, but he was fine with what he knew was an inevitable outcome. 

He loved the quote by the great Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore that his friend, Doctor Vijay Sanjay had shared with him. He smiled to himself as he repeated it to Rusty. “’Death is not extinguishing the light; it is putting out the lamp as dawn has come’.” Rusty seemed to smile, too, at this saying. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to go, but Richard Tizzard was getting himself ready. In the meantime, he planned to enjoy his family to the upmost. His two daughters, Margaret and Brenda lived in Grand Bank with their almost grown-up families. His son, Eddie, lived in Marystown now with his wife Carrie and their two children. Little Hughie was almost two and the joy of Richard’s life while the baby, Sophie, was quickly overtaking her brother as his favourite. 

He smiled again when he thought about Eddie and his young family. It reminded him of when he had a young family of his own back in the tiny community of Ramea. Ramea is and was a small village off the southwest coast of Newfoundland that was only accessible by ferry. It did, however, have a rich fishing ground nearby and for many years provided a good livelihood for Richard and his four brothers, all of whom fished the abundant waters for many years.

But in the early 1990’s the inshore cod fishery collapsed and by 1992, when the cod moratorium was declared, all of them were out of work. The older brothers retired their boats and licenses and took the government support that was offered. Richard was too young for that, so he used the payout to move to Grand Bank. First, he worked in the fishing industry on a crew of a longliner operating out of Marystown. But when that work diminished, he went back to his true love, carpentry and woodworking.

He still did a little personal work on the side but his days of working for a living were over. He enjoyed all his family and the grandchildren tremendously, but the truth was that all he had left today were memories. Like many older people he spent a lot of time reminiscing and remembering these days. And as it was getting near Christmas, he thought a lot about Christmas from his past.

Growing up in his mom and dad’s saltbox house in Ramea. Christmas was a very quiet and peaceful affair. But he still remembered it fondly as one of the nicest times of the year. His father and older brothers were fishermen, so the winter was a slow season. They fixed their nets and did a few odd jobs around the house, but most of their time was spent cutting and splitting wood for the cast iron woodstove that heated their home and was action central for all cooking and baking.

About two weeks before Christmas his mother would start her Christmas baking. Shortbread cookies, mince pies and next year’s Christmas cakes. This year’s cakes were all ready to be unwrapped in a week or so and that would begin the ‘season of eating’ his dad called it. Richard loved the smell of the cookies and cakes as the days went by and to hear his mother singing, usually some old hymn or Christmas song like Angels We Have Heard on High or Away in a Manger. 

The men would continue their work as usual until a few days before Christmas Day. Then, his father would announce that it was time to get their tree and the whole family, except his mother, who was almost literally chained to the stove in the kitchen, would head out with their horse and sleigh to find a Christmas tree. They didn’t have to go far.

The houses in Ramea were built mostly around the harbour in sheltered nooks and crannies out of the constant wind. That meant almost all the land above them was still heavily forested with an abundance of Balsam firs that made the perfect Christmas trees. His father would lead the procession into the forest, but the tradition in the Tizzard family was that all the children would draw straws to see would pick their tree. The year Richard drew the shortest straw he was so excited he almost peed his pants.

As the others urged him on, making suggestions, Richard took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them and turned around, he saw it. A six-foot Balsam fir with many branches that spread out from top to bottom. “That’s it,” he cried, and everyone cheered. They cut it down and put it on the back of the sleigh to go home. When they arrived, their mom had made a pot of hot cocoa and while the tree was drying out in a corner they sat around and enjoyed their sweet, hot treat with some home-made cookies.

When Richard closed his eyes today, he could still smell that Christmas tree in their kitchen and taste that delicious hot cocoa. He remembered his mom sitting by herself next to the stove smiling. That was one of her last Christmas holidays with them, he recalled. She died like so many others at that time from complications in the birth of his youngest sister. Christmas was never quite the same in their household after that.

– Excerpted from Christmas in Newfoundland 3 by Mike Martin, Ottawa Press and Publishing, 2025. Reprinted with permission. 

About the Author

Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.

He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever. 

A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.

Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.

Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.

His latest book is Christmas in Newfoundland 3: Sgt. Windflower Holiday Tales.

Visit Mike’s website at www.sgtwindflowermysteries.com. Connect with him at X and Facebook.

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