Heart of the Storm [NOOK Book]

Overview

Dana Thunder Eagle is a beautiful woman with a fierce heart and powerful gift. But after the murder of her husband and mother, she ran away from the Rosebud reservation, hoping to leave the past behind her forever. Now, two years later, the killer is still on the loose.

And only Dana has the mystical power to stop him.

After six months of daily torture at the hands of South American rebels, Chase knows his latest mission may be his hardest: to ...

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Heart of the Storm

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Overview

Dana Thunder Eagle is a beautiful woman with a fierce heart and powerful gift. But after the murder of her husband and mother, she ran away from the Rosebud reservation, hoping to leave the past behind her forever. Now, two years later, the killer is still on the loose.

And only Dana has the mystical power to stop him.

After six months of daily torture at the hands of South American rebels, Chase knows his latest mission may be his hardest: to whip Dana into fighting shape in just five weeks. Even more challenging will be to ignore his cinnamon-eyed student's graceful beauty. United in a life-or-death mission, Chase and Dana must learn to lean on each other if there is any chance of stopping a madman who seeks to destroy a people's history...and future.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781460309179
  • Publisher: Harlequin
  • Publication date: 11/15/2012
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: Original
  • Pages: 384
  • Sales rank: 353,740
  • File size: 628 KB

Meet the Author

Lindsay McKenna wears a few "hats" in her life including that of writer, homeopath and flower essence creator.

Because of her unique upbringing, Lindsay is very aware of human spirituality and her deep connection with Mother Earth. At the age of three, Lindsay rode her first horse and has loved horses ever since. At age fourteen she rescued a two-year-old mustang stallion from the chicken feed factory for $45 and brought him home. She proceeded to tame the sorrel stallion with love and affection. It's no surprise that later in her life she had an Arabian horse farm in Ohio for nine years. She and her husband, David, bred, raised, trained and sold Crabbet line (English) Arabians. Today Lindsay has one horse, a purebred Arabian mare, Cinnamon, which she tries to ride almost every day.

When she was sixteen, Lindsay picked night crawlers and sold them to sporting goods stores in order to pay for flying classes. She was the only one at her school of over 650 teenagers to hold a student pilot's license at age seventeen. By the time she graduated at age eighteen, she had logged forty hours of flying time.

She joined the U.S. Navy at age eighteen, following her father's footsteps—he was in the navy during World War II (and had one destroyer shot out from under him). After three brutal days of nonstop, eight-hour testing in boot camp, Lindsay was told that she had the highest mechanical score since the WAVES (Women Appointed for Voluntary Emergency Service), a World War II-era division of the navy that was made entirely up of women! As no mechanical jobs were open to women in 1964, Lindsay was asked to pick another career field. She chose meteorologybecauseit was about nature (once again!).

From 1980 to 1983 she was a volunteer firefighter in West Point, Ohio, taking on several types of training at the Ohio Fire Academy in Reynoldsburg. She was the only woman in a twenty-man volunteer department and did everything they did—very well, she'd like to add!

Because of her background in emergency situations, in 1996 she trained at Yavapai College, Cottonwood, Arizona, to become a registered emergency medical technician. Her background in knowing what to do in emergency and accident situations is reflected in her books.

Her military and emergency situation experiences became the backbone of her writing; she is credited with writing the first military romance novel (Captive of Fate, 1983, Silhouette Special Edition) and has created a thriving subgenre within the romance field. Her many experiences in the U.S. Navy are backdrops for her very successful Silhouette series, Morgan's Mercenaries.

A writer since the age of thirteen, Lindsay continues to hone her writing skills to this day. She sold her first romance novel in 1982, and since then, Lindsay has published more than eighty romances, historical and mass-market adventure and suspense novels. Usually she writes two to four books a year, depending upon the demands in other departments of her life.

But the most important part of Lindsay's identity is her Native American heritage, which has taught her to live in concert with nature and "all her relations." She lives her life according to this philosophy, and it shines through the different books she loves to write.

Her paternal great-great-grandmother was a pure-blooded Eastern Cherokee medicine woman from the Wolf Clan. Lindsay's father taught her the healing "medicine" skill that had been passed down his family line. A medicine is passed through generations, from an older member to a younger member of the family, so that the information is never lost. She is very close to nature, and being a homeopath, her second "hat," dovetails into her belief that all things are related and interconnected—nothing is detached from anything else. She believes all people are individuals and cannot be generalized. Homeopathy appealed strongly to her because of her training in the healing arts and herbology taught to her by her mother, Ruth.

In 1993 she received her doctorate of homeopathic medicine from the British Institute of Homeopathy in England. Lindsay practiced homeopathy in the state of Ohio from 1970 to 1990. When she moved to Arizona, she turned to writing books and articles on homeopathy. She was on the faculty of the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona, for two years.

Her third "hat" is as a pioneer in the field of flower and gem essences. Lindsay discovered that gems and flowers are a very gentle form of alternative medicine. In 1994 she began to create her own essences and has gathered findings on them to uncover what healing qualities each has. She has two Web sites devoted to alternative medicine. H She gives five-day seminars on this topic all over the world. Another part of her philosophy is that personal experience is the best kind of education in 1996 for people to help themselves when sick or who want to maintain wellness. It features a number of alternative medicine departments, including homeopathy and flower and gem essences.

Today she lives outside Sedona, Arizona. Her husband, David, a retired civil engineer, helps Lindsay and her mother, Ruth, run the fruit orchard, greenhouse and the many, many flower planters where Lindsay makes her healing flower essences. She has her horse, Cinnamon, a golden retriever named Rocky and nine cats.

Lindsay loves to hear from her readers and loves to know what they'd like to see her write next.

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Read an Excerpt

"The vice president of the United States needs to die. Now!"

Rogan Yalua Soquili, known as Fast Horse, was insistent as he stood triumphantly outside the circle of twelve NativeAmerican women. Their rapt attention fixed on the Cherokee métis medicine man, they sat in their ceremonial garb. Rogan placed his hands on the strong, capable shoulders of Blue Wolf, a Shoshone woman near his own age of forty-five.

"Make it happen," he declared, his voice booming.

The Sierra Nevadas in early June took on a shadowy, menacing aura as midday thunderclouds grew above them. Rogan looked around gleefully. They were nestled within the Eagle's Nest, his compound built high in the mountains, on a cliff. The wooden walls provided them sanctuary as they stood on the hard-packed earth. It was the perfect place to carry out their task. The air around them leaped and throbbed with living energy.

In the center of the women's circle, a light feathery mist began to gather. It moved counterclockwise, never touching any of the participants. Rogan watched, mesmerized, as the wispy cloud became darker and began to resemble a doughnut whose hole was closing. Cauliflower-like towers grew upward from the sluggishly swirling clouds, and when flashes of lightning occurred, Rogan's jaw dropped in awe. Surely, the ceremonial Storm Pipe and these women were connected to the most powerful magic he'd ever seen. Excitement coursed through him.

The women chanted as one, their voices rising and falling as the thundercloud built with the whipping wind. Rogan's hair fell across his face, but he didn't feel it. His eyes were on the cloud invoked by the sacred pipe Blue Wolf held in her hands. With each chant, theintensity increased and the thundercloud turned more malevolent, eventually shooting skyward to thirty thousand feet. It was coming from the pipe; Rogan could see the energy flowing out of its bowl.

As he stood behind her, he dug his fingers into BlueWolf's sturdy shoulders. The rhythmic chanting ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed. The very pulse of the building storm responded to the women's voices, which rose in a powerful crescendo.

Rogan's order echoed throughout the cedar structure on the side of the mountain. Standing in the west, the position of death, he kept his firm contact with Blue Wolf's elk skin-covered shoulders. Like a bolt of lightning, heat and electricity coursed through his hands, leaped up his arms and shimmered throughout his tense body. Keeping his knees slightly bent, Rogan closed his eyes, took a deep breath into his abdomen and then slowly released it.

The thundercloud manifested by the pipe and the women was inspiring to Rogan. He'd never seen anything like this. Oh, he knew ceremonial pipes were powerful, but to create a mighty thunderhead in a matter of minutes…that was awesome. Lightning continued to radiate from the dark, churning mass far above them. Most of the electricity, millions of volts, was held within the cloud. Rogan knew that the powers involved with the pipe would not allow any of it to harm the circle of women. It would be contained within the building storm overhead.

Rogan gazed around at the seated figures. Their knees touched one another to maintain physical contact. In doing so, they became the container for the Storm Pipe's power, and helped direct the energy and the building of the thunderhead.

Blue Wolf lifted a very old pipe made of catlinite, its red bowl glowing in her hands. The smooth, polished oak stem was decorated with small seed beads depicting a thunderstorm with a She began to sing a ceremonial song to invite the lightning that flashed above them. Her hands grew hot and felt as if they were burning; they were merely responding to the power amassing through the powerful ceremonial pipe.

The women gripped one another's hands at the right moment, as the electrical charge within the churning clouds swirled, growing in strength. The two sitting next to the pipe carrier each placed a hand on her waist, for Blue Wolf needed her hands free, to hold the pipe upward in supplication.

Her voice rose and fell, like a howling wind moving within the circle. She felt Rogan grip her shoulders more tightly with anticipation. He couldn't hold the pipe himself, for the ceremonial object belonged only to women. If he touched it, he'd die instantly. He could focus the energy, however, and direct it to whomever he envisioned in his mind.

Today, the vice president would die. Blue Wolf smiled inwardly as she sang from her heart and soul.

Their song became more strident, in accord with the energy unveiling itself before them. The Storm Pipe felt almost too hot to hold any longer, but Blue Wolf focused, as she had been taught. All the women in the circle felt the same heat, she knew. They held the pipe's energy, carrying the power, just as a womb cradled a growing baby.

Rogan smiled inwardly as he maintained his grip on Blue Wolf's shoulders. She was trembling physically now. The building energy made her sweat freely, as it did him. Her singing changed in pitch, and at that moment, Rogan pictured the vice president's face in his mind. Focus! He must focus one hundred percent.

Dizzy from the gathering, spinning energy, Rogan was trembling so badly he collapsed to his knees. As if he were a lightning rod, an electrical current leaped and flowed through his hands, up his arms and through his body. That was Rogan's mission as he understood it: to ground the power of the Thunder Beings that trod restlessly across Father Sky. He began to slip into a deep, altered state as the chanting continued. It was all Rogan could do to stay mentally connected.

Stealing the Storm Pipe had been the key, he thought with satisfaction. His body was vibrating now, so fast he felt as if he were shredding apart, cell by cell. Too powerful an energy could make a person vanish into thin air. It wasn't happening to him due to the great strength and long training of these twelve women, he knew.

Sweat poured down his tense, kneeling form. His deerskin shirt and breeches were soaked through. Then Blue Wolf moved her arms and pointed the pipe eastward, toward Washington.

Now! he screamed to her mentally. Visualizing the face of the vice president, Rogan issued his final order. Force the pipe to release its charge now, Blue Wolf! Now!

He was unprepared for that very thing happening. As the release was triggered, a flash of light occurred, and he was flung six feet backward. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he looked around, stunned. The sky remained turbulent. Angry purple-and-gray clouds still churned above them. But already the thunderstorm, created by the twelve women's intent, with the help of the pipe, was beginning to dissipate. Had the ceremonial pipe done its deed?

FBI agent David Colby was standing next to Vice President Robert Hiram when an incredible wave of heat surged like a tsunami through the large office. His boss, Mort Jameson, was in the middle of his daily report when the bulletproof window began to glow like sun-scorched rocks in a desert, followed by an earsplitting boom. Thrown off his feet, Colby slammed into the wall and was knocked semiconscious. The agent heard the vice president scream. Momentarily blinded, Colby slowly crawled to his hands and knees, disoriented. Automatically, he pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket.

As Colby staggered to his feet, sweat trickled off him. He felt as if he was in a steam room! Mort Jameson was groaning and trying to sit up. That's when Colby noticed the vice president lying flat on the carpeted floor, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.

Beyond the massive cherry desk, the window was still intact. There'd been no sound of a bullet being fired, only that deafening boom. What was going on? What the hell had just happened? The agent holstered the gun.

"Colby! Call for backup!" Mort yelled as he stumbled to his feet and ran over to the unmoving vice president. Dropping to his knees, he yanked the man's tie loose, then pressed his fingers against his neck. "No pulse! Get help!"

Colby lurched. His ears were ringing, so much he could barely hear the shouted orders. Why wasn't everyone piling into the room? The door was still shut.

Confused, he grabbed the doorknob. Surely someone had heard the awful booming sound? He swore he'd seen a bolt of lightning lance through the only window in the office.

Saliva dripped from the corners of Colby's mouth as he yanked open the door. He had little control over his body. Unable to stand, the FBI agent called for help and medical personnel, then sagged against the jamb.

His eyes were blurred and unfocused now, his legs quivering uncontrollably. As his muscles gave way, he slowly sank to the floor.

"The vice president is dead," Dr. Scott Friedman announced to the small group of men in business suits. "From what I can tell, it was a heart attack. An autopsy will be performed shortly and we'll know for sure."

"My God," Mort muttered, wiping his face with a linen handkerchief. The knot of men stood in a room adjoining the vice president's hospital suite.

Mort's frown deepened as he glanced at Agent Colby. Thirty-three years old and one of his best agents, the man was pale and shaken. In fact, after examining him, the doctors had told him to stay in the hospital because he was weak and disoriented, but Colby had steadfastly refused.

"This is…such a shock," the President's press secretary, Burt Daily, stammered. "What are we going to tell the media?" He kept his clipboard and pen poised as he scanned the group.

Mort Jameson glanced at the head of the CIA, Bucky Caldwell, and then at the Chief of Staff, Rodney Portman. The Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman, General Myron Klein, a marine, looked grim. "The doctor said it was a heart attack," Mort repeated.

"But…" Daily looked around the group "…the vice president didn't have a history of heart trouble. The man had low cholesterol, for chrissakes! He'd just had his annual physical two weeks ago. At fifty, he was healthy as a horse. Do you think the American public is going to believe this?"

"I don't have the answer you're looking for," Friedman told them. "I'm just as puzzled over his death as you are. The autopsy will reveal more. I gave the vice president a clean bill of health." Shrugging, he added, "His heart just gave out."

"Agent Colby?" Mort zeroed in on the man. Colby had the face of a lean wolf on the prowl. His gray eyes were focused, the irises large and ringed in black.

Colby shifted his attention to him. "Yes, sir?"

"Escort Dr. Friedman from the room, please?"

"Yes, sir." When he gestured toward the door, the doctor took the hint, said goodbye and left. Colby made sure the door was shut, then turned and walked back to the cloistered group.

"Something hit us in that room, sir," Colby stated, giving each man present a serious look. "I felt heat, burning heat, building up seconds before that bolt of lightning, or whatever it was, struck the vice president. At first, I thought it was a summer storm. But we had blue skies and sunshine. From what I can tell, it wasn't weather induced."

Mort grimly nodded. "I need your help, gentlemen. I had the very same experience Agent Colby did. There was tremendous heat in the room. It hurt to breathe in that superheated air. And then—" Mort clapped his hands together "—there was a tremendous booming sound, something you might hear right after a lightning bolt struck close to you. The sound still has my ears ringing. Something came through that window, but the window's still intact. Somehow this bolt killed the vice president, and it knocked the hell out of me and Agent Colby in the process." He rubbed his jowls and studied the other men in the circle. "You got any ideas?"

"No," the CIA director, Caldwell, said, "but I have my agents combing the room with the most sophisticated gear available. We're trying to discover what the hell went down. Was it an act of terrorism or an act of God? I've got agents talking to the weather service gurus to find out if lightning can strike out of a blue sky and leave a window unbroken."

General Klein, built like a short but powerful pit bull, lifted his green eyes to the group. "Gentlemen, I'd be looking for a more concrete explanation. It was an attack."

"Jesus," Daily whispered. "You're standing here telling us this was a terrorist attack?"

"It's possible," Mort snapped, irritated by the press secretary's whining demeanor. "You think we like what happened? Or the implications? If whatever it was can strike the vice president dead on the spot, whoever or whatever could do the same to the president. Which is why he and his staff have been put into hiding until we can figure this out. None of the ramifications are lost on us, believe me."

Caldwell held up his hand. "Look, everyone stand down. We're all shaken—badly shaken—but we're working on this as fast as humanly possible." He glanced at his Rolex. "I expect to have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. You'll all be privy to whatever we find."

Colby said, "I believe we're dealing with something sophisticated."

"Russian?" the press secretary asked, his face pained.

General Klein growled, "Either that or terrorists have suddenly gotten ahold of the most advanced laser equipment known. The Russians have developed them for defensive purposes. Star Wars technology scared the hell out of them, and they put their focus on weaponized development as a way to counter what we're doing. Lasers are capable of this kind of destruction. We know that Russia was preparing to mount these on their satellites out in space."

"Yes," Caldwell said in a strangled tone, "and they've been testing their version of SDI in the Pacific against our military aircraft off and on the last two years. We have five blinded pilots in different military cargo aircraft who were targeted. We can't prove it, of course, but the Russians are the only ones who have this kind of know-how and technology."

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 9, 2014

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    This autor can't write a book that is less than outstanding

    Rogan Fast Horse stole a sacred ceremonial pipe, killing the female guardian on the Rosebud Reservation. The thief next used the special pipe to magically kill the vice president of the United States. The FBI conducts a massive manhunt, but the few clues they find make little sense.-------------- The daughter of the murdered guardian Dana Thunder Eagle was to have inherited the pipe from her mother, but following the homicide she fled her home on the reservation. Although feeling unprepared, she accepts the responsibly of retrieving the pipe and preventing Rogan from using it to kill again. She has five weeks left to before Rogan can regenerate the power to reuse the pipe to magically murder someone. Former Delta Force soldier and psychic warrior Chase Iron Hand trains Dana to become a special kind of fighter able to defeat Rogan.--------------------- This is an exciting tale in which the perpetual action is built around Native American mythos. The lead couple is an interesting pairing as they have no time for much more than training to a degree that leaves Chase and Dana somewhat enigmas to readers, which in turn adds to the tension. HEART OF THE STORM is an enjoyable cat and mouse as Chase knows Dana must recover the pipe as its power is gender specific, but she is not ready even as he expects the stakes to be higher than the second homicide.---------- Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 24, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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