Enjoy Spring with Ruthorford’s Spring Fling

Enjoy reading about Ruthorford’s celebration: https://shanongrey.wordpress.com/rutherford/spring-fling/

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Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

As most of you know, I usually decorate for holidays and seasons, including a tree. As you also know, besides being an author, I also work in Information Security in my “other” life. This particular facet has been very busy of late and I’ve had little time as Shanon Grey. So, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I decorated just me! May your luck be plentiful and smiles always greet you!

No worries. Shanon Grey is still kicking and the next novel is brewing!

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Mardi Gras Ball from Twisted Fate by Shanon Grey

Teresa stopped midway down the steps as eyes turned to her. Her gown, befitting her circumstances, was black. However, that was where the austerity ended. Its black beaded bodice hugged her curves down to her hips, forming a medieval girdle peak, which ended in a black jeweled dagger, below which a black silk organza skirt swirled against her legs as she walked. A short demi-jacket of a single thickness of the same material barely covered her arms and shoulders. By far, it was the most magnificent, and sensuous, gown she’d ever worn. A mask of black sequins and black feathers, barely hinting at shimmers of purple and green, covered her eyes.

If those staring at her were amazed by her appearance, she, in turn, was stunned by the change to her bed and breakfast. Before her, the Abbott Bed and Breakfast has been transformed into a splendid, glittering, glistening Mardi Gras Ball extravaganza of golds, purples, and greens. Every surface dripped in beads, pearls, feathers, and sparkling coins. Gossamer folds of material draped, hung, covered, and swagged, shimmering in the light. Pillows, chairs, and couches had been slip-covered in purple, green, or gold. Even the chandelier had been given a festive sheen with harlequin mini lampshades.

In the center of the lobby, atop the grand carved circular walnut table, sat the largest punch bowl she’d ever seen, already filled with the special punch the sisters, Miss Alice and Miss Grace, had concocted for this special occasion. Dry ice created a whirling fog that hovered just above a fizzing, sparkling green. Purple ice cubes bobbed about each time the silver ladle scooped liquid to be poured into a cup. The old girls had outdone themselves.

It was, after all, their occasion. They had gone down to New Orleans the year before, a very rare trip away from home, much less Ruthorford, and had been nagging the committee to throw an extravagant Mardi Gras Ball. The committee, never missing an opportunity to celebrate, had jumped at the occasion. When Bill had gotten ill, they had offered to cancel, but Bill would have none of it. One of his last wishes was that she go through with the ball, telling her to let it be a celebration of life. Although she wasn’t in the mood, she’d agreed and, by all that was Ruthorford and descendant, it would be a magnificent tribute to Bill Ruthorford. The committee, and the sisters in particular, had taken over. Guests were rescheduled for that weekend and she was forbidden to step foot on the main floor, entering and leaving by a private, seldom used, side entrance.

It had been agony, letting others take over her home and business, but looking around as she descended the stairs, she needn’t have worried. It was truly as grand as anything Bill could have concocted, and he did have a way of coming up with some grandiose schemes. She stepped into the lobby and turned, letting the music and the happy voices surround her. The 12-foot-tall pocket doors that normally remained closed, separating the front parlor from the back parlor and the sun porch, were pushed into their walls, turning the space into a grand ballroom, its wood floors polished to a dark gleam. The ballroom was as fantastically adorned as the rest of the place. Even the dining room had undergone a Mardi Gras makeover, tables and chairs in coordinating colors, swags of beads twinkling in the light.

She spotted Morgan immediately, in an emerald green gown. Ten to one, the pirate in black and gold at her side was Dorian. Jasmine and Eryk were probably the couple in the complete purple and gold Venetian costume. For everyone else, she found herself speculating on their identities. The costumes were magnificent and the masks and headdresses covered their heads, completely hiding their features, except for the old sisters, who were garbed as either fairy godmothers or witches. She couldn’t be sure which, and she struggled not to chuckle. Short little things that they were, they reminded her of Flora and Fauna—or was it Merriweather—from Sleeping Beauty.

She wound her way through the throng, being handed a cup of punch by a waiter she passed, and took her position at the far end, away from the crowd, where she could watch the tribute to her dead husband. He would have loved it. He would, however, have stayed in the kitchen, away from the crowd. The music swelled and she watched the dancers move in a waltz about the room. As she took a sip of her punch, its fizz dancing across her tongue, a hand reached out and took the cup. She looked up into the mask of man standing in front of her. He set he cup aside and held out his hand.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.” She pondered his mask. “Do I know you?” She let a smile play across her lips.

His gloved finger touched her lips, silencing her, and she felt a tingle move across her skin, as had happened when Bill had touched her.

The man took her hand and backed onto the floor drawing her into his arms. They moved into the rhythm of the waltz, swirling about the room. She felt his hand caress hers, sending fire up her arm. The warmth of his other hand sent a hot blaze against her waist. As long as the music continued, she could enjoy the surge of power she’d missed for so long. The power of one descendant pulled toward another in a dance as old as time.

The music played on and they moved in harmony, their bodies never touching, yet she felt the energy wrapping them in a sensual cocoon of desire.

When the music stopped, the man led her back to her position, once again handing her the cup. He bowed before her, his eyes drilling into hers. She gasped, but said nothing. Without a word, he turned and moved away, leaving her with a longing she found she’d missed.

She tried to watch him but was distracted when her name was mentioned. One of the sisters, Miss Alice, she suspected, was talking.

“Thank you, Teresa, for providing the magnificent setting for this Mardi Gras Ball. I know it’s difficult, with Bill’s passing so recently, so we are doubly grateful. You are a wonderful hostess.” She raised her glass. “Please, everyone, have a cup of punch—the waiters are passing it out—so we can pay tribute to the wonderful man who couldn’t be here tonight.” She waited a few moments as glasses were passed out before continuing.

“To Bill Ruthorford. May your legacy show us the way and lead us in all of our endeavors.” She raised her cup and everyone raised theirs high in tribute before taking a sip. “I will turn the show over to my sister, so listen well. You know how she gets when she’s ignored.”

While everyone laughed, Miss Alice leaned toward her sister’s ear. “It is done, dear sister…and they will remember nil.”

Grace addressed the crowd, finishing with “…let the music play and the food be consumed. Make merry, descendants, you are what you are and will furthermore be, GateKeepers all.”

The music swirled, as did the crowd, round and round, laughter filling the night, as the descendants enjoyed their Mardi Gras Ball and the tribute to Bill Ruthorford.

On the side street, across from the bed and breakfast, deep in the shadows, a lone figure watched, waiting, as the huge old Victorian glowed in an aura of purple and green.


“Teresa.” The tapping got louder. “Teresa, it’s eight o’clock. I told you I’d wake you at eight.”

Teresa blinked, looking around the room, momentarily confused, fragments of the dream still lingering in her mind. This was the third or fourth time she’d had this dream, and about the stranger who had danced with her. She smiled for she knew if Sandra hadn’t knocked, that dream would have gotten a whole lot better, for, although she could never remember what happened, she knew she woke happy. She also knew, as soon as she was up, the details of the dream would disappear.

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Ruthorford–where love can be a compulsion!

by Shanon Grey

    It’s February and, as is the case everywhere, love is in the air. Even more so in the quaint southern town of Ruthorford, with one exception. In Ruthorford, descendants are hoping for a match-mate connection that will result in a “blended” offspring. To encourage this, the townsfolk of Ruthorford created an event perfect for their purpose–a Valentine Day’s Dance. Those who are descendants of the original Native Americans, whose farms surround and protect Ruthorford, and the descendants of the Scots, who settled and formed the core of the town, are invited. Not everyone will “match,” but generally one or two will find their mate and, hopefully, that union will produce a blend, who, in turn, will match with another blend and that couple will be trained as Gatekeepers, whose powers, when combined….

    This is the story of one such Valentine’s Day Dance and how things are not always as they seem.

    “Okay,” Brenda, the town’s long-lived post-mistress, said, as she pulled the large box of invitations through the open grill, “is that everyone?”

    “Of course it is,” Miss Alice intoned, sniffing indignantly. “I’ve been doing this for…forever,” she stated, careful never to give away her age.

    Brenda let the smile broaden as she flipped through the invitations, not looking up. She lifted one. “The Hamilton’s? They never come.”

    “I won’t be leaving anyone out. Just because they don’t come doesn’t mean they don’t deserve an invitation.” Alice’s narrowed her eyes.

    No one knew for sure why, but the Hamilton’s had broken away from the town, moving the farthest out. They married outside as well. It wouldn’t be long before they were all but gone. Nevertheless, as one of the first Scottish families chosen by the Native Americans to settle in Ruthorford, they deserved the respect as such and an invitation went out.

    The same with the Merciers. They came from a Canadian tribe and had settled with the tribe surrounding the town. They also didn’t attend, which was just as well, since their longstanding feud with the Hamilton’s generally erupted into a brawl whenever they attended the same functions.

    Brenda shook her head and stamped the envelopes. She gave a little smile. Miss Alice might be sending out the invitations but Brenda had managed to get on the decorating committee and she’d seen the huge Davis barn transformed into a red, pink, white and silver fantasy. Of course, Abbott Bed and Breakfast was catering the affair and Brenda had managed to “taste test” several of Teresa’s creations. No one would go hungry, that’s for sure. They’d nixed the idea of a live band this year since so many of the young men were away at college. Even if they made it home for the party, they’d arrive late with little time to practice. Rowe and Kateri Davis were in charge of music. They were young enough to make sure everyone got something they liked.

    Across town, Alice’s sister, Grace, was not making much headway with her visiting god-daughter.

    “Tante Gracie,” Alexanne, moaned, her voice pleading, her French accent heavy for effect. “I really don’t want to go to that dance.” She threw in a pout for good measure.

    “Now, Lexi,” Miss Grace said, using her nickname, “it would mean so much to Miss Alice. She’s worked so hard on the invitations. Grace reached over and gave a loving tug to the sable brown hair that flowed about Lexi’s shoulders. She hadn’t seen her since she was eleven and now, at nineteen, she was stunning. “Besides, Teresa sure could use the help.”

    Lexi’s light green eyes sparkled as she turned to her godmother. “For Tante Alice and Teresa, though I would rather stay with you,” she acquiesced. “I’m still not sure what the emergency was—that it was all so important that I come now. I’ve never been before. It’s a good thing I’m on winter break, because you know maman and papa would not have agreed.”

    Miss Grace just smiled.

    The crowd overflowed out from the open barn doors of the transformed barn. The heavy rhythm poured from perfectly placed speakers, letting the music flood into the night. Almost everyone was dancing. If they weren’t dancing, they were eating. Laughter drifted outside along with the music.

    Grant Hamilton made his way through the throng. He’d just arrived from Scotland that afternoon, his graduation present after finishing med school. It had been a wonderful break before starting his residency. He’d fallen in love with the land and the people, his family’s people. Now he was back and thrust into the thick of a Ruthorford gathering. Even though he’d never attended one of Ruthorford’s functions—his family making a point of avoiding them—tonight he found himself delivering the Scottish pastries he’d brought for Teresa Yancy, his god-mother and the owner of the Abbott Bed and Breakfast, per her request, to the Davis’ barn. He figured he could drop them off and be gone before he ran into a Mercier and they ruined the party.

    He headed straight to the table, keeping his blue eyes forward, trying not to draw attention. Teresa saw him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and ruffled his windswept blond hair, moving before he could hand her the box. “Take that on down to the end of the table for me, will you?” She turned him and gave him a gentle push toward the end of the long table, already laden with every type of food, leaving little room to place his box. He moved a couple of plates around and lowered the box.

    “Don’t you dare set that box down!” A heavily accented female voice came at him from the side.

    He jerked the box back up and turned toward the voice, only to find himself staring into the green eyes of a goddess. Thick brown hair swept her shoulders, a fringe of bangs offsetting the pale green of her eyes. His response to her beauty was so visceral he nearly dropped the box. Perfect white teeth worried her full lower lip as she reached to catch the box.

    Her hands closed over his as the both clasped the box. A current coursed back and forth between them. Their eyes locked.

    “Hey, Lexi!” A young man came up and put his arm around her waist, breaking the spell. “You haven’t danced with me yet.”

    She gave Grant a quiet smile, let go of the box, and turned to the young man holding her, “I would love to dance with you, Jimmy.”

    Her French accent washed over Grant like warm cognac, setting fire to his nerves. Still holding the box, he watched her disappear into the crowd.

    Out of nowhere, Miss Grace appeared at his elbow. “Let’s put that right here,” she said, taking the box from his hands and setting it in the exact same spot he’d aimed for in the first place. “Now, would you offer an old lady a dance?”

“I’d love to,” he flashed his blue eyes at her and followed her to the floor.

    She let his arm slip around her as she hit him with a flurry of questions–about his family, school, and Scotland—barely giving him a chance to breathe in between his answers. She was also leading, or rather pushing, him around the floor. He stumbled slightly and bumped into a warm body.

    “Mon dieu.”

    The contact sent a spark through his back. An apology was on the tip of his tongue, when Grace stepped around him. “Jimmy,” she exclaimed, taking hold of the young man’s arm. “Just the man I was looking for. Will you excuse us a moment, Lexi? Grant, this is Lexi. Lexi this is Grant.” They stood, staring at one another. “Well…dance with her,” she said and pushed the two together.

    His hands slid around her as though they were meant to encircle her small waist. The curves of her body melted into his as if welcoming him home after a long absence. The current ran from one to the other and back, pulsing—until their two hearts began to beat as one.

    Grace directed Jimmy, ignoring his whimpered complaints, out to the parking lot on some trumped-up errand and stopped next to Teresa. She turned and watched as the two young people swayed to the music, oblivious to the world around them.

    “There’s going to be some upset families tonight.” Teresa nodded toward the couple and let a smile play across her lips. “What were you thinking, putting a Mercier with a Hamilton?”

    Grace let her old green eyes close in a slow blink, opening them to see the blended aura surrounding the young couple. She smiled at Teresa. “We do what we must.”


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Come to Ruthorford and Stay Awhile

Come to Ruthorford, nestled in the mountains of Georgia, the perfect southern town, where the town-folk are friendly, the food is fabulous, and there are dangerous secrets hidden Where the Mistletoe Grows.

Available in digital and print:

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Happy New Year!

From our house to yours, may 2023 bring only happiness and good health!

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Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!

Merry Christmas from our house to yours!
May the lights bring you joy and happiness throughout the year!
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Santa Brings Ruthorford for Christmas

I’ve been fortunate to have two novels written, edited, and published within 7 months in 2022. Both are getting 5-star reviews.

Descendant Rising: Ozzy, the lone survivor of the horrific helicopter crash, accompanies his Marine brother home for the last time, far from healed from his own trauma.

Where the Mistletoe Grows: Ray, a once famous artist, having barely survived Covid, comes to Ruthorford to get away from prying eyes and heal.

Both men are about to find out that Ruthorford is far more than the sleepy southern town they envisioned. Join each one as they face the adventure of a lifetime, and the knowledge that’s there’s more to this world than meets the eye.

Visit Ruthorford for the holidays–or any time of the year–for an adventure you won’t forget! Available in digital and print:

Visit Shanon Grey:

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Come to Ruthorford for the Holidays!

My newest novel, WHERE THE MISTLETOE GROWS, is now available! Come to Ruthorford, where the holiday season comes with a twist and hidden suspense. There’s always something afoot in Ruthorford, where science and magic merge. Come visit. Stay at the Abbott Bed & Breakfast. Make forever friends. You’ll never want to leave.

Visit me:

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Where the Mistletoe Grows

My newest novel, Where the Mistletoe Grows, is becoming available on more sites. Come to Ruthorford, where the season comes with a twist and hidden suspense.

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