A well sourced and important workbook/toolkit, Take Action: Fighting for Women & Girls covers the basics of activism and advocacy and gives the reader specific information about four issues related to girls, women, and gender equality. The power and importance of education, expanding economic opportunities, eliminating gender-based violence, and participating in politics and public life. This book will help would-be activists start their work and stay focused and goal-oriented.

“Mahkovec has written a story that defies the reader to put it down before the end, and the end is impossible to guess. The Garden House is…the sort of beautifully-written story I associate with literary fiction.” —Readers’ Favorite 2017 Awards Finalist in Women’s Fiction

”Mahkovec's prose is sharp and fluid…The premise is a fun one, and Miranda is a finely drawn character...An engrossing, if subdued, psychological tale.” —Kirkus 

A story of love, family, and home set among the lush summer evenings of Seattle. Themes of gardens and buried secrets bring to mind the novels of Kate Morton, while the importance of home and family is reminiscent of Maeve Binchy.

When Miranda's two children leave home, her sense of loss is intensified by a void in her own life journey. She has set aside her dreams of becoming an artist for far too long. In an attempt to rekindle the beauty and passion of her youth, she fixes up the garden house as a studio—only to discover her husband has rented it out for the summer to a shy, somewhat mysterious young man.

Soon after his arrival, Miranda begins to have disturbing dreams. Her friends dismiss them. Her husband blames them on the teen shelter Miranda has recently visited. Is she simply experiencing a mid-life crisis? Perhaps empty-nest syndrome? But Miranda is convinced her dreams have meaning, especially when she notices her new tenant's increasingly suspicious behavior.

When her dreams become more urgent, Miranda can no longer ignore her fear that someone is in danger. Is something sinister lurking right outside in her beloved garden?

There's only one way to find out... 

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Author Bio: 

Linda Mahkovec is the author of World War II historical fiction, short stories, and contemporary novels.

Themes of love, family, and home dominate her stories, and though they may be set against the backdrop of war or deal with the disappointments in life, the overarching feel is uplifting and hopeful. Threads that run through her work are the search for beauty and meaning, and the artistic female character—whether she is a painter, a gardener, or simply someone who lives creatively and seeks connection.

Mahkovec was born and raised in a small town in Illinois. She then spent several years in the San Francisco Bay area and Seattle, and for the past thirty years has lived in New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian literature. She has previously published as Agnes Irene.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Miranda awoke to the darkness of early morning. A barely-there breeze softly swelled the curtains, causing the sheers to billow as if in slow motion. Before going to bed, she had opened the window and parted the curtains, to better hear the sounds of the night and the morning birdsong. But at this hour all was hushed, except for the rhythmic breathing of her husband. The troubling sense of yearning, that of late had kept her company, had awakened with her. She slipped off the comforter, and walked to the window.

She lightly rubbed her bare arms. In the garden below, only the white flowers were visible – cone-shaped hydrangeas, discs of Queen Anne’s lace, full-blossomed peonies – dream flowers of night. They appeared weightless, as if they hovered in timelessness, and would not attach to the stems and root until the fuller light of morning connected them. Further down, the garden house loomed out of the darkness – like the flowers, not yet anchored, still in silent communion with the night. As she rested her eyes on it, almost imperceptibly it shifted – from pale gray to the beginnings of white, gaining in shape and substance as dawn gave way to day. Now she could make out the blue trim, the window boxes. Soon it would stand firm in the bright light of morning.

Everything was right there – in the tenuous linking of night with dawn, in the garden house full of memories, in the flowers and paths of the garden, in the longing that spilled out into it all. It was as if she were looking at a puzzle, and almost had it pieced together while it lingered at the edge of night—but then it completely disappeared with the morning light, as if it had never existed.

Breakfast. She would make breakfast.

She dressed quietly, washed up, and went downstairs. As she got out the eggs, milk, and butter, she tried to brush away the webby sense of discontent that clung about her. A nudging that she should be doing something more now. That her old role had changed and she must also change, or risk slipping into vagueness.

Into a large blue bowl she cracked the eggs, and added milk, vanilla, a touch of sugar. Then she began dipping slices of bread into the mix and placing them in a pan sizzling with butter.

While they browned, she turned on the tea kettle. She reached for the coffee press, and opened the bag of coffee – lifting it to her nose and taking in the rich aroma before measuring it out. The scent alone warmed her to morning, made her eager to begin the day. She took out several oranges and began slicing them to squeeze for juice. While she prepared breakfast, she heard the shower running. She smiled. The scent must have drifted upstairs.

Cooking grounded her, rooted her, in the same way gardening did. And Ben. And the kids. She caught the spray of citrus mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee, and moved more briskly as she began to set the table.

She filled a few ramekins with jams and sour cream, and poured maple syrup into a small beaker. Then she took out a bowl and filled it with strawberries and blueberries. She looked at the table and wanted it to be fuller, richer. She lifted the bright pink kalanchoe from the window shelves, and set it on the table. Too bad the kids weren’t there to enjoy  it. Clara  would  love  the  way  the  flowering plant matched the quilted placemats. And Michael would appreciate the mound of French toast dusted with powdered sugar; he had his father’s love of big breakfasts.

With one hand on the counter, she gazed at the table, secure now in the routines of her kitchen, of good food, of color and light, a prettily laid table. She leaned her head to one side and studied the setting as if it were a painting, and briefly imagined herself sitting at the table, wearing a long kimono-like robe – peacock blue, or perhaps a pattern in pinks and orange.

She glanced down at her sweat pants and t-shirt. Well, they were more practical for cooking, she told herself. Still, she wished she blended more with the arrangement – the one of the table, as well as the one in her head.

Miranda smiled at Ben’s quickness of step coming downstairs. She could always count on his appetite.

“Smells wonderful!” Ben said, entering the kitchen and giving her a quick kiss. He stared at the table. “All this for us? On a weekday?”

Miranda lifted and dropped one shoulder. “I was up early so I thought I’d make breakfast.”

“I’m not complaining.” Ben took his seat at the table and poured the steaming coffee into their cups.

Miranda sat down and looked at the ceiling-to-floor shelves behind Ben, a sort of small green-house that jutted out into the garden. It always filled her with happiness – the photos of the kids among the flowering plants, painted boxes and vases and tiny candles scattered throughout. But this morning, as a backdrop to the breakfast table, it filled her with melancholy.

She took a slice of French toast and poured some maple syrup over it and added a few strawberries. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to cooking for just two.”

“It’ll just take some time,” said Ben, as he drizzled syrup over his French toast.

“I suppose so.”

Ben looked over at Miranda, her tone at odds with the enthusiastic breakfast spread.

“I think I’ll get started on the cupboards and closets,” she said. “Paula has been asking me to hand over any of my old pieces that are gathering dust. I told her with the kids gone, I was going to clean house and get rid of things. She seems to think my old paintings and sculptures will sell at her stores. You know how she can make anything look good. I doubt if they’ll sell, but I guess it’s worth a try.”

“I’m sure she’s right. Your work is great. I always tell you that, but you never believe me.”

“That’s because you’re partial, Ben.”

“Can’t fault me for good taste.”

“Hmm,” Miranda responded with skepticism. “I guess I’ll show her my old stuff, but what I really want to do is set up the studio and get started on some new things.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Ben. “I think I found a renter for the garden house for the summer.”

Miranda put her fork down. “I thought we decided against it.”

Ben looked up. “We did? I thought the plan was to rent it out until we were ready to put up that wall, make some of those changes we talked about.”

“Ben, that was months ago. I told you just last week that I wanted to use it as a studio this summer. I want to finish that screen, for one thing. And I haven’t done any painting in years.”

“Miranda, I cut the boards for that screen two years ago.” Ben’s hand hesitated over the berries. Berries or jam? He decided on a few mixed berries and sprinkled them over another piece of French toast.

“I know. And now that I have some time, I can finally finish it.”

“So I’ll tell the guy it’s not available.” He lifted the coffee press and refilled his cup. “Oh, remember to set out Michael’s camping gear if you come across it. He wants us to take it to him the next time we’re down. Apparently, his new girlfriend – Casey? – is a hiker and camper.” He raised his eyebrows at Miranda and grinned. “He sounds pretty happy. Portland was definitely the right choice for him.”

“Caitlin,” said Miranda. She placed an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, lightly tapping her lips with her knuckles. She took a deep breath and resumed eating. “No. Don’t tell him.”

Ben raised his head. “Tell who what?”

“The tenant. The guy.”

“Oh. You sure? I thought you just said – ”

“No. That can wait. The rent will help with the renovations.” She took another slice of French toast and spread on some sour cream and raspberry jam. “So who is he?”

“Somebody Doug knows. Or his wife, rather. A teacher or journalist or something.” He looked up, trying to remember if there was anything else he knew about him. “From out East. New York, I think,” he said, as if that summed it all up.

Miranda made a small sound of exasperation. “Is that all you know about him? How old is he? Is he married? Kids? What’s he like? What does he teach?”

Ben drew a blank at each question.

“What’s his name?”

“William. Something. Been teaching for thirty years. I don’t think he’s arriving until next week. I’ll find out more today and let you know.” He tried to read the expression on Miranda’s face—far-off look, slight frown. He had been sure that his news of a tenant would make her happy. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that – I thought that if we rented it out, it would be nice to have a woman. An artist. Maybe someone with a small child or two. Wouldn’t that be nice? To have kids down there? Just on a temporary basis.”

“You can always turn it into a daycare center if that’s what you want.” His suggestion, as he knew it would be, was met with a sharp glance from Miranda. “I mean it,” he continued. “The kids are gone, and now you finally have some time to do what you want to do. If it’s a daycare you want – ”

“I don’t want to run a daycare.”

“Well,  you  did  a  few  years  ago.  Don’t  you remember? You had plans to – ”

“Well, I  don’t  now. That’s  the  whole  point, Ben. I want to start doing some of the things I’ve been putting off for the last twenty-five years.” As soon  as  the  words  were  out, she  regretted  them. Ben  would  think  she  was  blaming  him  for  why she hadn’t pursued her dreams, even though it had been her idea to leave school when they got married and work while Ben finished his degree.

Ben looked down at his plate, and then up at Miranda. “I know. I’m behind you on that. Just – tell me what it is you want to do, and I’ll help you with it.”

Miranda’s eyes filled with worry. “That’s just it, Ben. I don’t know. I really don’t. How can I have gotten to this age and not know what I want to do?” She glanced about as she searched for an answer. “What if all those things they say about middle age are true? What if I get foggy-brained and too tired to accomplish anything ever again? And I just keep gaining weight and – ”

Ben laughed and leaned over to rub her shoulder. “Aw, c’mon. What are you so worried about? You just keep getting better and better. I never could keep up with you.”

“Ha!  You  haven’t  gained  a  pound.  While I – ” she shook her head at the unfinished thought. “Though  I  do  think  the  dry  cleaner  is  partly  to blame – everything comes back smaller. More coffee?” she asked, preventing any chance of a rebuttal.

Ben smiled and held up his cup. “Take your time and think about the tenant. You can always say no. It’s completely your call.”

She watched him fix another piece of French toast. “No. It’s a good idea. I’m not quite ready to paint or whatever, anyway. It’s going to take me weeks, maybe months, to really clean out closets and organize everything. A tenant makes sense. I’ll work on the garden house today, get it ready for him. It needs a few things.” She heard herself and almost cringed, as if another delay in her plans was exactly what she wanted.

Ben caught the wistful tone behind her words. “Hey – how about dinner tonight?” he asked. “At McMillans – watch the sun set on the lake. You’ll have your hands full today; this way you won’t have to think about cooking.”

“You know me well,” she said, stretching her legs and resting them on his lap. Miranda loved the restaurant’s seasonal menu and always looked forward to a new culinary experience – a fresh way of preparing a vegetable, an unusual combination of herbs or spices, or a completely new dish that she would later try to recreate.

Ben’s phone rang and he glanced at the number. “Sam.”

He chatted with his old friend, rubbing Miranda’s legs as he talked, stopping and starting in pace with the conversation.

Miranda picked a few berries from the bowl, eating them one at a time, and watched Ben, always so  animated  and  energetic. After  all  these  years, she thought, I’m still wild about him. He doesn’t even  have  to  do  anything. He  can  just  sit  there and eat and talk on the phone and laugh – and it all makes me love him so much. He was agreeing to something, raising his eyebrows at her at some good news. She just hoped it didn’t involve fishing.

Ben  speared  one  last  slice  and  shrugged  at Miranda, as if it was so delicious he couldn’t help himself. He poured out some syrup, gave a chuckle, and  nodded  again. “Sounds  good.  I’ll  tell  her – she’ll love it. See ya, buddy.” He slipped the phone into his pocket.

“What will I love?”

“He invited us to his new place on the peninsula.  Another  month  or  so  and  it’ll  be  ready. Doesn’t  that  sound  great?” He  cast  an  imaginary fishing line.

A weak smile formed on her lips.

“Hiking, fishing, sitting around the fire pit at night. He said he’s discovered a local berry farm that you’ll love.”

Miranda smiled at the cozy vision. “That does sound nice.” Dear ole Sam, she thought. Always sure to include something she would enjoy.

Ben took one last bite and scooted his chair from the table. Then he took his jacket from the hall tree and headed out the door.

Miranda followed him outside, rubbing her arms against the chill. “I’ll make a reservation. What time should I say?”

“Better make it 8:00. See you there.” He squeezed her goodbye, intensifying his embrace until he got the laugh he was looking for.

She walked out on the flagstones and watched him drive off. A trip to the peninsula might be a good idea, after all. It would be beautiful there. She loved the deep forest walks, the smell of wood fire at night. And Sam was always good company. Though only ten years older than Ben, Sam was in many ways his mentor. She would always be grateful to him for helping Ben through a tough time. The memory of those years, of the stress Ben was under, still filled her with pain. At one point she feared he was heading for a breakdown. Long hours, corporate politics, an ever-increasing work load. It was Sam who convinced him to leave the firm and work with a smaller architect company. And it had changed their lives.

A weekend with Sam would be good for them. She could walk along the shore while they fished. After all, she’d been wanting to exercise more, get back into shape. Here was her chance. Why did she always meet everything with such resistance? Like the idea of a tenant. That, too, might be a good thing. I used to be more open, more adventurous, she thought. When did that change?

Miranda lifted her face to the sun. She loved the way the garden smelled in the early morning, the earthy dampness from the light Seattle rain, the whiff of pine, the sun just beginning to release a hint of jasmine from the trellis. And if she leaned in close enough to the roses – she cupped her hands around the dewy pinkness, buried her face in the flower, and closed her eyes at such sweetness. She often wished they could move their bed out here, sleep under the stars, put up a little canopy against the rain –

“Hey, neighbor!”

There was Paula, waving to her.

“Good morning!” called Miranda, and crossed over to where Paula was planting flowers along her wooden fence.

Paula stood and held up a potted flower. “Just look at this clematis—it’s as big as a saucer.”

Miranda reached out to touch the pale purple flower. “It’s beautiful.”

“Just got it at the nursery yesterday. They still have some left.”

“I’ll go this morning. I need to get flowers for the window boxes,” she said, gesturing to the garden house. “I think we’ve found a renter for the summer.”

Paula inclined her head. “I thought you were going to use it as a studio.”

“We changed our minds. I want to organize the house first. Then think about what I want to do with the garden house.”

“I  hope  that  doesn’t  mean  you’re  going  to postpone  your  plans  again.  I  remember  a  time when you were always working on some painting or sculpture or something.”

“Yeah, well – that was ages ago.”

“What is it you’re afraid of? What’s stopping you?”

Miranda laughed at the ridiculous notion. “I’m  not  afraid  of  anything,  Paula. It’s  just –  I haven’t done anything for so long, and…”

Paula put a hand on her hip. “Does this have anything to do with turning fifty?”

“No, of course not. No. Not at all. It’s just – I’m not sure if I can tap into that part of myself again. I think it might be gone.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment. It’s in there. You just need to dig.” And with that, she knelt back down and shoved the trowel into the ground. “So who’s the tenant? A young painter with a five-year old child?”

Miranda laughed at the details of her earlier vision. “No, an older man. A teacher.”

“Well,  you  can  still  move  ahead  with  your plans. No reason you can’t paint outside or in the garage.”

“First I want to organize the house. Now that the kids are gone, I can clear out old stuff, get rid of things. And then think about painting or whatever.”

Paula gave a skeptical raise of her eyebrows.

Miranda pushed her foot at a clump of grass along the fence. “I think it will help me to focus, to start with a clean slate. I have so much stuff – old pieces I’ve held onto, half-finished projects. I want to lighten my load, and start fresh, you know? Then maybe by the fall or so I can be ready to really work.”

“Hmm.  Well,  don’t   throw   away   anything without letting me check it out first. The new shop opens  in  a  month. I  need  to  fill  it  up, and  your things would add just the right touch.”

“I doubt if there’s anything you can use, but I’ll start going through things.”

“You really should start on something new, as well. You’ll have the time now.”

“Yeah.” Miranda nodded and looked around. “Well, I better get started with everything. See you later.” She began to walk back to the house.

“Don’t wait too long, Miranda!”

Miranda turned and waited for a final word of reprimand.

But Paula was holding up the pale purple clematis. “They’re sure to go fast.”

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

“Here's a new kind of sleuth with an ecological bent and an unlikely sidekick, a sometimes tense, sometimes funny murder mystery with a touch of romance.” —P.B. Parris, author of Waltzing in the Attic and His Arms are Full of Broken Things

Callahan Banks returns to her beloved Timicau Island near Charleston, South Carolina, to settle her mother's estate. Her grief is compounded by Pepper Dade's plans to develop the island and destroy the only home she's ever known. When the body of a bikini-clad blonde washes up on the beach, Callahan is pulled into a web of intrigue that has her questioning all she thought she knew about her own life. Struggling to resist her attraction to Pepper, Callahan suspects he may be involved in the death of the blonde. She ignores her misgivings until nine-year-old, freckle-faced Harry Applegate, her sidekick, disappears. Now Callahan must muster all her skills as a naturalist and tracker to find the little boy before it's too late.

Author Bio:

Dershie McDevitt, a Wilma Dykeman Writing-Excellence Award Winner at UNC-Asheville, lives outside Asheville, North Carolina with her rescue dog, Sassafras, her opinionated calico cat, Orphan Annie, and her first and second husbands. Dershie and Larry, who have had the good fortune to have married each other twice, own a whimsical vacation home off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina on a buried island teeming with wildlife—the perfect setting for the fictional biology professor Callahan Banks to use her knowledge of nature to solve challenging mysteries.

Shop the Callahan Banks Mystery series

In the world of high-stakes horse racing, is it training, money, or luck that gets the win? 

C.J. Jamieson is a young, gifted female jockey with a complicated past and a strong desire to break through in the competitive world of thoroughbred racing.

Trainer Ritchie Gallo, on the other hand, has spent half his life in the sport. He's at the top of his game, but he's never been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse. Until now. He finally has the horse, but needs the perfect rider.

Call it luck or fate, but when Gallo comes across C.J., he knows he might finally have his ticket to the winners circle.  

Follow Gallo and C.J. as they compete in the turbulent world of thoroughbred racing in a beautifully told, fast-paced story of triumph, tragedy, and perseverance. From the tracks of Saratoga to the famous Churchill Downs, their journey together teaches them that winning races on fragile legs isn't so different than winning at life with fragile hearts. 

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Ritchie Gallo sat on his track pony and watched the sun slowly rise. The mist and fog shrouding the Saratoga racetrack filtered the sun’s light and allowed him to look at the glowing orange ball without shading his eyes. This was his favorite time of day. The morning was still cool, so he could fully enjoy the muffled drumbeat of horses’ hooves hitting the dirt. Other trainers sat at the rail in front of the empty grandstands to watch their horses run. They measured speeds with stopwatches and made notes in their journals, detailing the progress their thoroughbreds were making in their exercise regime.

Gallo preferred to be mounted on a horse when his colts and fillies went through their paces. He was a horseman, and a horseman should be astride a horse.As he stared down the backstretch, a colt burst from the mist like an apparition charging down an apocalyptic battlefield. Backlit by the rising sun, the horse shot bolts of breath through its nostrils, creating contrails of vapor that streamed down its body. When the racer and its rider drew closer, the ghostly appearance faded, and the animal was once again a brilliant athlete sculpted for speed and endurance.

Gallo’s track pony, General Custer, stood perfectly still, even when the thoroughbred thundered by just a few feet away. The General was a gelding. The removal of his family jewels had done wonders for his personality, making him calm and docile around people and other animals. However, his bulk and strength prevented him from the speed desired in thoroughbred champions, so Gallo had purchased him eight years ago to be his mobile work platform. Together, they had spent countless hours observing some of the most expensive creatures in the world—thoroughbreds preparing themselves for the glory and riches that come with racing success.

Although Gallo now lived in Kentucky, he looked forward to these late summer races in his hometown of Saratoga. His family bred horses on a farm just a few miles from the track, so he’d been around thoroughbreds all his life, even dreamed of being a jockey as a child. His quest to develop the skills necessary to guide a twelve-hundred-pound animal around a one-mile oval at more than forty miles per hour began with a summer job working as an exercise rider. But those dreams were dashed when a growth spurt at age eighteen made a racing career impractical.With no prospects of earning a living in the saddle, Gallo decided to become a trainer. After graduating from college with a major in animal science, his father connected him with one of the nation’s top trainers at a farm in Kentucky. There, Gallo learned the art and science of developing racehorses.

He endured long hours, hard work, and low pay for thirteen racing seasons before he was asked to join the team at a small breeding and training farm near Lexington. They were looking for a young man with a great eye for horses and a willingness to use technology and science to create the ultimate methodology for turning a talented horse into a winning racehorse.

For four tough seasons, Gallo and his staff of grooms and horse attendants travelled across the country, winning races at regional tracks and then major venues like Belmont, Santa Anita, Saratoga, and Churchill Downs. He earned a reputation as a trainer who could design the right regimen for select thoroughbreds and ethically prepare them to compete and win. Gallo took on several horses that other trainers and breeding farms passed over and trained them to run in the money at good quality races. Over time, his compensation grew to six-figures—excellent pay in an industry notorious for its demanding schedules and low wages. Despite his success, Gallo knew he still hadn’t been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse, one that could compete and win at the highest level.

At least, not until now.

Gallo pulled the reins to the right and walked General Custer down to the finish line. An exercise rider approached on a black colt that was covered in sweat and breathing heavily after a one-and-a-half-mile gallop. “How did he feel today, Hector?”

“Ah, he’s okay, Mister Gallo. He is a big, strong, fast horse, but el es un niño obstinado. He don’t want to do what he don’t want to do.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s giving me some sleepless nights. Okay, take him back to the stable and let the boys cool him down, give him a shower, and feed him breakfast.”The rider guided the colt to the northeast corner of the track, where security guards waited to halt Union Avenue traffic at the crossing to the stabling area. The drivers didn’t seem to mind the wait, and never honked. Why would they? It was a chance to see these magnificent athletes at close range. Some horses were moving from the stables to the track, fidgeting in anticipation of the activity for which they are bred. Others walked from the track to the stables, drenched in sweat, muscles quivering, and blood vessels popping through their skin. It seemed to Gallo that people were always a little overwhelmed by this sight. When did you ever see humans give 110 percent effort in their daily lives? These horses didn’t know any other way to live.Five of the six thoroughbreds Gallo had brought to Saratoga had now completed their daily workout. The black colt that had just left the track was Tackle Tim Tom. He held tremendous potential but was difficult to train. Only two years old, the horse had already run impressive split times in his last four races. Gallo didn’t want to geld the colt because he still felt he could train him to compete effectively. He hoped he could find a jockey that could connect with the horse and ride him to victory. If Tackle Tim Tom found success on the track, he would be worth a lot of money as a breeding stallion. Gallo also had a hunch that this thoroughbred was that one-in-a-million colt who could compete and win in the highest stakes races. To win a Derby, Preakness, Belmont, Travers, or Breeders’ Cup Classic was only a dream for most trainers. More than twenty thousand foals were born every year, but only a handful could win the biggest races.

As Tackle Tim Tom disappeared across Union Avenue and headed for the stable, Gallo’s other great hope moved across the street and stepped onto the track. Hit the Bid was one of the most beautiful horses Gallo had ever seen: a dark bay with white sox below her knees. Physically, she was the perfect horse—superb conformation from her head to her tail. She was big for a filly at 17.2 hands, and now that she was a three-year-old, she tipped the scales at 1,215 pounds. When she ran, she was what trainers referred to as an “A” mover: a low, smooth stride with no wasted energy. Her limbs moved forward and back on a straight line, and when she navigated the turns on a course, there was no lateral movement in her body. She carried herself with a sense of majesty and had a great personality—often playfully nudging the grooms that worked in the stable and entertaining the patrons at the racetrack with the prancing dance moves she made on her way to the starting gate. The only problem with this horse was that she loved to run too much. Unlike Tackle Tim Tom, who had to be in the right mood to run his fastest, Hit the Bid never wanted to do anything except breeze at top speed.

As soon as she stepped on the racetrack, she began to dance, moving her hindquarters left and then right. Her head bobbed up and down, and her ears stood upright as though searching for the roar of an adoring crowd in the gallery. In the saddle was Jacinto Robles, a jockey that had never ridden the filly before and was scheduled to be in the stirrups for her first race at Saratoga just eight days away. Gallo wanted Robles to put her through an exercise run to see how she handled and to get a feel for her ability.Hit the Bid had already achieved substantial success as a racehorse, having won several Grade Two and Grade One races. She was on the industry’s radar as an up-and-coming star, and Gallo’s goal was to prepare her to race on the biggest stages against not only other fillies and mares, but colts as well.

“Are you ready to go, Jacinto?”

“Sure, Mister Gallo. Boy, she is really a rambunctious filly. Is she always this excited when she gets to the track?”“Yeah, but it’s excited in a good way. Here’s what I want you to do: let her canter for a quarter-mile and then bring her up to a gallop. Don’t go faster than eighteen seconds per furlong. She doesn’t like to gallop—she wants to run, so she’ll fight it all the way. We have a heart monitor on her, and I don’t want her heart rate to get too high during the gallop. Once you’ve covered a quarter-mile at a gallop, back her up just before the three-eighth pole and let her breeze to the finish line. Make sure you get a running start at the three-eighth pole, because I want to see what her top speed is for the final three furlongs.”

“No problem, jefe. I got it!”

The jockey guided the horse away at a canter, moving in a clockwise direction around the outer periphery of the track where horses could walk, canter, or gallop. Once he had covered a quarter-mile at a canter, he eased up a little on the reins and stood in the stirrups, raising his butt off the saddle.

Just as Gallo had predicted, Hit the Bid wanted to run, and Robles had to use his hands, arms, and knees to hold her back. When the filly passed the finish line—where Ritchie Gallo and General Custer were standing—Robles let her gallop for another minute before turning her around and moving her down along the inside rail. He asked her to run just before the three-eighth pole. He didn’t have to ask twice; in a matter of five strides, Hit the Bid was at top speed, hurtling around the far turn and approaching the top of the stretch.

Gallo clicked his stopwatch when she was at the pole, watching her make the turn through his binoculars. Every time he watched her run, he was astounded by the athletic grace of this beautiful lady. As thoroughbreds run through a turn, they generate a force on their legs more than eight times their body weight. Despite this physical pressure, Hit the Bid maintained her line as she ran through the turn and kept a constant distance from the inside rail on her left. Her strides were straight, smooth, and powerful, and her head was in perfect alignment with her body.

As she transitioned from the turn to the straightaway, she made a lead change to her right front foot and accelerated toward the finish line. When the filly crossed the line, Ritchie hit the stopwatch and immediately looked at the time. He shook his head and shared the good news with General Custer. “We got us one hell of a horse here, big guy. Three furlongs in thirty-four seconds after a mile-and-a-quarter gallop. Damn, she’s good!”

It took a concerted effort by Robles to bring the filly to a trot after her breeze, but he finally got her to slow down and turn around, moving to the outside of the track. When he met up with Gallo, Ritchie bent over and hooked a rein to the filly’s bridal so he and General Custer could walk her slowly back to the stables, allowing the jockey to relax in the saddle.

Once they got back to her stall, Gallo checked her nose for any traces of blood and then took the wraps off her lower legs to examine her knees, cannon bones, ankles, and feet. Everything looked good, so he had his grooms unsaddle the horse and walk her around a paddock ring to slow down her heart rate. After that, she would be thoroughly washed down, brushed, and given a breakfast of oats, hay, and a small amount of other grains.

“So, what do you think, Jacinto?” asked the trainer.

“At first, I think she got a problem because she dances so much, but once you ask her to run, she does everything right. She’s got heart—un gran corazón. I think she can win against the boys.”

“Yeah, me too. Okay, she’s entered in the American Oaks on July 22. It’s a Grade One race for three-year-olds and up. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my rider. That work for you?”

“Yes sir, Mister Gallo. Just close the loop with my agent and we’re good to go. If we win that one, it’s a big payday for both of us!”

“Thanks, Jacinto.”

Satisfied that all six of his horses were being serviced by his grooms, Gallo made his way to a trailer that served as a temporary office for himself and several other trainers. Inside the trailer were a cluster of desks equally spaced throughout the interior with a couple of chairs at each station. It wasn’t an elegant workplace, but rather a functional one, where trainers could make phone calls to agents, racetrack officials, owners, and the farms where they each trained horses.

Now that the athletic activities for the day were done, Gallo spent the rest of the workday completing race entry paperwork, lining up jockeys, and giving upbeat progress reports to the owners of the horses he trained and to his partners at Stone Fence Farms in Kentucky. He enjoyed the business side of his job, but sometimes he felt it took too much time away from the horses, forcing him to rely on his chief groom to be sure the horses were safe, healthy, comfortable, and properly fed. As he had become more successful, the commercial aspects of being a winning trainer became more demanding. Keeping up with the increasing value of the horses, as well as the size of the purses in the major stakes races, was a lot of work—but his love for the horses and the competition made it all worthwhile.

At 4:30 p.m., he decided to call it quits. Since his workday began at five o’clock in the morning, he needed to be in bed early, which only left a couple of hours every evening to do something other than be a horse trainer. He liked to hit the gym several times each week, but tonight, he just didn’t have the energy for it and decided to enjoy a quiet dinner at one of his favorite restaurants in Saratoga Springs. After one last check on the horses, he got in his truck and began to drive towards the section of town where the eateries and nightclubs were located. Whether by accident or just drawn by nostalgia, he reached the street he considered to be his favorite in this small upstate New York town. Even though it was where he suffered the worst heartbreak of his life, he couldn’t resist its charm, so he made the left turn he had made so many times as a young man.

Both sides of the street boasted large, older homes that screamed “old Saratoga money” to anyone that knew the grand history of this neighborhood. His pickup truck was the only vehicle on the street, so he slowed down to give himself time to admire the handsome and exquisitely maintained houses. Halfway down the block, he pulled over to look at a home he remembered all too well from his days as an exercise rider—over twenty years ago, now. He turned off the ignition and found himself just sitting there, looking at the soaring grey-shingled house with green trim around the windows and thick columns framing a porch that wrapped around the width of the dwelling.

The porch swing he’d enjoyed on cool summer evenings was still there, right in the same place—just to the left of the large mahogany front door. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself laughing with Channing Mellon. They used to tease one another and kiss when they thought nobody was looking. Dark eyes, olive skin, and long black hair framed an amazing smile that wouldn’t let him forget he was with the sweetest girl in the world. Gallo was only five feet seven inches in height, but he would still think about how tall he felt when he placed his arms around her petite frame and held her close. He still thought about her a lot, actually, if he were being honest with himself.

Gallo had taken the time to stop in front of this house many times over the last two decades, whenever he returned to Saratoga for the racing season. And somehow, whenever he did, he always thought about the lyrics of a song entitled Summer of ‘69:

“Standing on your momma’s porch,

You told me that you’d wait forever,

Oh the way you held my hand,

I knew that it was now or never,

He’d had some great moments since the days of holding Channing Mellon’s hand on that porch swing—but he always wondered how his life might’ve looked if she’d been his partner through the years, rather than a memory. Life imitated art as the story of his love for this young woman unfolded. He was the farm boy and exercise rider who thought the greatest place in the world was on the backstretch of a racetrack among the horses, stables, and horsemen. She was the daughter of a Wall Street scion who truly believed that horse racing was the sport of kings, and he wasn’t about to let his princess commingle with the help.

Gallo kept his eyes on that porch swing. It swayed in the breeze, as though still pushed by the ghosts of his memories. He fought off a frown, thinking about how Channing’s father had felt he’d made a mistake allowing her to pursue her love for horses by working at the racetrack—even though it was only during the summertime, when they resided at their Saratoga home. Perhaps it had been a mistake, but not for Gallo. That’s when he’d met her.

She was mucking stalls, helping the grooms with the thoroughbreds, and walking the horses in the cooldown ring. It didn’t take long for him to find out she’d considered him handsome, funny, and a person whose work ethic and love for the racetrack had earned him the respect of everyone working behind the scenes. He’d introduced her to several trainers who paid her to exercise the horses. Her father was appalled when he’d found out about that. He didn’t mind her wearing riding britches, a black jacket, and a helmet with a visor if she was jumping over fences that were only three feet high and competing in equestrian dressage. Breezing racehorses, to him, just seemed so blue-collar. It was a job carried out by small men with foreign accents or white trash who couldn’t do anything else for a living.

This time, Gallo couldn’t fight off his frown. Channing’s father had eventually insisted she bring her relationship with him to an end and shipped her back to Manhattan as quickly as he could.

That was another thing he’d never forget: Channing tearfully telling him goodbye in their final moments together. She’d promised she would be back after graduation from Wellesley, as an independent woman who would take control of her life. He’d waited hopefully for that event, but over time it became clear that she wasn’t going to keep that promise. Whenever he drove by this house, he wondered if her family still owned it and if she continued to summer in Saratoga. He had never seen her or her father again. He guessed that she’d chosen to put a love affair that lasted two summers in her past, moving on toward a very different future—one without him.

Gallo started up his pickup truck and pulled away from the curb. As he drove to the downtown section of Saratoga Springs, he knew that in his future, he would always compare every horse he trained to Hit the Bid and, hopefully, Tackle Tim Tom. Trainers measured potential by comparing a colt or filly to a benchmark. He also knew that he had never married because when it came to women, Channing Mellon had always been his benchmark.

“A powerful story with a vivid setting, compelling plot, and multifaceted characters." —2019 Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books

“5 Stars! Two Coins, with its overtones to women's rights, is nothing less than a stellar and ageless novel." —2019 Chanticleer International Book Awards Semi-Finalist

During the Great Scandal of British Calcutta in 1883, newspapers were flying off the shelves in Calcutta, Edinburgh, and London. The Reverend William Hastie had charged Mary Pigot, lady superintendent of the Scottish Female Mission in Calcutta, with mismanagement and immorality. The headlines were damning. But Miss Pigot isn't taking the reverend's accusations sitting down. She decides to fight back!

After ten years of hard work growing the mission, raising funds and educating women, Miss Pigot's career is in ruins as a result of the scandal. With nothing to lose, she takes her case to the Calcutta High Court and sues Hastie for malicious libel. A woman publicly suing a man! It's just the type of scandal that sells lots of newspapers.

Based on actual events, Two Coins takes readers into Justice William Norris' steamy courtroom in the middle of monsoon season as the scandal engulfs the entire missionary community—destroying almost everyone involved. Will Miss Pigot prevail?

More Reviews:

"Two Coins portrays a nearly forgotten event in time where a determined woman fought the oppressive powers that be. Risking reputation in a time when that was all a woman had, Mary Pigot’s story is illustrative of staying the course to the bitter end." —San Francisco Book Review

“Sandra Wagner-Wright does a masterful job bringing the scene to life. Well-researched and colorful, readers step back in time and experience the trials and tribulations alongside her well-developed characters…a forgotten tale of power, corruption, and women’s rights based on a true story. Readers will be shocked and delighted.” —Seattle Book Review

"I don’t know that I could have enjoyed this book more, and I feel I learned a great deal. A work of historical fiction that is both entertaining and informative is a rare treat, and this is not one that should be passed by. Five Stars." —Manhattan Book Review

"Wagner-Wright's extensive research allows her to stay remarkably true to history while her creativity brings an outstanding story of courage and fortitude to life. A powerful story with a vivid setting, compelling plot, and multifaceted characters." —Kirkus Reviews

Author Bio:

Sandra Wagner-Wright taught women's & global history at the University of Hawai`i. Rama's Labyrinth is her first work of historical fiction. When not writing, Sandra enjoys travel & practicing yoga. Sandra writes a weekly blog on history, travel & the idiosyncrasies of life.