It’s no secret that we love romantic suspense and Bones Along the Hill by Nancy Sartor is one we highly recommend.
A decade-old mystery, a power-mad enemy and his human-trafficking ring stand in the way of the hopes and dreams of legendary funeral home facial restorationist Neva Oakley who, for all her talent, can never bring back Gray Ledbetter, her first love, who took his own life ten years ago.
Davis Pratt, too, is consumed. Long ago his younger brother disappeared, and Davis won’t give up hope. Perhaps that’s why he and Neva are such a good couple. Or perhaps that’s why they can’t move forward. Then the search leads them to the Oakley cemetery and a murder tied to a human trafficking ring. Suddenly, impossible crimes threaten both family and friends, crimes that cannot be ignored. Not even the Nashville PD can keep Neva safe, but if she and Davis succeed, together they just might solve all their mysteries and free each other to embrace their future.
Sneak Peek Chapters 3-5
Davis had been gone for two hours or so, but she still quivered with the after-effects of their lovemaking. Quivering hadn’t slowed her down, however, and now the new side of Jared’s head was covered with quarter-inch-long fine hair. It was, as she’d predicted, slow-going, tedious work.
Neva arched and massaged her back. She was also rag-doll, spot-seeing exhausted. She wanted her four-poster bed with the down comforter and about nine hours of sleep.
Jared’s face was liberally dusted with bits and pieces of angora. She chose a softbristled brush and was flicking the tiny flyaway pieces to the floor when her cell phone broke into “Evil Woman.” Moya’s ringtone.
“Hey, cookie,” Neva said. Her shoulders ached. She lifted them, let them fall, laid the brush on the table and flexed her fingers, grimacing at their length, their thinness.
Artist’s hands, her mother called them. Long ugly sticks, Neva called them.
“Helloooo?” Moya’s voice said in her ear. “Are you there?”
“Sorry. I’m so tired I can barely stay awake. You were saying?”
“I said, are you in the prep room?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“Beecauuuse I work here?”
“Why are you not at Davis’s?”
“Oh, of course. That would make sense. This is his last night in the States for a week.
But, alas, he’s off chasing invisible butterflies. I’ll be sleeping in my own bed alone. Is that where you are?”
“In your bed?”
Neva could almost see Moya’s wicked grin. “No, stupid, at the house.”
“I’m in your parking lot,” Moya said.
“Car was running just fine when I left the grocery,” Moya said. Her tone morphed into disgust. “Now it sounds like a kid with whooping cough. I saw the lights and your car, figured I could catch a ride home.” There was a second-long pause and then, “I’m sorry about Davis, granny. He’ll be gone a week, right?”
“Seven days, one hundred sixty-eight hours, one thousand eighty minutes, six hundred four thousand eight hundred seconds. Not that I’m counting. And clearly neither is he. Come on in. I’ll unlock the door.”
“You sure? I don’t want to interrupt the great artiste.”
“The great artiste is nearly through.”
Like Jared’s face, Neva’s clothes were covered with bits and pieces of angora. She’d ignored them while she was in the zone, but as she moved, the tiny hairs dug in and began to itch as if a billion ants had moved into her clothes. She unzipped her jeans and was struggling out of them when Moya danced through the door, a vision in a pair of form-fitting designer jeans, long, leather high-heeled boots and a frilly blouse. She’d piled her ebony curls on her head and woven sparkles among them. Her dark, dark eyes had a thousand-watt shine. She closed the door, locked it, glanced pointedly at Neva’s panties-covered butt and said, “Um, not my style, granny, but don’t let me slow you down.”
“Kiss my ass,” Neva said as she kicked the jeans away and ran for the shower room, clawing her legs with both hands.
“I could, I guess,” Moya said. “There’s enough of it showing.”
Neva stuck her head around the door and said through teeth clenched against the itch, “Stay away from the angora, smarty, or you’ll wind up in here with me. I’ll be right back.”
She dropped the rest of her clothes in the farthest corner, leapt under the water, used her hands to squeegee the hair down, then slung it onto the shower floor. In seconds, the drain clogged. She cleared it, dumped the hair into the trashcan in the corner, then padded back, leaving wet footprints along the concrete.
When the hair was nearly all gone and the maddening itch subsided, she toweled her skin until it glowed, which removed the rest, and pulled on a pair of old jeans and a Tshirt that said, “Keep Smoking. Your Undertaker Needs the Business.”
When she returned, Moya was sitting on a padded chair at the old red and white Formica table in the far corner. “Tell me,” Neva said as she ran her hands through her curls and tried to tame them into something resembling a style, “what did you do tonight that’s got your eyes all shiny?”
“I smoked grass.”
Neva stopped in mid-step. “You did not!”
“No,” Moya admitted with a grin, “I just love to make you look like that.”
“All prudy-faced. I went out with Ken Stasher.”
“The Ken Stasher?” Moya and Ken, both registered nurses, worked together for a home health agency. For months, Moya’s daily conversations had included at least one reference to Ken Stasher.
“The one and only. Is that Larissa’s baby?”
“Yes. God, Moya, she’s so trashed she can hardly talk.”
“I can imagine,” Moya said. “I didn’t know her well in high school.”
“None of us did.”
“To lose your kid like that. It must be awful.” Moya moved to the prep table, circled the child. “The newspaper said his head was—”
“It was. He never had a chance.”
“He’s perfect. I knew you were good, but this is just spooky.”
“Been telling you I’m a freakin’ genius.”
“More like just a freak. Listen, you know how I thought Ken was gay?”
Neva had long since learned to follow Moya’s hopscotch mind, which, when she was excited, seemed unable to focus on one thing for long. “Because he was neat?”
“Yeah, well, he’s nice, too, polite, holds the door.”
“So, naturally, he must be gay.”
Moya slitted her eyes. “Stop it. Thing is, he’s not.”
“And we know this how?”
“We kissed him.”
Neva grinned. “Wow! On the first date? Mama Rosita would be horrified.”
“You’re in top form tonight, granny. Something good happen to you?”
Amazing what sex could do for a girl, or maybe it was the elixir of Moya, the wonderful and intoxicating energy that flowed off her best friend. “I’m just glad to see you.”
“I guess so!” Moya said with a teasing smile. “You spend all your time with that Pratt guy.”
“Davis is gone for a week.”
“One hundred and sixty-eight little hours,” Moya sang to the tune of “What a Difference a Day Makes,” forcing the extra words to fit.
“Point is, we should be able to get in some quality girl time, find a few adult beverages.”
“Yeah, but when he’s back, I get dumped.” She was teasing, but it hit Neva hard.
“I don’t mean to do that. It’s just that—” She broke off. What was it that made her choose Davis over Moya? Sex? Yes, but not just sex. It wasn’t that she was more comfortable with Davis. With Moya, she could be herself, say anything she liked. That wasn’t true with Davis, not yet anyway, although she’d certainly done a bang-up job of saying what she thought earlier tonight. She would never want to be without Moya no matter how often she married or how many children she had. But when Davis was around, she wanted to be with just him.
Oh hell, maybe it was sex.
“You know I love you,” she finished. “Besides, you’re gonna be spending all your time with Ken.”
“Whoa, granny. First date. I may never hear from him again. You know how that goes.”
“He’ll be back, sweetie.” Neva put her chair back under the table. An ominous ache was creeping ever nearer the middle of her forehead. Probably fatigue backed by hunger. “You gonna leave your car here?”
“Yep. I’ll have the garage pick it up in the morning. Speaking of tomorrow, can I drop you off and drive your car to work?”
“Sure. Oh, before I forget, Zanna called. She’ll be in Tuesday. Think you’ll have your car back by then?”
A couple of frown lines appeared above Moya’s pert nose. “I guess so. Depends on what’s wrong with it.”
Neva shrugged. “If you don’t, we’ll borrow Dad’s car.”
“Cousin Zanna. Your misplaced twin sister.”
“We really don’t look that much alike.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“Her eyes are dark; mine are—”
“—sapphire glories,” Moya said. “She’s taller. I’ve heard all this. From a distance and even up close if your hair is cut like hers, she could double for you.”
“Well, anyway,” Neva said, “we have to leave my car at the airport for her Tuesday. I’ll park in the short-term parking lot, take the shuttle to the airport, text you when I get there. You pick me up outside.”
“Okey dokey. Count me in.”
Rozanna did have the same dark auburn hair as Neva. Her face was long, too, with the characteristic Needham cleft chin, but that was where the resemblance ended. Neva’s face was thinner at the high cheekbones they both shared. Her ears were smaller, too. Zan had elephant ears. Neva’d made all kinds of fun of those ears when they were young, but Zan forgave her…finally.
Zan was precious to Neva. Neither she nor her cousin had so far inherited their mothers’ depression. Which was good for them both, but better for Zan than for Neva.
Aunt Ann swallowed a fatal bottleful of pills when both girls were six years old.
Always good to see the talented Zan, whose song lyrics—country, country-Western and crossover—lived on albums by people like Deana Carter and, just recently, Gabe Dixon. She went where the work was, but right now, she was popular enough to write her own ticket. Being a smart girl, she divided her year evenly between L.A. and Nashville.
“Davis has never met Zan,” Neva said.
“Ken has,” Moya pointed out.
“I think they had maybe one date forever ago. Not jealous are you?”
“Of Zan? Just because she’s tall and perfectly made and has this incredible curly auburn hair and enough talent for six people? Who, me? Jealous? Don’t be silly.”
“Oh, shut up,” Neva said. “You don’t have to worry about any woman, girl. And you know it.” Neva took a step. A wave of vertigo swept her like an angry tide. She clutched the table edge.
Moya grabbed her arm. “You okay?”
“Just tired. And hungry. Let me put some makeup on Jared, and we’ll be outta here.”
She’d figured out the right makeup for the child while she worked on him. Ivory with just a tiny dot of chestnut. For one so young, Jared had dark skin. When the overall makeup was perfect, she mixed pink with the same ivory, then hovered over the boy’s cheeks while she decided how to put the color down. Cheek color could and often did ruin a good restoration.
For a baby, it was particularly important.
Holding her breath, she smoothed on a gossamer film of color, then stepped back to view it from a distance. “I think that’s right,” she said.
“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Moya said.
It was after midnight when Neva pulled the door closed behind them, yearning for a glass of wine, a little cheese and her bed, mostly her bed.
The night air had developed a bite for the first time this fall, a harbinger of the cold to follow in late November or December. The cold air cleared Neva’s head. Automatically, she glanced at Oakley’s cemetery, which ranged along the tall hill behind the funeral home itself. On the side nearest the funeral home were tall, ancient stones. On the far side, the grave markers were flat rectangles, easier to maintain because they could be mowed over instead of around.
But it was the brush-covered wild part of the cemetery that caught her attention.
Normally that tangle of brush and overgrown trees was thick enough to keep kids from playing in the cemetery itself. But in October, they couldn’t resist holding séances among the gravestones. A coven of local witches also liked to hold their festivals there, which was fine with everyone until Neva’s dad found their fire still smoldering one year. With all the brush on the hill, the fact that October was Nashville’s driest month and the current drought situation, an unattended fire could burn through the entire neighborhood.
Since then, they’d checked the hillside every night in October for any signs of intrusion. So far this October, there had been none, but now a steady glow way up on the hillside in the uncleared section caught Neva’s gaze.
Standing under the huge streetlights that ringed the parking lot, she couldn’t be sure.
She tripped down the slope that eventually led into a deep, concrete drainage ditch behind the funeral home until she was outside the reach of the lights. There it was. Steady for sure, not flickering, which was strange for a fire, but definitely behind the cemetery in the brush.
“What the hell?” Moya said.
“Kids or witches. Damn it. I’m too tired for this shit.” When the state instituted mandated sentencing so criminal trespassing carried a five hundred dollar fine and thirteen months in jail, Neva and her dad decided they would never call the police on the kids who sneaked into the cemetery. Neva would have to personally explain to the little dears that they couldn’t hold their séance there, no matter how eager they might think the dead were to rise again. Or, if it was the witches, remind them to douse their fire.
Either way, it wouldn’t take long.
If she were not totally exhausted, it would be no big deal.
“You’d think the word would be out that kids weren’t allowed in Oakley’s cemetery,” Neva said, maneuvering the first and sharpest of the three curves that led to the top of the hill and the end of the road.
“Probably is out,” Moya said. She’d propped her boots on the dashboard, moved them when Neva made her belt up, then scooted down and put them back. “Thing is, kids grow up, leave the neighborhood. New kids don’t believe the old stories. And there you are.”
“Out at midnight when I am so terribly wine-deprived and sleepy.”
“Mostly wine-deprived?” Moya asked.
“Yes. Although I am also sleepy. Hungry, too.”
“If only you needed to pee, you’d be in total misery.”
Neva glanced at Moya. “That would be a good thing?”
“Not so much.”
Neva hit the next curve a bit fast. The rear end slid. She steered into it. The car obediently fell into line.
“Slow down, granny,” Moya said. “This road is a snake.”
“To keep people from using it like a racetrack.”
“Doesn’t keep you from using it like a racetrack. Slow down!”
Neva sighed and took the final two curves like the granny Moya called her. Just before the pavement ended, she turned right, bumped over the low asphalt curbing and onto the carefully maintained sod.
Her headlights cut tunnels through the blackness. A white van loomed in the darkness, parked just outside the tall monuments, its lights off, interior dark.
“These ‘kids’ are old enough to drive,” Moya said. She rummaged in her purse.
“Getting your piece, Annie Oakley?”
“Damn right.” Moya carried a Glock. She had a permit. She was trained and a good shot. Since Gray’s death, Neva was not comfortable around guns. It wasn’t that she blamed the gun for Gray’s death, but she’d seen its destructive power in that single second, didn’t ever want to see it again.
She was waiting for another smart-assed comment from Moya when shadowy images developed just beyond her headlights. Two figures, she thought. One short and stocky. The other a waif, thin, petite, a woman from the length of her hair.
As the light intensified on the couple, the woman twisted and clawed his hand, which was clamped around her upper arm. Her back was familiar, someone Neva had seen recently. Moya dropped her feet to the floor and leaned forward with her gun in her hand.
The man’s body went rigid as if the light burned him. He whirled into the light, bringing the woman with him; his expression dared Neva to come closer. He raised his middle finger into the air.
But Neva’s attention was riveted on the woman.
Moya sucked in a sudden, sharp breath. “Is that…that’s Larissa Dudin!” She grabbed the dashboard. “What’s he doing?”
Reacting beneath a layer of shock, Neva accelerated with a half-formed plan to knock him out of the way, save Larissa. He jerked a revolver from behind his back, aimed it while Larissa twisted and jerked in his grip, a frenzied marionette.
His shot exploded.
Something shrieked across the top of the car.
Neva threw both hands over her ears and slumped in an effort to get her head below the windshield.
“Goddamn!” Moya spat. “Stop, granny!”
Neva stomped the brake. The car shuddered to a stop.
Moya leapt out, squatted behind the open door.
He shot again, missed.
Moya’s answer missed, but it sent him to the ground. Larissa, jerked down with him, beat at him with her fists.
He slammed the gun into her head in a vicious blow.
Larissa went still.
Neva tried to assess her options. Get much closer, he’d put a bullet between her eyes.
Moya shot again.
He twisted, laid his weapon along the ground. Larissa slammed her fists onto his gun hand, knocked the weapon free. He lunged forward to grab it. She boxed his ear, leapt to her feet, kicked him twice and ran like hell for the car.
Moya’s Glock erupted into thunderous shots that kept him diving for the safety of the ground every time he tried to get his feet under him.
Larissa pounded down the hillside.
Her assailant cowered against the earth with his arms over his head.
“One hit,” Moya said between gritted teeth. “Just one.” She shot twice more before he grabbed his arm, rolled to his side.
Neva kept her gaze on Larissa, mentally running with her, whispering encouraging words Larissa couldn’t hear. The glaring headlights showed the huge bruise on Larissa’s face where he’d hit her with the gun. Her lips were smashed and torn. Blood covered her chin.
If Neva could get her hands on the son of a bitch, she’d tear off his balls and stuff them down his stupid throat. “Stay with me, Moya.”
She rolled the car forward. Moya ran beside it, bent over beneath the window.
Larissa was closer now, her eyes wide. Terror stretched her face.
“Come on!” Neva yelled. “Run, Larissa!”
Larissa’s assailant rolled to his stomach, winced, laid his arms along the ground, the gun between his hands.
“Moya!” But Moya had fallen enough behind so she couldn’t simply drill the bastard.
Neva hit the brakes.
Moya slid to her knees, peeped around the door, gasped and drew a bead.
A gun boomed.
Larissa arched as if someone had kicked her.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth opened. Her head snapped back.
She fell prone just beyond the car’s front bumper.
Moya tore another clip from her pocket and slammed it home, pulled the slide back and fired.
The dark man leapt to his feet, ran crouched for the bushes, his arm hanging useless by his side while Moya’s bullets tore up the ground inches behind him.
Neva raced to Larissa.
Moya met her there.
Blood covered the back of Larissa’s blouse where it had spurted from the bullet wound.
There was no bleeding now.
Larissa no longer had a beating heart.
Neva dropped to her knees. If she’d moved faster, if she’d seen them earlier, if she’d—
A bullet whistled over her head.
Moya whirled, sent a shot into the tall monuments behind them, ran for the car and called over her shoulder. “Get in the fucking car, granny. Get us the hell outta here.”
Neva backed the car around.
Her side-view mirror exploded. Fragments blasted against her window like the tiny fragments of skull that hit her face once long ago. She twisted away from the image, tried to focus on now, struggled and lost. “No. Oh God, no. No!”
“Shut up, granny!” Moya yelled. “Shut the fuck up and drive!”
Fresh tears burst from Neva’s eyes, but she managed to stomp the gas.
The Mustang leapt forward. Neva bit the inside of her jaw and let the pain clear her head.
Larissa, Larissa, Larissa.
The drumbeat of regret and anguish stopped abruptly as another shot rammed into the back fender like a pile driver.
“Faster!” Moya begged.
The second shooter unleashed a volley against the back of Neva’s car. Two bullets slammed into the trunk.
One skidded across the top.
Moya popped out of the window, squeezed off a shot, dropped back, saying, “I’ve got 911 on the phone. There’s this huge wreck on I-65. Most of East Precinct is up there.
She’s called downtown, but it’ll take them longer. In the meantime, she says—”
“You tell her there is no ‘in the meantime.’ She doesn’t get somebody up here now, we’ll be dead.” Neva could breathe again and the sludge that had covered her brain was bleeding off. She talked herself down while she maneuvered the car across the grass.
Smart was what they needed right now.
Smart. Not crazy.
Sudden movement from the bottom of the hill caught her eye. Davis’s red pickup truck burst from behind the curve of the hill like a jet plane from a cloud. Neva’s heart leapt. He must have heard the gunshots from the donut shop across the street and—
The pickup raced past the curve, hit the straight section and slid onto Gallatin Road, leaving Neva speechless.
“What the hell was that all— Granny, look!”
Neva tore her gaze from the road and turned to follow Moya’s. A low-slung sports car was tucked in the brush to her right. The word CORVETTE sparkled in her headlights. The tailpipe sprayed mist. The shadow of a man’s head showed through the back window.
She could outrun a van.
Not a ’Vette.
She forced Davis from her mind and said, without taking her gaze off the car, “What did 911 say?”
“Said she would do what she could.”
Already moving much too fast, Neva asked for even more speed. The ’Stang bounced over the asphalt curb, hit the road sideways. Neva tapped the accelerator. The rear end caught.
The car straightened.
Behind her, the Corvette’s engine roared.
He’d been waiting for them.
The land dropped away on Moya’s side in a sharp grade that ended in the deep concrete ditch behind the funeral home.
Neva flew through the short, straight section, hit the brakes momentarily as she went into the first curve, a long, sweeping, easy thing that the ’Stang took without breaking stride.
The ’Vette’s lights glowed behind the curve. She had some distance on him, but not enough.
Second curve coming up.
’Vette scooting out of the first one.
She hit the curve with her tires shrieking. The acrid smell of burning rubber choked her. The Mustang sloughed toward the outside, slid through, broke a little as it exited, then grabbed asphalt and shot forward.
No time before the third curve. She had to be through it before he left the second.
She twisted through the curve’s preamble too fast, had to correct.
Her headlights touched the tall monuments looming to her left. The back wheels broke loose, threw the car into a sideways slide directly at the steep slope.
Old car had no airbags.
If they slid off that grade, they would likely die.
Her mother’s face, the one she wore before depression stole her life, rose in Neva’s mind. Deep blue eyes filled with love.
The outside back wheel caught against the low curb, slid shrieking for a long moment before it flung the car forward. Neva wrestled the wheel, tried to stay on the road, but it was a bumper-car steering wheel with no control.
The front tires hit the low curb on the other side.
The Mustang went airborne.
Neva’s stomach rocketed with it, then fell as the car thudded down with a jar that ran from her tailbone to the top of her head. It was now a four-thousand-pound sled careening across her father’s expensive sod, ripping it, shredding it, sucking the remnants into the tire grooves, eradicating any traction they might have gained.
A family plot rushed toward them, its towering spire a solid five thousand pounds of stop-you-in-a-heartbeat concrete surrounded by another low curb. The front tires caught, slung the car sideways, again screamed as they tore along the asphalt.
Neva jerked the wheel.
The car whirled like a carnival ride.
Trees, monuments and dark sky blurred past them. Neva’s gaze fastened on the rapidly approaching ten-ton angel, circa 1801. Balanced precariously on one slender foot in the middle of its pediment, the angel would topple with one solid blow.
She gave into instinct, wrenched the wheel to the right with all her strength. They would fare better in a roll than beneath the angel’s weight. The ’Stang rose onto two wheels, hovered, dropped to the ground with another heavy jolt and stopped.
With her gaze tight on the angel’s face, Neva watched it dissolve into relief, then settle back into the concrete mask it had worn for more than two centuries.
Odd what terror could do to a person.
She turned to find Moya’s dark eyes so wide the whites showed. “Oh, dear God, Neva, don’t ever do that again.”
“Right,” Neva said. Her voice shook like a woman’s three times her age. “Never again.” She glanced over her shoulder.
The Corvette was halfway around the hairpin curve. All that sliding and spinning had taken practically no time. They still had a chance, but no way in hell could she get back to the road before he was on her.
“Hang on,” she said as she backed the car around. “We’re going graveside.” Nobody knew this cemetery better than she. She didn’t need no stinking road to outrun these bozos.
The ’Stang flew across the cemetery, dipping, swerving, weaving among the stones like a gazelle. “Tell me where he is, Moya. Give me the blow by blow.”
“Coming around that sharp curve now. God, he’s got speed. And maneuverability. It’s a great car.”
“No commercials. Where is he?”
“Sorry. Hitting the straight section now. Next curve in about thirty seconds.”
Neva tapped the accelerator. The Mustang responded like a car just off the assembly line. She tapped the pedal again.
It would be close. Too damned close.
“Granny, he’s moving fast.”
That he was.
The last section of tall monuments lay ahead, a small family plot bought forever ago. The family grew; people died; the spaces between the graves were narrowed to make room for the next batch.
Neva measured with her eye. Her fenders wouldn’t make it.
She swerved hard, flew between the family plot and the monument beside it. The car hit a hole, dipped; then they were running hard.
The ’Vette’s lights were still in the curve when the ’Stang bounced onto the road, tires spraying dirt in clods against the undercarriage, throwing it out behind them like a wheat thrasher. “Stay with me, baby!” Neva yelled as the back wheels slid. “Stay with me.”
The ’Vette’s lights hit her back window.
Her car straightened.
“Go, granny, go!” Moya yelled.
He roared up behind her, wove to her right. She moved with him, then moved back as he tried to move up on her left.
The back window exploded into a thousand cracks. Moya got on her knees, leaned so far out of the window, Neva thought she might fall. Her gun roared.
The ’Vette swerved off the road, its tires squalling, careened wildly toward the deep ditch. If he hit at that speed, he was a goner.
“Got him!” Moya said as she hauled herself back inside.
At the last second, he turned. The car stopped perpendicular to the ditch. He leapt from it as Neva flew past the edge of the building and lost sight of him.
She roared out into wide, empty Gallatin Road. Tomorrow, it would be wall-to-wall cars plodding their slow, congested way toward downtown, but right now it was her own personal racetrack with all traffic lights flashing yellow.
His buds would come after her in their van, but she’d easily beat them to East Precinct.
Where Neva would send someone back for Larissa, make sure she got to rest beside her child.
Nancy Sartor is a Nashville born writer. She is a charter member and current president of Word Spinners Ink, a member of Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She is an enthusiastic graduate of Donald Maass’s Breakout Novel Intensive Workshop, Don Maass’s workshop on micro tension and the Writer’s Police Academy. She is a member of the prestigious Quill and Dagger writing group in Nashville.
Nancy lives in Rural Hill, Tennessee, just east of Nashville with her husband, classical composer, David Sartor, and two Maine Coon cats, Ginger (yes, thatGinger) and Autumn Fire, a kitten who does funny kitten things.
Links where BONES can be bought.