Copyright © 2006, Elle Emriche
Published by Whiskey Creek Press LLC

“Revenge at Mirror Lake is a swift moving tale of lust and revenge. The anger and betrayal Steve feels fairly resonates off the pages of this story, and the reader feels all the hurt and torment Steve experiences as he sees Peyton again. Peyton is an equally strong character who has suffered just as much as Steve. Having to deal with an unloving family her entire life, falling in love became a balm to her wounded soul. Learning that that love was nothing but a lie almost destroyed her, but Ms. Emriche constructs her characters in a way that shows how they grew from these hurts, rather than letting life beat them down. This is a very intense story with a strong romance that enhances the mystery surrounding Steve’s torture. While this story may not be for the faint of heart, those who enjoy their romances with more lighthearted, comedic plots, readers who enjoy characters who are driven and survive in the face of endless adversity will really enjoy REVENGE AT MIRROR LAKE.” - Blue Ribbon Rating 4 -Sarah W, RomanceJunkies.com

"Ms. Elle Emriche has written a suspense filled romance. It is full of unexpected twists and endearing tender moments. I became wrapped up in the plot from the first chapter. I could not stop reading it, anxious to find out what was going to happen next. I felt for Isabel and her predicament and could understand her conflicted emotions. Joe is basically a good man but goes about getting his girl all wrong. Their sexual encounters will leave you breathless, all with Joe’s underlying tenderness. I think anyone reading this book will thoroughly enjoy it." - Kathy 5 cups Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance Reviewer for Karen Find Out About New Books

“Elle Emriche takes us on an incredible adventure. You will become immersed in the lives of these amazing people the moment you pick up this book. Wes and Liz are two people you will root for when all hope seems lost. The passion in this book is real and fiery hot. The love scenes explode right off the pages to burn the tips of your fingers. You will find yourself drawn into another world, another time where there are just and noble causes for people to believe in, fight and even die for. Ms. Emriche has given us a taste of the past and the thirst for passion that cannot be quenched with the Valley Of The Shadow. I am eagerly waiting to read more of her timeless tales of love and honor.” - 5 Angels, Reviewed by: Janean, Fallen Angel Reviews

The driver glanced at the woman in the backseat through his rearview mirror. She was a gorgeous thing, without the inflated ego so many of his passengers had. “Nice to get out of the city,” he ventured.

She had the prettiest, clearest skin he’d ever seen and remarkable big, brown eyes. “This a vacation, Miss Holmes?”

“No,” she replied hesitantly. She frowned, thinking about how to frame her answer. “More a mystery. My brother sent for me. I really don’t know what it’s all about.”

Peyton Holmes ran her hand over the sleek leather seat, wondering how much it had cost and why her brother had bothered. He never had before. Something was definitely going on with him. He’d done one of his disappearing acts last week; although she wouldn’t have known if her older sister hadn’t repeatedly called and told her for some reason she couldn’t fathom.

She and Lisa were not close, and that was both of their choices. Through the years, Peyton had learned to fear and distrust Lisa, and with good reason. Lisa had always detested her younger sister, no matter how much Peyton had tried to please. Peyton had spent years trying to figure out why, but she’d never been certain of a definitive answer. Maybe it was because Lisa had been more traumatized by their parents’ death, maybe because she’d had too much responsibility thrust upon her at too young an age, or maybe she was just a bad seed. Who knew? She’d given up trying to figure it out.

Now Peyton did her best to avoid both her siblings whenever possible, which was most of the time.

“Feel sorry for them,” her best friend Rebecca had coached her for the past several years. “As human beings, they’re bankrupt. And just remember, everything that goes around, comes around; if not in this life, then in the next.”

“You just have to focus on your own life and trust that everything evens out in the end,” Bec said with that serene smile of hers.

Saint Rebecca. Peyton didn’t really believe that Zen crap; she’d seen way too much of the bad guy prevailing, but she wasn’t about to argue the point with Bec, who believed it with all her heart, soul and mind. If she had been willing to argue, she would have asked Rebecca to explain her life. She’d always tried to be a good person, to do the right thing and to please others, and yet she’d always had it tough. First, she was orphaned at six, when her parents were both killed in a private plane crash, and then she was left in the care, if one could call it that, of a negligent aunt, a bully of a sister, and a brother who didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. Then—years later, she’d fallen head over heels in love with the world’s sweetest, sexiest, most handsome man, only to have him up and leave her for another woman. So when was all that ‘good energy’ she put out supposed to be repaid?

She leaned her head against the window, realizing she wasn’t being fair. She had a pure, perfect love with Sam, and her friendship with Rebecca was strong, sustaining, and vitally important to her. Her life was good and she was blessed. Sure, there had been pain, but who hadn’t endured some pain in their lives?

“Well,” the driver spoke up again. “Maybe your brother thinks you deserve a vacation.”

Peyton chewed on the inside of her lip, and didn’t comment. Marshall was the most self-absorbed human being on the face of the earth. Thought she deserved a vacation? That was funny. He never thought about her at all. In fact, the only reason he’d summoned her now was that he was probably in some kind of trouble and had figured out some way she could help him out of it. How, she couldn’t fathom, but he’d have it all figured out.

He ran a commercial real estate business and made a lot of money, but spent it just as fast, usually because of his ridiculous gambling escapades. He typically blew more money in a month than she spent all year. That was probably it. He’d gambled and lost and was hiding out from someone. But why send for her?

Peyton stretched her neck from side and side and eyed the small but fully stocked bar in the car, tempted to have a drink.

His voice startled her again and she jumped slightly. Then she felt herself starting to blush. Was he watching her? It was more than a little disconcerting. “Thank you.” She watched his eyes in the rearview mirror for several seconds but it looked like he was focused on the road. She was being absurd. And what did it matter anyway?

She uncorked the bottle, reached for a glass, and noticed her hand was trembling slightly as she poured. Damn it, what was wrong with her? Why was she always so full of anxiety? She looked back up at the mirror and this time, she connected with his eyes and felt herself jump slightly. “I’d offer you a glass,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “But I guess it’s not a good idea.”

He looked back at the road, thank God, and she took a sip. The wine was slightly tart but good, and she was determined to relax. Ever since she’d gotten the strange, cryptic message from Marshall through the answering service at work, she’d been scrambling to rearrange her schedule and her life. To put it mildly, it had stressed her out more than usual. Marshall never seemed to grasp that she couldn’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice and take off.

She chewed on her lip as she mentally replayed the message. Need you to come. Alone. Don’t tell anyone. Will send car to your apartment at four. Plan for a three-day stay. No special dress necessary. It’s a casual lodge. It’s really important. The message had been so baffling; she’d called the service to talk to the operator who took it. “That’s right,” the operator had confirmed. “That’s how the man said to write it. Word for word. It sounded like a telegram, I know. He made me read it back to him, too. That’s just how he wanted it.”

Now she tried to shake off the trepidation she felt and relax. Deep breaths, in and out. That’s right, relax. It had been a grind to arrange everything but she’d managed. There’d be no problems and, if there was, everyone who needed it had her cell phone number.

Everything would be fine. She sipped the Chardonnay and looked out the window at the scenic countryside.

Isabel lowered the car windows and smiled in response to the balmy air. It played havoc with her long, pale blonde hair, but the feeling was worth the tangles she’d fight later. Twelve hours of driving had also been worth it, she decided. She’d left cold, busy Chicago only that morning in a sleeting rain. It had been raining in West Virginia, too, but what a difference forty degrees made!

She pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. A wicked grin crossed her face and she reached for her cell phone before getting out of the car. She stretched, punched in the number to the office, then looked out over the glorious mountainous scenery during the four or five rings it took to be answered. Everything was fresh, dripping wet and exploding in playful springtime color and fragrance. Early April was still winter in Chicago, but it was definitely spring here.

“Merrill Studios,” came across her earpiece. It was Sandi Cohen’s voice, low-pitched, with a definite northern accent.

“Yeah? Well, I said, where you going, Isy, and why the hell can’t I go with you? And you said ‘South and you can’t go with me because you are a lowly receptionist, fit only for answering the phones and sorting the mail.’ Well, Bermuda is south.”

“I’m in West Virginia,” Isabel replied. “And I never said you were a lowly anything.”

“Not that I’m gloating,” Isabel continued, “but it’s probably seventy degrees here.”

“Yeah? Well, not that I’m resentful, but I hate you. Bad enough that you look like a model, but now you’re off taking vacations and getting paid for it.”

“Funny,” Isabel said drolly. “I just wanted to catch you before you left for the day.”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve passed Weston and Elkins. I’m heading south right now.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Zach and the others you called. They’re all in a meeting with the Sony Pictures people.”

“I’d say ‘have fun,’ but I can’t imagine what they do for fun in West Virginia, seventy degrees or not.”

Isabel disconnected the call and breathed in the sweet air with great appreciation. It really was beautiful, but she had to push on. After all, this wasn’t a vacation. The point of the trip was to scout locations for the film her employer, Merrill Studios, was slated to make in the fall. It was a thrill that she been trusted to do it and she was determined to strike gold and impress everybody.

At first, he wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. He could have been lying on the ground, experiencing Hell’s first welcome as much as on the bloody, body strewn battlefield that straddled the boundary line of North and South Carolina. Pain bit into him from all over—his right leg, shoulder and back. It was a struggle to draw breath, and the effort caused a sound unlike any he had ever made. The death rasp, he thought dully. Means…alive, still alive…

John Paul suddenly loomed in front of him, full of agonized concern, his shirtfront covered in drying blood. Nothing seemed entirely real to Wes except the struggle for breath. Even his pain was somehow muted in his attempt to understand what was happening. John Paul was speaking…explaining. He had to listen, to understand.

“—hear me? We won. It’s a high cost, mind you. But never you mind that. All that matters is that we get you well.” John Paul jerked his head up and called to someone. “Where’s the damn doctor? Get him! Hurry! The major’s regained consciousness.”

John Paul’s call seemed to echo, or perhaps several men were shouting the same order over and over again, Wes didn’t know. His eyes lost focus as he tried to recall exactly what had happened, but all that came to him was a memory of thick, black smoke, the deafening noise of gun volley, and the sound of men screaming and yelling. It was a bad place to have held the battle because the enemy had taken control of the massive hills to the south and east, but they’d had no choice. They couldn’t allow this battalion to meet up with Cornwallis, who was said to be in Charlotte. The Continental Army had to either defeat the Redcoats here or die trying. And die they might, he’d realized, they were so outnumbered.

It was coming back to him—the redcoats advancing with bayonets drawn, the sharpened steel flashing in the late afternoon sun. Patriot sharpshooters had picked the Redcoats off one by one. So many had fallen, and yet they’d kept coming, live soldiers coming from behind the fallen ones, stepping over the dead and wounded without so much as a glance downward. He’d been pain-fully aware that they were running low on ammunition, and there seemed to be no end to the Redcoats coming through the pass between the hills. He’d felt certain at that point that all would be lost.

The sun was setting, which left the valley in deep shadow. The Valley of the Shadow of Death, the phrase seemed to whisper itself in his brain. “I will fear no evil,” he’d whispered back in response. I will fear no evil!

John Paul’s eyes roamed his friend’s face as he tried to discern what was going through Wesley’s mind. “You were shot from your horse as you led the last charge. Do you remember?”

Wes was remembering—his brother’s face. They had seen each other at the same moment from across the field of battle. Alexander had been there. “Alex—”

John Paul looked around them before lowering his head again and whispering, “He got away. I’m sure of it. I checked the dead and wounded—”

A loud cry drowned out his words, and Wes tried to look be-yond his friend to the crowd gathered around a large tree some thirty yards distance away.

But Wes was mesmerized by the strange sight. At first, he couldn’t comprehend what the large, colorful objects dangling from the limbs of the oak were, but then the realization hit with a sickening force. The objects were men—most still in their scarlet-colored uniforms. The men, his men, were hanging the prisoners. And another had just been hoisted into the air to a loud cheer. The condemned man’s body jerked violently, and Wes felt the struggle in his own as he fought for a breath. This was wrong. Wrong!

“S-stop—” was all he managed to get out. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and a sick lightness of being began overwhelm-ing him. He was dying and he wouldn’t be able to stop the abuse. “—them. Stop—
”
“I tried, Wesley,” John Paul said. “They’ve gone mad.”

Wes didn’t have to say more. “Stop the hanging!” John Paul bellowed at the top of his lungs. “The major says to halt the executions immediately! Cut that man down!”