No Ordinary Hero (Keepers of Justice, Book 1)

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A native and current resident of Southern California, Suzanne Enoch loves movies almost as much as she loves books, with a special place in her heart for anything Star Wars.

She has written more than thirty Regency novels and historical romances, which are regularly found on the New York Time s bestseller list, including Hero on the Highlands and My One True Highlander. When she is not busily working on her next book, Suzanne likes to contemplate interesting phenomena, like how the three guppies in her aquarium became guppies in five months.

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Sinking lower into his crouch, Callum MacCreath slowly unslung the rifle from his shoulder. A light breeze touched his face, moving his scent behind him, away from the steep, crumbling bank. Readying the rifle, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a low, two-toned whistle. A heartbeat later a huge, bristle-backed gray boar ripped out of the tangle of vines and deadfall, squealing as it plunged down the steep wall and into the shallow creek at the bottom. The large, jet-black figure behind it stayed right on the boar's heels, growling and nipping at the pig's backside.

The boar scrambled up the near side of the ravine, screeching as it caught sight of Callum, its mouth agape and impressive tusks dripping water and saliva as it charged. Ignoring the earsplitting noise, Callum lifted the rifle, narrowed one eye, and squeezed the trigger. The boar pitched forward onto its tusks and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dirt. Then it began sliding back down the slope behind it.

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A second later it splashed into the shallow creek. The black wolf, though, skidded to a halt on the near bank and followed the pig's descent with unblinking yellow eyes. Then it turned, licked its jowls, and gazed at Callum as he stood upright. When in response to that the wolf only sank onto her haunches, he brushed the tips of his fingers across the coarse jet fur running down her spine, then hopped down to the creek bed himself.

Crouching again, he pulled the knife from his boot and swiftly dressed the boar before he rinsed his hands and the blade in the slow-moving trickle of water. Even without its guts the beast likely weighed close to a hundred fifty pounds, but then the big bastard had been eating things that didn't belong to it. With a grunt he hefted the animal across his shoulders and straightened, using a small dogwood to haul himself back up the side of the ravine.

Retrieving his rifle, he set off north through the forested tangle until he reached the ridge beyond and its slightly easier terrain. Twenty minutes later the wolf appeared at his side. From the red of her muzzle she'd detoured to enjoy the boar innards he'd left behind.

The top of her head just reached his hip, her long legs with the large padded paws easily matching his pace over the uneven ground, black death on four feet. A dozen wood-and-stone buildings stood scattered in a loose circle surrounded by a twenty-foot-tall split-rail wall.

Inside, amid the clatter and thump of industry, a half-dozen workers left a pile of boards and approached him. We tracked him for three miles, but he didnae go visiting any of his smaller pig friends.

Keepers of justice book 3

He's dinner now, regardless. MacCreath, and thank the devil for that. At least the smaller ones dunnae eat as much.

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Always have, always will. The last time ye were a bit annoyed with a lad, he ended with a broken jaw and passage back to Bristol. How's Arnold dealing with the new lads? Even with that broken wing of his he's still working them down to scarecrows. That was after he had to swear to them that ye're nae some witch or a demon, of course. Aside from his hard-earned reputation for directness, he supposed it was that like most male MacCreaths he boasted a green left eye and a blue right eye. Ian had the same oddity, as had their father.

Not so long ago several of his ancestors had been burned as both witches and demons because of precisely that peculiarity. These days, though, lasses seemed to find his two-colored eyes attractive, thank Lucifer. He much preferred a roll in the bedsheets to a stake-burning. As far as his men were concerned, if they thought him a bit of a demon, and if that ensured their loyalty, he'd no objection. Ye've another letter. At least the letters came less frequently these days. That being the point. Have the new mules and wagons made it up here yet?

But about the let —" "That's what comes of trusting a Frenchman," Callum interrupted. He could practically feel the disapproval coming off his foreman, and with a scowl he slowed. Aye, it is. It's from a Mr. B —" "If it's nae business, my business, I've nae use for it," Callum broke in again, annoyed that he'd actually rushed his response to keep from hearing the name.

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But anyone in the whisky business knew to contact the Kentucky Hills distillery through Crosby and Hallifax. And anyone from Scotland who wished to contact him, personally, could go to the devil. That wasn't his life, and they weren't his family. They'd made that damned clear, and if they deigned to offer him some sort of forgiveness, well, he fucking well didn't want it. And if they'd written to send him more insults, he didn't want those, either. Callum could smell it, too. Corn and rye, boiled down for three days before it was combined with wheat and buckwheat mash in just the right proportion — the scent reminded him of Scotland at the oddest of times, even more so than the mix of fading Highlands and Lowlands accents of most of his men.

The air at the moment smelled more like a bakery than a distillery, but after three or five or seven years, depending on the size of the barrels and the maturity of the brew, it would be some of the finest whisky in the world. He glanced toward the large barnlike building at the center of the clearing. Hell, some of the barrels had been lying there in the dark for nearly eight years now, and he would leave them for another three or four. For the rest, though, smaller barrels meant less time to mature, which meant faster turnaround times, faster profits, and faster growth for the place he'd named Kentucky Hills.

His place. While initially he'd begun the venture mainly because it required sweat and muscle, with the bonus that it allowed him to move as far from civilization as he could get, he did appreciate the irony of it, as well. Whisky and its pursuit had ruined his life that night, so it seemed only fitting that he use it now to make himself a living.

A very good living. The reputation Kentucky Hills had earned along the way for a fine, smooth brew with a unique taste had been unexpected but welcome byproducts, as was the reputation he'd earned for being a man with whom others did not trifle. As for the Highlands, he'd relegated it to a faraway place where he'd once lived for a time.

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The sooner it faded completely from his memory, the better. All he needed to remember about the damned Highlands was that folk there liked their whisky. Shaking himself, he stooped beneath a roof of canvas to enter what they'd deemed the barrel room. A wiry, white-haired imp of unknown age stalked among the uncured casks spaced out on the dirt, muttering to himself as he made certain they stood round and open at the bottoms like Indian teepees. Firewood lay stacked on the ground at the center of each unfinished barrel, while two younger men fitted iron ribs around another group that were already being fired.

If the other hadn't been in a sling, he likely would have lifted into the air to join the flock of ducks heading north toward the south fork of Red River. Ye cannae expect miracles when ye give me shite. Callum, though, rolled up his shirtsleeves and began dragging the remainder of the barrel frames into place for firing and sealing. Arnold stepped back, lifting an eyebrow. The barrelmaker didn't pretend any such thing. What yer employer is, lads, is a bloody grizzly bear. Dunnae expect me to coddle ye. We cannae all be as big as mountains or as handsome as the devil.

I can give ye work to make ye stronger, but ye'll have to curse yer mamas for yer looks. A few years ago he wouldn't have been able to heave the barrels alone. But a few inches of height, together with some well-honed muscles and the anger which drove him to use them, had turned him from a stupid drunken pup into a man other men favored with a healthy respect. And that suited him exceedingly well.

MacKenzie," the other lad said, grunting as the two of them hammered another iron rib into place, "if we finish these barrels today, will ye finally tell me who can read me the letter from my ma? Technical Specs. Plot Summary. Plot Keywords. Parents Guide. External Sites. User Reviews.

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User Ratings. External Reviews. Metacritic Reviews. Photo Gallery. Trailers and Videos. Crazy Credits. Alternate Versions. Rate This. Christine has been diagnosed with schizophrenia and must rely on others for support even Director: Ron Lagomarsino. Writers: Susan Tarr teleplay , Margaret Moorman book. TV Movies from the 21st Century. Hallmark Hall Of Fame. Movies I own. Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin. User Polls Scripted U.

Photos Add Image. Edit Cast Cast overview, first billed only: Kathy Bates Christine Chapman Elizabeth Perkins Judy Chapman Clark Gregg Harvey Kathleen Wilhoite Mona Kimberly J. Young Christine Chapman Hallee Hirsh Young Judy Chapman Lynn Redgrave Helen Margaret Chapman Ann Cusack Grace as Ann Cusak Nicole Sullivan Alissa Tony Amendola Bartonio Dylan Kussman Leon Alyson Reed Mother Superior Jascha Washington Earl Lily Knight Barbara Geoffrey Rivas Edit Storyline Two sisters take a journey of discovery and reconciliation based on the memoirs of Margaret Moorman.

Taglines: Growing apart. Growing together. Sisters are forever. Genres: Drama.