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Read an excerpt of this book! Add to Wishlist. USD A half-inch leather bracelet on her wrist. He kept his ears tuned for any approaching sounds. So far, only typical city noises and shadows. Then why were they chasing you? The park was somewhat secluded, and with leaves still covering most of the trees it was hard to get a good assessment of her in the moonlight.
3 women who inspired the modern libertarian movement
The woman sniffed and then sighed. Cole steadied her by the shoulders. A strap crossed the front of her body and attached to a bag resting at her hip. One hundred forty pounds. Medium-brown hair, ending three inches below the shoulders. Brown eyes? Cole released her and shifted in hopes the moonlight penetrating through the trees would allow him a good glimpse at her face. Thank you again. At least tell me your name. At least let me take you where you need to go. After a long pause, Libby shook her head and backed into an area highlighted by the full moon. A single tear dripped down her face.
He gaped at the American icon before him. Liberty Carmichael—First Daughter. She lives with her husband and three sons in a restored farmhouse overtaken by books. When she's not tending to her chickens, splitting wood or decorating cakes, she's working on a new story. Candice writes Modern Vintage Romance--where the past and present collide with faith.
For more on Candice and her books, visit www.
What People are Saying. This author's descriptive abilities are phenomenal, as is her insight into matters of the heart and emotions. I also learned a lot as I read it! I plan to read more books by Candice Sue Patterson because she is an outstanding writer. From the adorable cover to the quotes about bees and Scripture verses that begin each chapter, this is a solidly written novel sure to charm the hearts of readers for years to come.
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Current Reviews: 0 Add Your Review. So when she intercepts an inside threat by a radical group planning to steal part of Thomas Jefferson's original collection, she takes it to the Adobe PDF. Mobi MOBI. Qty :. Excerpt 1 Liberty Carmichael had just committed her fifth offense against the federal government. There are currently no product reviews. My girls used to have pillbug farms, and their Tonka trucks and bulldozers are still here, half-buried in the dirt.
Recently I went to a lecture on avian flu and learned that backyard poultry could be the first place where this disease will gain entry to our population. I also learned that influenza viruses are ingenious and lethal, can mutate from birds to swine to humans, and that the Spanish Flu which killed millions of people in was not from Spain, but began in Haskell County, Kansas as an avian flu, mutated through bird droppings consumed by pigs into a swine flu, and then was transmitted to American troops stationed there for training.
The soldiers took the virus on ships to Europe. Tom Scott, an expert who spoke during the lunchtime seminar, believes the present avian flu virus, H5N1, will probably not travel to America through an infected wild bird. He showed us the migration patterns of this flu from Southeast Asia to Europe to Africa, a series of jagged routes running north to south.
It looked the same as the pattern West Nile virus took throughout America, through mosquitoes and birds.
They believe it will arrive on another winged carrier — an international flight, with an infected human. But other experts believe birds will travel as usual from Asia to Alaska, bringing the virus to the Western United States, very soon.
When migrating birds fly over southern California in great numbers, which they do every year to seek shelter in the desert at the Salton Sea, they could spread the virus through feces. I watch my chickens ruffle their feathers until they are bigger for a moment, like brief explosions of fringe, and then they settle down for their daily dirt bath. They like the moist soil near the rabbit cages, where they scratch out a shallow depression and open their wings to throw dirt onto their backs.
But the chickens are pecking at the poop now. I have visions of influenza virus mutating into the rabbits, and Snowball, the meanest one, biting one of the girls. Near my feet is a peanut hidden by our resident scrub jay, pushed into dead leaves under the geranium.
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Every day, I find pecans hidden by the crows, who always forget their stash. Usually, my girls and I consider this found treasure and crack them open on the spot.
But now I recall the viruses shown on the lecture-room screen, their mutation capabilities, and I see the bird poop on the fence, and on the birdbath. But my brother lived for years on an orange grove, next door to a man from Chihuahua who raised fighting roosters. He got a few roosters for himself, but only trained his favorite rooster to sit on the couch with him and watch Monday Night Football, complete with Doritos for their snack.
Oldest trick in the book. Cute babies, held by a cute kid.
I learned that there are few sounds sweeter than baby chicks getting ready to go to sleep at night, in the laundry room, in a tin washtub. At five am. I have to give him credit. He took them to his back yard, where they tortured his neighbors, whose dogs tortured him. The roosters crowed so loudly and constantly that we had trouble talking to Daddy on the phone.
Those dogs broke the fence eventually. But he bought two more chickens for us, insisting they were girls.liatudenlite.cf
| 3 women who inspired the modern libertarian movement
Caramel and Fudge. We put them in a nice big coop, which was an old dog run, but they were still mean. Animals have personalities, and these females were mean enough to be on The Bachelor. Caramel ate her own eggs, which was just wrong. Fudge taught us the terms pecking order we were last , henpecked, and you feeling peckish?
During the summer when West Nile virus hit hard in Riverside County, both chickens got sick. Fudge recovered, after losing her tail feathers, but Caramel languished for three days, getting weaker and weaker. She was still a creature. It was hot, and the earth was hard, and I knew she would die in the morning, when I would have to get ready for work, so late that night I soaked the ground near the old bunny graves, marked by river rocks.
Then I dug the hole, in the dark. My ex-husband called during his night shift to see how she was. At least move her around the corner. The other day Luis, an acquaintance from Corona, showed me how to hypnotize them. He lay Butter on her side while she struggled and squawked, and with a stick he drew a line in the dirt near her eyes, over and over, while murmuring, Hey, hey, hey.
I know the interface between the larger world and my yard, between the urban and wild, is so permeable. I stay awake at night, hearing the skunk and possums lumbering through the leaves, thinking of the fleas that carry bubonic plague.
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I see the raccoon peer from the sewer drain across the street, and think of rabies. Amid the garden of blackberries, beds for corn and tomatoes and zucchini, the chickens eat everything, even spider eggs and microscopic insects invisible to me. All over the world, women are throwing corn for hens, hoping hens will eat the grasshoppers decimating their plants, and surviving on the children of the chickens. The teenaged chickens are on their own for now, because the girls are calling me. At the sink, though, washing the large brown egg while my kids do their homework at the kitchen table, I wonder how avian flu will drift into my yard, my small postage stamp of soil in this huge map of the world.