Reviews For WHISKEY SHOTS Volume 13 by Isabelle Kane

“The Thought of You” has a familiar theme for a wartime love story. It is smoothly written and comfortable reading. While the war separates the lovers, there is no other real conflict. I felt like I’d read a beautiful beginning and ending to a love story. But felt I’d been denied the growth and development of their love. I wanted to read the love letters.

“Ransom for a Viking” is the longer of the two stories. Ms. Kane’s smooth writing propels the reader along into a world where pain, privation, power struggles, and prejudice are an accepted part of life. The protagonist, Astrid is a healer who has no real standing in either of the societies in which she has lived.

As the story unfolds, she and the man she feels is her soul-mate come together after being apart for a long time. Both Astrid and Egil know their love is the forever kind but do not know how to overcome the mores of that era so they can be together as man and wife. Astrid sets a confrontation in motion that decides whether she and Egil can be together or if she must become a slave to Egil’s cruel brother.

The harsh conditions and customs of that era are well depicted as the story works its way to a happy-ever-after.” - Reviewer: Camellia, The Long and Short Of It Reviews

Blue Ribbon Rating: 5 Ribbons! “Isabel Kane’s book, WHISKEY SHOTS VOLUME 13 contains two enchanting love stories about women who heal but need to heal themselves. When reading THE THOUGHT OF YOU, I laughed when stiff-legged Andrew told Ruth that if she were his nurse, his healing would take a long time. Completely immersed in RANSOM FOR A VIKING, I was overcome with emotion when tough Viking Egil hides Astrid’s true identity so that his captives wouldn’t turn on her. Author Isabel Kane writes two whirlwind romances with just enough historical detail to keep the stories riveting. Kane’s stories kept my blood pumping, and I highly recommend WHISKEY SHOTS VOLUME 13 to all my friends.” - By Romance Junkies Reviewer: Kathleen R

"WHISKEY SHOTS VOL. 13 is a fast, interesting read. Isabelle Kane gives us strong wonderful characters, and two very different stories for our enjoyment. My only complaint, the stories were very short, readers just get to know the characters, and the story ends. If you are looking for a quick read, this is your book." - Reviewed by Gloria Gehres, Rated 4, The Romance Reader's Connection

Sample Chapter For WHISKEY SHOTS Volume 13 by Isabelle Kane

The Thought of You

August 1944

Disconsolately, Ruth used her cocktail straw to stir her drink. Then, she moved it aside, and took a healthy swallow. It was only seven in the evening, or nineteen-hundred hours, and she was irritable and bored.

It had proven a terrible idea to come to this party at the British officers’ club. It was definitely not her social milieu. The party had a pre-war extravagance that felt very odd to an American nurse who had spent the past two months patching up American and British soldiers after the D-day invasion.

She glanced about the room. Most of the men were in uniform, of course. But there were also some fellows in tuxedos, and all of the ladies wore formal ball gowns, though some appeared rather dated. The gin, scotch, and wine flowed freely, and there was even an orchestra providing entertainment. She should have been able to enjoy herself. But she wasn’t feeling particularly sociable, and Mary Beth, her friend, had long since abandoned her to flirt with some British officers. Several men had asked her to dance or had tried to strike up a conversation with her, but Ruth had summarily dismissed them. None of them had struck her fancy, and she wasn’t in the mood to flirt and play games. And so, she was hiding out in a dimly lit corner, trying to avoid her more ardent pursuers.

The only aspect of the evening that she found amusing was watching the man she had dubbed Prince Charming “working” the room. She couldn’t help following him with her eyes. He was an officer, and taller than most of the men in the room, easily six three. He was beautiful in an upper class, British sort of way. He had pale blond hair, a square jaw, vibrant blue eyes, and a wicked sort of smile. But more than his looks, it was the way that people reacted to him. Wherever he went in the large room, laughter and good humor followed. He had a smile for everyone, and a deep, carrying laugh that made her want to join in.

He looked up from the gray haired lady he was talking to and gazed across the room, straight at Ruth, catching her in the act of staring at him. She glanced away in some embarrassment. Great. Why on earth had she allowed Mary Beth to talk her into coming to this party?

She remembered Mary Beth’s words: “Come on, Ruthy. It’ll be lovely, and nothing like those USO parties that we attend.”

“I rather like those USO parties.”

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with them. But this’ll be different. It’s for the British officers, and they know how to throw a good party. There won’t be many Americans there.”

“Great, then I won’t know anyone.”

“I’ll be there. Come on. You only live once. It’ll be fun.”

“Remind me again how you got tickets to this.”

“You know Daphne Collins?”

“Is she American or British?”

“British, of course. How else would she have connections to this party? Aren’t you listening to me?”

“I’m dead on my feet. I don’t know where your energy is coming from. We both just pulled fourteen-hour shifts.”

“I’m tired, too. But please concentrate. Daphne’s a Lady something-or-other. That’s why she was invited. Please come, Ruth. We’ll have so much fun.”

“I have nothing to wear.”

“We’ll find something in your closet.”

And, indeed, they had. Ruth glanced down at the suit that she was wearing with some discontent. The suit, itself, was not bad. Actually, it was rather flashy, with its tailored look in navy with bronze touches. But it was a pant suit, not a shimmering, floaty silken or tulle ball gown. She and Mary Beth had scoured the barracks, trying to find an appropriate dress in her size, but had struck out. She had ended up wearing the only formal garment that she had brought with her from the USA, a pantsuit.

When she had come out in it, Mary Beth had whistled low. “I wish that I was tall and built, like you.”
“And I wish that I had a proper dress to wear.”

“The rest of us need all the help we can get. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. Whenever you walk into a room, all of the men have their tongues hanging out, even when you’re in your scrubs.”

“Mary Beth, thanks for trying to make me feel better. But I think that you’re just buttering me up, so I won’t back out of going with you tonight. And look at you! You look lovely.”

Enviously, Ruth eyed a young woman seated with some companions a few tables away. The girl was wearing a divine purple concoction with a lace overlay of the same shade. She wondered how she would look in the girl’s dress. Of course, she didn’t have those waves of auburn hair cascading down her back. She reached up self consciously to touch her own midnight hued, cropped do. It was much easier to manage in her long days and nights of work. But she couldn’t help but recall what her father had said when he had seen her right after she’d had it done, right before she’d shipped out:

“I never liked a woman in short hair. When you put your arm around her, it feels like you’re hugging a boy.”
That was it—the real problem. She thought she looked like a boy, albeit a striking one, among all of these British roses. Ruth felt out of sorts in this fairy tale world.

“Ruth, I’m going to freshen up.” Mary Beth had materialized at her side. Her cheeks were rosy from dancing. She was clearly having a grand time. “Do you want to come with me?”

Ruth glanced up at her friend who was smiling coyly at some flyboys at another table.

“They’re really cute, Ruthy. Come over with me when I get back. The one on the left asked me about you.”

“You mean the octopus? The entire time that we were dancing, he never made eye contact with me once. He was too busy staring at my chest. I had my hands full with him…he sent me this drink. I debated accepting it, but I felt that I’d earned it.

“He’s not that bad. Be a sport, Ruthy.” Mary Beth pouted. “Isn’t his friend dreamy?”

“He’s definitely several species above the octopus. Mary Beth, don’t worry about me. I’ll finish this drink, and then I’ll get back out there. There were several decent fellows who asked me to dance. I’m just taking a break.”

“I don’t want to leave you here all alone. You’re thinking about Matt, aren’t you?” her friend accused.

Ransom for a Viking

One of the Orkney Islands around 740 AD

Though it was well into the evening, the last rays of the summer sun lent the sky an eerie redness. Blood, it looks like blood, Astrid thought with a shiver of foreboding. How disquieting and strangely fitting that on this night, one on which the Vikings had returned to raid her village, the evening sky would bleed. Determinedly, she looked away from the sunset and hurried along the path to the chieftain’s long house. Her arm ached with the heavy kit she carried which was filled with healing salves and herbs. She had been sent for to tend a Viking who her own people now held.

She should feel relieved, she knew. After all, no one from her village had been killed. They’d managed to capture the Viking and prevent the impending attack because several of the Viking’s own men had betrayed him. After the capture of their leader, the other Norsemen had climbed back into their dragon ships and sailed away. Astrid’s village was spared, but now they held an angry and wounded Norseman, the one for whom Astrid had been sent to tend. For this man was chieftain, or nearly one, and surely worth a fortune ransomed.

A salty breeze blew in from the sea, billowing her mantle. She took a deep breath, ducked her head low, and stepped over the paving stones at the entrance to the long, low, turf covered house. Once inside, she straightened and allowed her eyes to adjust to the smoky dimness. The house smelt foul after the fresh out-of-doors and the only light was provided by the fire and small oil lamps. Many of the important men of the village were gathered about the hearth.

“Iona, bring more mead,” Keir, the blustery, red-bearded chieftain of this island village, demanded of his wife. “Our throats are dry from this day’s work.”

A harried-looking pregnant woman left her chair and her mending by the fire and moved to obey.

It was then that Keir and the others noticed Astrid. He nodded in acknowledgement; “Healer.” The ripple of unease that always accompanied her presence moved through them. She raised her chin, meeting Keir’s glance. She was used to their fear of her. It had taken several years to cultivate and it kept her safe.

“The Norseman’s back in the hut.” He referred to the small structure behind his long house where he kept tools, weapons, and the cattle and swine that he couldn’t fit into his main lodging. As the chieftain, he was entitled to such extravagances.

“Keir, there’s not much mead left,” Iona, Keir’s wife protested. “Tomorrow, I can get more.”

“What?” Keir demanded. “Wife, you shame us before our guests!”

Astrid spoke up quickly. “I’ve a goodly supply of mead. One of you men go and get it.” There was only the briefest of hesitations before Athol, one of the youngest of the men gathered, rose to his feet, and after receiving a brief nod of acknowledgement from Keir, made his way out the door. Astrid was a very fine mead maker, the best in the village. Her brews were so sweet and rich in flavor that they were always the most sought after at the market fairs. So, going to her supply was no hardship.

Iona offered Astrid a grateful glance and returned to her mending and her seat by the hearth.

“I’ll see to the Viking now,” Astrid reminded them. Clearly, Keir and the others were well into their cups, inspired by their unlikely triumph and the promise of a hefty ransom.

“We need him alive, Astrid,” Keir stated, attempting some gravity and decorum despite the way he slurred his words. “We can’t ransom a body.”

While his cronies guffawed, Astrid resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It would serve them right if she simply left their Norseman to die. Keir and the others were intolerable enough without another feather in their cap. Still, they did protect her and allowed her to live as she chose, asking only that she perform those healing skills which she regarded as a sacred duty anyway.

“I’ll do what I can.” Astrid turned to leave; as she did so, the inevitable whispers began.

“She’s like to cast the evil eye on him,” someone muttered.

Another of Keir’s cronies snorted. “The witch will probably make his male parts shrivel up.”

“Male parts or not,” Keir announced. “We’ll still ransom him.”

She walked quickly out of the long house and to the hut. Again, she felt that odd stirring within her, that sense of foreboding, of something being about to happen. Was it the thought of the Viking that quickened her heart? The man wasn’t likely to be anyone she knew. It had been years now since she’d left the lands of the north. She didn’t even know if those people were still alive. But she couldn’t ignore or dismiss her feeling of anticipation.

In the moonlight, she could see that two men stood guard at the front of the prisoner’s hut. She addressed the larger one: “Fergal, I’ve come to tend the prisoner.”

Fergal nodded, clearly having been informed that she’d been sent for. “He’s chained. He’ll be no danger to you.” He allowed her to precede him into the hut. The stench of burning animal fat was nearly overpowering, but by the dim glow of the soapstone lamp, she had her first good look at the captive.

He was in chains, naked to the waist, and covered with dirt and dried blood. He was bearded and his long blond hair hung forward covering his face. His arms rested on his knees and he maintained a nearly unearthly stillness. He was a big man, strong and heavily muscled. His chest and shoulders were broad and powerful and just dusted with blond hair. She scrutinized him, but couldn’t see any dangerous wounds, though he was covered with nicks and bruises. Where the manacles cruelly gripped his ankles and wrists, she could see angry, bloody flesh. Clearly, he had fought his confinement.

“I’ll need water,” Astrid ordered immediately. “And clean rags. Ask Iona.”

“Calum, do as she says,” Fergal ordered.

At the sound of her voice, the Norseman raised his head. She could see that his was the face of a warrior, lean and hard. His nose was crooked, having been broken, it appeared, several times. Despite his chained posture, his demeanor was one of readiness and impatience. She could see that he was not defeated, but instead, like a caged wolf, he was biding his time. She looked at him as a patient, first, and then as a prisoner. It was his scar that startled her, that caused her to look at him as a man. It curved along the edge of his cheekbone then disappeared into his beard. But it was his eyes that arrested her. His brown eyes were turbulent and dark with hate. They were also familiar. These eyes had haunted her for the past five years.

“Egil,” his name fell from her lips without thought. “Egil Wolfslayer.” Effortlessly, she slipped back into the Norse tongue which she’d learned from his people.

He stared back at her for an endless moment then glanced deliberately away. “Woman, you do not know me.” He glanced tellingly at Fergal.

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