On The Border of Time

Julia Pickett, 25 years old and within hours of becoming engaged to a wonderful man, steps over a threshold in the old County Courthouse and is suddenly confronted with the unfathomable.  A Yankee soldier sits atop his horse where, less than an hour earlier, Julia had parked her VW Passat. 

When the terminally curious Julia goes to investigate she is confronted by a charismatic young bushwhacker named Zeb Bonard who first holds her at gunpoint, but in no time at all persuades her to help him break his brother out of jail.  

In just one day's time, Julia goes from being a well-respected historian in 2015 to a wanted criminal almost a century and a half before her own birth. Julia is soon hopelessly  entangled in every aspect of life along the volatile Missour-Kansas border during the bloodiest of wars in U.S. history.  

She runs the gamut of emotions, but ultimately she must choose between two centuries -- and two men. One offers her a safe if lackluster life in the 21st century. But a well-intentioned desperado beckons her from across the borders of time - and Julia isn't sure she can resist his call.

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Enjoy Some of My Past Blog Posts:

The Whistler
In Memory of My Father -- February 21, 2009 ~ Memories of my childhood home all begin the same – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy, upbeat tunes. In fact, I can’t remember many occasions in which my father wasn’t whistling....Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … or nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying.
Thoughts On Mom
No matter where we come from, whether we’ve had a life of privilege or one of poverty and oppression, we all make choices that affect who we become. It’s not about where you come from, but what you choose to do with the rest of your life that counts. My mother was proof that education comes in many forms; and it doesn’t always include a diploma.
Thanks For Living Here
With those four simple words, we watched our last-born son exit our home to forge a new life for himself as a married man. The words were whispered to him by his father, who was failing utterly and completely in his efforts to appear stoic. Tears were shed, but not of sadness. We were happy for him. He had chosen well and we had confidence that his decision was well thought out and planned with the precision of an architect designing his family’s first home. No. Our tears (Yes, I shed a few myself) were of joy, interspersed with a well-rounded measure of sentimentality.