Spotlight & Giveaway: Murder in the Shallows by Debbie Herbert

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Debbie Herbert to HJ!

Hi Debbie and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Murder in the Shallows!

Please summarize the book a la Twitter style for the readers here:

A Park Ranger in the Okefenokee Swamp is racing to find a serial killer before she becomes his next victim.
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

Wild. Mysterious. Primordial.
Bailey throttled the ATV’s accelerator, describing to herself the view she saw along Trail Ridge. She smiled in satisfaction as the wind whipped away the sweat clinging to her face and bare arms. Even though she hadn’t discovered the Okefenokee Swamp until her teen years, she considered herself a true “swamper:” in spirit, if not by birth. The primitive wildlife refuge had been a personal haven during her troubled adolescence, a place to soothe her batterd mind and body.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

I had so much fun traveling to the Okefenokee and researching this book!

• This place is teeming with alligators. We went on a private boat tour and they were EVERYWHERE!
• Black bears still roam these woods.
• There are dozens of Native American mounds scattered throughout the area. I included them in the story.
• There are eerie legends about people disappearing in the swamp. Some of the theories include UFOs and ghosts.
• Learning about park ranger duties made me long to be one!

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

Besides the immediate physical attraction of the sheriff to Bailey, he admires her skill and knowledge of the land.
She is attracted to his strength and integrity.
 

Using just 5 words, how would you describe Hero and Heroine’s love affair?

Steamy & tender, a perfect match.
 

The First Kiss…

His lips pressed against hers, tender and exploratory at first, and then deepening with passion. All thoughts of the Slacombs and their brutality were cleansed by the searing heat of desire. Her pulse quickened and heat spread through her like fever. The scent of his amber aftershave intoxicated her further.
Dylan drew her into his arms, and she laid her head against his chest, feeling the strong, steady hammer of his heart against the side of her face. She traced the fingers of her right hand down the sinewy muscle of his left arm and when she reached his calloused palm, he clasped her small hand in his and squeezed, offering reassurance.

Without revealing too much, what is your favorite scene in the book?

One of my favorite scenes occurs when Bailey is running in the woods at night from the killer and she confronts her worst terror from a childhood trauma . . . a pack of dogs.

The first dog rounded the copse of trees, black fur blending into the night and accenting his white fangs. Others followed, and within second the whole gang had arrived. Did they remember her? Bailey desperately grasped the next brnach, 0pulling her body up the tree in small spurts. Another branch, another foot upward to safety.
But she wasn’t fast enough. Teeth bore into her right ankle. She screamed and tried to kick at the dog with her other foot, but he was impervious to her attempts, only seeming to dig his fangs in further,tugging her body down.She hung from a branch, flailing in panic.
Her palms were slick with sweat as she tried no to lose her grip.But her arms reached the breaking point and lost the tug of war battle. The fall was short, but the dogs were on her in an instant.
For the second time in her life, they had her pinned to the ground.
She was trapped.

If your book was optioned for a movie, what scene would be absolutely crucial to include?

The opening scene where the heroine makes a grisly discovery in the swamp.

Loud staccato warbling pierced the air, and several sandhill cranes crashed through a clump of saw palmettos, soaring upward. Appropriately known as the “watchmen of the swamp,” these birds let out a distress cry that alerted other creatures. More birds took flight, and even a couple of deer grazing along the blackwater shore went running for cover. Curious, she raised her binoculars and scanned the area from which they’d come but saw nothing unusual. Perhaps an alligator had lumbered near their nest. But normally, in that case, the cranes would hover above, squawking and even swooping down on the gator to drive him away from their eggs or hatched babies.
Bailey hopped off the ATV and made her way down the embankment toward the wide, swampy patch of water that, several miles ahead, formed into a canal that led to the Suwannee River.
The sound of something dragging across the sand was followed by a loud swish of water. Perhaps she’d been right. It was a sunbathing gator returning to the water trail. Near the white sand shore, Bailey caught sight of the disturbance.
Not an alligator. It was a man. Dressed in camo, he navigated a long, slender jon boat, sluicing a paddle through the waters.
“Hey, there,” she called out in a friendly greeting.
He didn’t turn around, and she frowned. Why hadn’t he answered? Was he illegally hunting gators or turtles?
“Hey,” she called out again, determined to check his fishing license. “Hold up. Park Management here.”
His head turned slightly, allowing her to glimpse only a distant profile, but his olive-colored brimmed hat shaded the upper part of his face. Instead of turning around and obeying her command, he pulled the engine throttle and sped off.
Anger flushed her face. The man was definitely up to no good, but he had her at a disadvantage and knew it. She’d never catch up to him in the twisting, winding waters. Bailey pursed her lips, frustrated as he slipped out of reach. By the time she fetched a boat, he’d have disappeared like a snake in high cotton. Her gaze swept the area, looking for a trotline or other signs of illegal activity, but there was only the drag mark of his boat in the sand and muddy footprints by the water’s edge.
Her gaze travelled further, and she squinted at the railroad bridge, nearly overgrown by reeds and marsh grass. Had he gone for a hike on the Thirteen Bridges Trail? Usually, that place attracted a younger crowd drawn by the old ghost story—and a place to party. But she might as well take a look anyway and see if the mystery man had left any clues as to his identity.
It’d been months since she’d last walked the trail. She trod heavily on the near-rotten bridges—merely old crossties over wetland—and recalled the legend about a wailing woman searching for her lost baby. Supposedly she and her infant had been murdered out here not long after the Civil War.
Personally, Bailey thought it a bunch of nonsense, brought on by inebriated, highly suggestable kids—although she considered herself fairly open-minded about the supernatural. How could she not be? Her best friend, Lulu Atwell, was an older Seminole woman who told her tales of Native American lore that often defied rational explanation.
At the end of the trail, the tiny abandoned church still stood. She pushed open the door, surprised at its resistance. Given its age and condition, it should have been falling off its rusty hinges.
She squinted at the sudden darkness. Only two small grimy windows admitted filtered sunlight. Stale, moldy air twitched her nose. Her eyes adjusted, and she focused on two metal cots in the twenty-foot by thirty-foot room.
What the heck? This old place had always been empty, except for the occasional beer and liquor bottles strewn over the rough pine floor, relics from parties. But this?
Prickles washed down her spine as her mind immediately jumped to a story that had dominated the news for a couple of weeks. Two young women, sisters, had been reported missing. They were last seen kayaking away from the outfitter store in Folkston, Georgia—her town, located only seven miles southwest of an Okefenokee Park entrance.
This couldn’t be related to those women—could it? No way.
Still, she couldn’t shake off the weight of dread that crushed her lungs. Bailey squared her shoulders and marched to the beds. Thin, urine-stained mattresses lay atop the rusting cot frames, and she pulled up one of them.
A bundled strip of gray cotton was stuffed along one of the railings, looking like a mummified mouse.
Oh, no. As she looked at what appeared to be a gag cloth, bile rose in her throat, and her hand beelined for the leather sheaf of her knife at her waist. But she wasn’t thinking of the missing women. Instead, her mind leapfrogged to the past. As much as she’d suppressed those memories, they now flooded in.
And she was there. Sixteen years old and lying on the damp concrete basement floor, her face and body grinding into the cold concrete with its faint scent of mold. Above, the whistling snap of a belt before it descended. And as much as she tried to brace for it, she could never prepare for the burning sting. Or the screams muffled behind the dirty piece of cloth gagging her mouth.

Readers should read this book …

…if they enjoy atmospheric, mysterious crime and romance between the hero and heroine.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m currently working on a psychological suspense novel. I do have another Intrigue, romantic suspense, that will be published August 1, Appalachian Peril.

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: I’m providing three signed print books, USA only. Should an international winner be drawn, they will receive an e-book copy.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: What is your favorite location for an eerie story?

 
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Excerpt from Murder in the Shallows:

Excited barking.
The pungent scent of wet fur, an ominous growl, and then nearby panting. Hot kibble-breath.
The dogs were almost upon her.
Bailey sprang to wakefulness, cotton bedsheets clutched in her hands. Blood pulsed in her ears as she searched the darkness for her location. She was home. Safe in her own room. Quickly she rose and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As the tap filled her cup, she stared out the window over the sink. Moonglow tinged the trees and grass with a silver hue. With a start, she remembered Dylan and padded over to the den to look out the front window.
His truck was in the same spot, but she couldn’t see him. Perhaps he’d lain down in the seat to sleep? Some protector. Come morning, she’d be sure and give him a hard time. Her hand found the smooth barrel of the shotgun she kept lodged near the front door. Its hard, cool surface reassured her that she could take care of herself if need be.
Instead of returning to bed, Bailey threw on a T-shirt and shorts and headed to Dylan’s truck, determined to send him home. If he drove off now, he could still catch a few hours’ sleep in a comfortable bed before they began another search. She rapped sharply on the driver’s side window. “Dylan?” she called, not wanting to scare him—not too bad, anyway.
No answer. Man slept like the dead. What kind of cop did that on a protection detail? She peered into the back seat.
Empty.
Chills skittered down the back of her neck and spine. She slowly turned to face the cabin. A man was crouched near the swamp hibiscus by the east wall. Dylan? Impossible to make out from the inky shadows. An urge to angrily confront him warred with the fear that this might be someone else entirely. Although, did it matter who lurked there? What did she really know about this Dylan Armstrong? Precious little. Except for the fact that his father had been a no-good, heartless liar who’d turned his back on a terrified teenager who’d sought his help.
She cursed herself for not taking her shotgun. A weapon was no good if she forgot to carry it in the middle of night. Especially after she’d been warned she might be in danger.
The figure straightened and approached. He stepped away from the shrubs and into the wide expanse of the lawn, and the moonlight glinted on his sandy hair.
“What are you doing outside, Bailey?”
As if he had the right to question her movements. Resentment coupled with a healthy dose of cynicism kept her on guard. “What are you doing creeping around my cabin?” she countered.
He was close enough now that she saw the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Well, he was no more irritated than she. Dylan had no business—
“Someone was out here,” he said, cutting into her indignant thoughts. “I saw movement and heard noise in the shrubs. Which, by the way, are way too tall and need trimming. A giant could hide in that jungle.”
She ignored his bossy commentary and cut to the chase. “What noise?”
“A rustling not caused by the wind. I climbed out of my truck, and whoever it was took off for the woods out back. You didn’t hear me yell for him to halt?”
No, there’d only been the nightmare.
“So, he got away,” she breathed, uselessly fixing her gaze on the dark tree line.
“At least I noticed him before he torched your cabin.”
Her heart skipped and squeezed at that bit of news. “How do you know his intention?”
Instead of answering, Dylan motioned for her and walked back toward the cabin. Through the damp grass, she followed, arms hugged about her waist. Within ten yards of the shrubs, she halted abruptly. A gasoline odor permeated the night air, overpowering the sweet smell of honeysuckle and gardenia. Under one of the shrubs was a discarded gas container.
She rubbed her arms against the wave of cold that swept her from head to toe. If Dylan hadn’t been here…
Unless he’d been the one who doused her cabin with gasoline.
She tried to think rationally, warring between what was either paranoia or a healthy suspicion. But why would Dylan have done such a thing? Yeah, she had no use for his father, but it didn’t mean that the son was a killer trying to deflect suspicion from his murderous secrets by playing a hero.
“I guess thanks are in order,” she said reluctantly.
A rueful smile played on his lips. “Must have killed you to say that.”

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

A shared past could be the biggest threat…

Sheriff’s deputy Dylan Armstrong has every intention of helping Bailey Covington when she becomes a serial killer’s latest obsession. What he hadn’t counted on was the intense connection he still shares with the reclusive park ranger. After years apart, Dylan never expected that one look would stir up every feeling from their past. But exploring their attraction will have to wait if they want to find a killer’s means and motive before the savage predator strikes again.
Book Links: Amazon | B&N | iTunes | Goodreads |
 
 

Meet the Author:

USA Today, Publisher’s Weekly and Washington Post bestselling author.

Debbie Herbert writes psychological suspense, romantic suspense and paranormal romance novels. She’s always been fascinated by magic, romance and Gothic stories. She is traditionally published by Thomas & Mercer and Harlequin as well as Indie published.

Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Debbie enjoys recumbent bicycling and jet skiing with her husband. She has two grown sons and the oldest has autism. Characters with autism frequently land in her works, even when she doesn’t plan on it!

For more information, visit www.debbieherbert.com. Sign up for her newsletter (http://www.debbieherbert.com/free-book/) and receive a free story! Connect with her on Facebook at Debbie Herbert Author or Debbie Herbert’s Readers, and on Twitter at @debherbertwrit.
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