© 2015 by Peggy Rothschild

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RELEASE DAY SET FOR PUNISHMENT SUMMER!

November 14, 2016

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PUNISHMENT SUMMER BLOG TOUR - DAY 2

October 20, 2015

 

 

And the blog tour continues celebrating the publication of PUNISHMENT SUMMER! For a chance to win a $25 Amazon gift card, take a moment to visit the following blogs:

 

Today, Monsterella Reviews is hosting a book spotlight about Punishment Summer (review to be posted on 10/31)  - http://monsterellareviews.wix.com/memre

 

 

Here's an excerpt from Nicki's Day 2 living in the Mendocino Forest:

 

Cold. So cold. The current swirled around my calves. Snow melt, according to Grandpa. The kind of cold that burned. Burned deep. Sharp rock dug into the soles of my feet. Why the hell was I doing this? Trying to prove I could be well-behaved shouldn’t hurt this much.

 

I took another step into the swirling water. My toes met soft mud. Definite improvement. I moved forward again. The river bottom dropped away. By the time my foot touched down, the icy current reached above my knee. I bit back the ‘sonofabitch’ on the tip of my tongue. No matter that the flesh was getting frozen off my body – Grandpa would fuss if I broke his ‘no swearing’ rule. Dammit. “Yikes.”

 

Grandpa paused in the middle of pulling his line. “Whoa there. No point risking frostbite for the chance at some gill-breathers. We’ll buy you a pair of rubber boots when we go to town. Better get back on shore. If you were staying through the winter, I’d get you some of these.” Knee-deep in the river, his legs and chest were safely encased in olive green waders. “During summer, the water level’s low enough that a good pair of gum or hip boots’ll work. We’ll pick you out a sturdy pair today.”

 

That morning I’d moaned about rising at daybreak for chores and the planned drive to Grandpa’s favorite fishing spot along Rattlesnake River, but none of that seemed to shake Grandpa’s good mood. Before heading out the door, he had pulled on a ratty-looking canvas vest. I’d covered my nose against the reek coming off it. The thing was stained with God-knew-what and had at least eight million pockets. “What the hell-eck are you wearing?”

 

“The hell-eck?” He turned and gave me a forced-looking frown.

 

“It’s an expression.”

 

“Right.” He ran a hand across the vest’s front. “This here’s my lucky fishing vest. Got a pocket for my lures, hooks, line – everything I need. Caught a thirty-eight pound salmon wearing this.”

 

“And you stole it from the fish? ’Cause man, that thing stinks.”

 

He chuckled as he herded me out to the truck.

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