A coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.


Buying the 1920s farmhouse south of Phoenix, where the rumors of John Dillinger’s gang hid out in the 30s, is supposed to be Grace Evanheart’s way of escaping an old romance. When she finds an ancient diary with a map under the bedroom’s floorboard, the rumors solidify into fact. She doesn’t know who to trust with the news; Micah Stevens, the handsome deputy and the great grandson of the original landowners with whom she’s attracted, or Jerry, the young historian who seems too intent on learning about her new home?

Micah seems convinced their paths cross exactly at the right time and in the right place for them to fall in love. Now he just has to convince Grace of the same thing before suspicions of his real motive have her running again.   


Debra lives in Southwest Arizona, and has been married to Mike for
36 years. She’s the mother of two awesome sons, who married their forever
loves, and she’s a grandmother to three beautiful grandchildren with one more
on the way.


Debra wrote her first novella
thirteen years ago just for grins. That brief taste into the world of an author
started an undeniable writing obsession rivaling only her love of chocolate.
She’s an award-winning fine artist, and loves traveling with her husband.”


Connect with the Author:



Top Ten List

1) I have an intense fear of flying, bad enough I need medication to even walk toward a plane.

2) I have an unreasonable fear of heights. I’m pretty sure this has an impact on my fear of flying.

3) I’m terribly claustrophobic. That might have something to do with my fear of flying—maybe.

4) I’m a multiple-award winning fine artist specializing in portraits. I received a drawing kit for Christmas when I was seven or eight years old, with a drawing pad, pencils, one of those silly gum erasers, and an awesome book that had step-by-step examples. I drew a little boy wearing a sombrero, and my mother used the side of a pencil and shaded it, making it pop off the paper. I used this memory in one of my books.

5) This little known fact is one that my husband dislikes; I love bags—handbags, tote bags, and messenger bags with sayings on them. I can’t pass by a display of bags without Mike grabbing my elbow and hurrying me by them. The top shelf in my closet is solely for bag and purse storage. I’m pathetic. It could be worse, I suppose. I might have the same obsession for matching shoes with each bag.

6) I’m married to a retired cop, who’s brother was a cop/latent identification expert, and who’s dad was a cop for 34 years, and now we have a son who’s in law enforcement. I’m never at a loss for experts when writing.

7) I was a volunteer with our local police department for several years. I rode with willing officers, went on calls with them. On occasion, I even helped in taking report information and traffic control. They didn’t let me carry a gun, although I did design their shirt patch.

8) I write a little bit of myself into every story. In Changes of the Heart, poor Grace deals with my clumsiness. Really! Once, I sprained my ankle so badly, the doctor told me that it would’ve healed faster if I would’ve broken it. My foot turned black from my toes up to my knee.

9) Changes of the Heart was a top 3 finalist in the 2014 Marilyn Brown Unpublished Novel Contest. Marilyn and her husband have set up an endowment at Utah Valley University to honor superior works of fiction written by literary artists.

10) I dislike coconut. I mean, really, sincerely, honestly dislike coconut.


Micah leaned his hip against the cabinet, tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Heat filled my face at his assumption. I opened the freezer compartment and looked inside. “What makes you think I don’t?” Two empty ice trays sat on a small shelf. I grabbed them so I could hide my embarrassment. I felt unworthy of love. Being dumped by David had been hard on my ego.

“It doesn’t really make sense because you’re so pretty, but if you’d had one, he would be here helping you instead of me.”

Even his compliment couldn’t cool the heat of the blush in my face. I twisted the cold-water faucet open, holding the tray beneath the stream, and listened to the clanking and groaning the pipes produced along with the water. “Why don’t I have a boyfriend? Huh, I guess you’d have to ask my ex-boyfriend that question. He . . . sort of . . .”

I took a deep breath, set the tray down in the sink and turned to look directly into Micah’s face. I hadn’t said it out loud since that night back in the apartment, when I’d poured my heart out to Chelsea, and I was curious to see Micah’s reaction. “He dumped me.” His brows went up marginally, and his eyes studied my face. He must have been looking for the hidden warts. “No, I don’t know why,” I said to his unasked question. “But it could possibly be because he didn’t want any deeper commitment than a girlfriend, and I was ready for more.”

I paced across the kitchen floor, the heels of my boots thudding like a hammer with every step. “We were together for two years, and suddenly he just wanted to be friends.” I turned and walked in the other direction. The kitchen wasn’t that big. “When a man says those words to a woman, the woman knows he doesn’t actually want to be friends.” I turned and marched back the other way. “We know what it means.”

“What does it mean?” Micah’s voice was quiet and gentle.

“That . . . that he never loved me.” I guessed at where the kitchen door was. I couldn’t see it through the stupid, self-pitying tears filling my eyes, blinding me. As I rushed outside I said, “I want to bring in the stove next.”

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