Every Time We Say Goodbye

Beryl Blue, Time Cop: Book 3

Time has met its match in Beryl Blue

Six months after feisty librarian-turned-time-cop Beryl Blue’s last adventure in time with the gruff and sexy Tom ‘Sully’ Sullivan, she’s back in 2133, chasing time-traveling thieves and other temporal miscreants for the time tourism company, Time Scope, Inc. She misses Sully, but fate has cast a deadly shadow over his future, and until she can find a way to fix that fate, she knows they can never be together.

Beryl’s also on a desperate hunt for the man who murdered her parents. A new lead sends her on a journey across the centuries, to the Old West, Prohibition Chicago, and the swinging sixties, before she lands back in Sully’s arms—with no way to return to her own time.

The longer they’re together, the more they tempt fate. Sully’s willing to put his life on the line to protect Beryl, but she refuses to accept that risk. It’s a race against the clock as Beryl launches a bold plan to catch a killer, defy destiny, and to save the man she loves.

History, mystery, romance, and a touch of sci-fi collide as Beryl and her beloved Sully upend time itself in the fight to win their happily-ever-after, in this third thrilling adventure in the Beryl Blue, Time Cop series.

A sneak peek inside!


The temporal vortex spit me out on the side of a steep hill. Already wobbly from the time skip and my own perpetual inability to stick the landing, I smacked the ground, getting a snootful of dirt, then pitched down the hill at top speed. I tumbled ass-over-teakettle all the way to the bottom like both Jack and Jill in the old nursery rhyme. I didn’t break my crown, but I did roll face first into a thicket of brambles and stopped cold.

I sat up, every part of my body throbbing in pain, panting heavily, and cursing myself for ever venturing into a time cop career.

Not a great way to start this mission. A mission I so desperately wanted to succeed. Needed to succeed. I had to catch Niels Rasmussen this time. It had been six months since that time-traveling assassin had slipped through my fingers in 1946. Six months of searching temporal time ripples and wisps of DNA signatures without a single ping, blip, or a hint as to where he’d gone. Six months of chewing my nails and keeping myself occupied with busy work and routine extractions any junior time cop on their first mission could’ve handled.

And six months since I’d said goodbye to Sully. A short span on the scale of time itself, but to me, those six months had felt like an eternity. Yeah, I know, a cliché. But clichés stick for a reason. I missed Big Red so, so much, but until I figured out a way to beat whatever gruesome fate the universe had in store for him, I had to stay away.

The natter of voices and horses whinnying drifted from around the bend, bringing me back to the present, or, in this case, July of 1882, on the road between LaPorte and Oroville, California. We’d finally got a solid hit on Rasmussen’s location. I had to get back on mission and stop wasting time lingering on my regrets.

I crawled out of the bushes, adjusted my era-appropriate Stetson cowboy hat with the tall crown and sombrero-like brim, and moved up a narrow footpath toward the road ahead. The day was hot and clear, and except for the distinct aroma of cattle, the air was clear too, free of exhaust fumes and other industrial toxins.

I reached the path’s end and ducked behind a thick tree trunk to scope out the scene ahead. A stagecoach stood stopped on the dirt road, heading southwest. I marveled at its construction—wooden side panels, sturdy steel-rimmed wheels, large windows, and Wells Fargo & Company painted just below the rooftop cargo area stuffed with luggage. The coach horses snorted and pawed the ground in impatience, their leather harnesses creaked. The teamsters, dressed alike in thick gloves and a long coat known as a duster, sat on the drivers’ box with their hands up.

Why? Because my target, Niels Rasmussen, held a long-barreled pistol pointed at them.

Niels edged his horse closer to the stagecoach and ordered the passengers gazing fretfully out the windows to toss their valuables onto the ground.

“Anyone hesitates, shoot ’em boys,” he called toward the tangled brush that bordered the road. “Shoot ’em full of holes.”

A woman wearing a hat with so many feathers I suspected every ostrich in Australia had been left bald wailed in terror but did as she was told. She flung a necklace sparkling with green and gold gems out the window. The other passengers followed suit and coins, gold timepieces, and bulging billfolds soon littered the dirt road.

I doubted Rasmussen had any “boys” lurking in the woods. It was a bluff. But to be on the safe side, I eased my electrical pulse weapon known as a stinger from the leather holster on my hip and gripped it tight.

Did I have a plan? No. No I didn’t. But whatever I was going to do, I had to do it fast. Niels wore a TDC wristwatch similar to mine, a Time Displacement Catalyzer, a fancy moniker for a portable time machine. The second he saw me he would pound the controls and vaporize into thin air.

I had to time this perfectly. I didn’t want to lose the chance to nail the bastard who’d murdered my parents and so many others. I looked down at the weapon in my hand, facing a hard choice. Would I do as Time Scope had ordered and simply stun him, bringing him in relatively unscathed? Or would I give in to the dark and bitter lust for revenge that simmered deep within me—and kill him?

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