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Maybe you were thinking Ilze Berzins should try something other than writing. Maybe farming. Maybe in mid-coast Maine, USA. Where maybe she runs into a cast of bovines, rednecks, losers and dreamers who join homesteaders Izzie and Nick and cranky old Aunt Marija. Dzintra arrives from Riga, hoping for a new life in America, but soon becomes involved in old grudges and secrets that put everyone’s life in jeopardy, including her own.
Here you have farm romance and murder rolled into one.
You won’t want to miss this– warm milk, baby chicks, predators and perverts.
This book is based on a true life adventure.
Click here to read the first few pages of Freedom
Freedom (Page 1)
Chapter 1
The setting sun hesitates, casting a glance through the tall pine trees one last time before ending its journey from light into darkness.
I’m late. Had I been earlier, I would have been sitting high up on the hillside, reveling in the reds and purples surrounding the orange sun as it sinks below the horizon. But, as it happens, I’m standing in the open doorway, watching the few remaining rays of gold glitter briefly in the darkening fields.
I try not to think of anything. But I’m not successful. Before I know it, my mind circles back to the dialogue which has been chasing around in my head since I got up this morning.
Second thoughts? Of course not. You’re sure? Sure. Alright. No turning back.
Freedom (Page 2)
And I don’t. I shut the door firmly behind me and stride purposely down the path leading away from the Castle—the Castle being the name the locals have given to the three story European-style house I happen to live in. The day has been a scorcher, but by now the heat has shut off and a sweet breeze ruffles the trees, freshly green in their shiny new foliage. It’s a five-stars evening. Or it would be if you take away the hoards of airborne piranhas—the thick clots of midges, black flies and mosquitoes buzzing around me in bloodsucking anticipation.
Lucky for me I’m carrying my ammo and wearing my protective shell: jeans, socks and sneakers, long sleeve off-white jersey, wrap-around sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat over headscarf, insect repellant and smoke from a cigarette I puff on even though I don’t smoke. Overkill? You’ve got to be kidding.
Halfway across the field, I pause and quickly look back to see if anyone is following me. The coast is clear. All except for Carmela, our American Milking Devon. There she is, grazing peacefully on her favourite green stalks in the lush early June meadow, her tail swishing rhythmically in an attempt to ward off the ravenous bugs.
Surprised to see me at this time of day, she raises her head and, as if alarmed, gives her horns a mighty shake. Then she lifts her head higher still and pierces the calm of the evening with a tremendous bellow. I stare at her, transfixed by the gold in her eyes. Effortlessly its message flows deep into my consciousness. She’s warning me. But I ignore her. Nothing can stop me.
Silly animal, I say to myself as I stride to the edge of the field and move onto the path leading toward the woods.
A few moments later, when I pause to look over my shoulder again, she has gone back to foraging, her tail swinging gently as deepening shadows glide silently across the field. But her presence is still with me. I can feel the imprint of her eyes and hear her resounding call of alarm.
