In Rugby, Tennessee, Jorie Wainright and the man she loves, Logan Mathis, grew up as two of the Rugby Six: a group of children so closely bound that they experience each other’s emotional and physical pain. And they have the power to affect others.


At twenty-six, tormented by a darker facet of her past, Jorie abandons love along with the desire to ever be a mother. The act plunges herself and the remaining Six into anguish, and it is all for naught. She is already pregnant with Logan’s child. When her father’s death forces her back to her hometown, she goes alone.

Logan’s love for Jorie forces him to obey her wishes. Still, for him there can be no other woman. And, like always, he can feel her pain…and her need. She waits in a rural Tennessee town on the edge of the spirit world, where a dark and sinister presence threatens all she never wanted. All that Logan knows she will never let die. All he knows they must save—together.
Available on Amazon

“A great book!”

Five Star Review on Amazon By Sharon Farrell

Another page turner from Nancy Sartor! From page one, you are in love with the characters and hooked by the story. I always have trouble putting her books down. Can’t wait for the next book!

About the Author

I was born in Nashville, Tennessee, to an Irish woman who believed in fairies and angels and God and the inherent goodness of man. When I was small, she wrote a fairy tale named Nogard (the inverse of Dragon). She read it chapter-by-chapter to each of her three children when we were old enough to understand it. Of all the books she read me, I remember that one, its characters, its story as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Like my mother, I was and am an avid reader. I read “The Bobbsey Twins”, “Nancy Drew”, “Cherry Ames, Nurse”, all the stuff a young reader should have until I obtained my own library card. Then, I discovered Frank Yerby’s “The Foxes of Harrow”, and decided I’d had enough of sweet young women who did all the right things. In my teen years, I was directed toward John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, but not, interestingly enough, William Faulkner, whose prose is so dense I still can’t enjoy his writing. When I discovered “Peyton Place” on my own, my mother stopped worrying about what I was reading.
I tried my hand at writing in junior high school, sickeningly sweet, melodramatic fluff. It’s a testament to the poor quality of young writing that I was chosen as a finalist in a contest. Being a finalist gained me an afternoon at Belmont College with my teacher, a cup of tea, a few cookies, and encouraging words from those who’d read my little offering. I did not win the contest.
I became a wife and then a mother and had no time to breathe, let alone write. My marriage fell apart, leaving me to raise my children alone with even less time, but in my spare moments, I jotted down a story line here and a snippet there. I escaped my life in books and dreamed of better days.
When my children were nearly grown, I met another man, very different from my ex-husband. Not only was he brilliant, he was attempting to make his living writing classical music. I had heard classical, liked it well enough, though I really preferred Opera and rock and roll. In the presence of this musician who lived, breathed and ate classical, I learned to appreciate the way it twisted themes through labyrinths and then brought them back in the end. The way I wanted my stories to do.
He wondered why I’d never written a novel.
I’d never written a novel because I’d never had time to write a novel and besides who would publish my novel? As our relationship deepened and he continued to write music most people didn’t understand and sell it, earn awards and be featured in such places as Carnegie Hall and Tanglewood, a spark ignited within me. If he could be this successful in classical music, maybe I could write a novel.
And so I did. Ronald Reagan had just taken America from the great malaise back to national pride. I was convinced the nation would turn back to its rot if something happened to Reagan and with that as my kernel, I concocted a story about an American president who had a stroke, but was so important to the nation, he could not be allowed to die and so a look-alike was brought in to act out the role of president. Without the slightest knowledge of how to write a novel, I wrote one and grabbed an agent my first time out. The book didn’t sell, but you may have seen the movie. It’s called “Dave.” In many respects, it is almost identical to the story I wrote. Perhaps great ideas run in pairs.
By this time, my new love interest was my new husband, who spent long hours in his study writing music so it was logical that I spend long hours in my study writing books. The Internet provided us both with an amazing tool to educate ourselves and waste time. The General Electric Network for Information Exchange, an Internet service for GE employees, opened itself to the public at six pm EST every day. It was called GENIE and almost immediately, some geek created Aladdin, the software that made GENIE wonderfully accessible. I lucked into a group of extremely talented writers and together we formed Word Spinners, Ink., dubbed Inkies, the first Internet-based writers group in America as far as we can tell. In our own little corner of GENIE, we wrote, exchanged reviews, exhorted one another, interviewed agents and editors and generally learned how to do this thing we all loved.
I wrote another novel and marketed it, garnered many good comments, among them, “Gee, I wish I hadn’t just published one like this. This one is really good.” That’ll break your little writer heart for sure.
All in all, I wrote six novels before Neva, the POV character in BONES ALONG THE HILL, came to me in the dead of the night with a whisper, “Hi. My name is Neva, and I fix the faces of the dead.”
By this time, I was a passable writer, but writing morphs almost faster than the moral compasses teenagers use, and “deep POV” was then the rage. Turned out deep POV wasn’t my long suit. In fact, deep POV was damned difficult for me. I could get close. I could swoop into secondary characters far enough to know what toenail clippers they used, but not so with Neva. I wrote, rewrote, plotted, re-plotted. My writing partners read, re-read, offered great comments. My husband finally suggested in frustration that I drop this novel and write another.
BONES was accepted for publication by a small press that believes in growing writers. Today, I have three available: BONES ALONG THE HILL; CHRISTMAS ACROSS TIME; and BLESS CURSE. All of them have garnered five-star reviews and praises from my readers. I’m triply blessed.
My next novel is the sequel to BONES readers have begged for since BONES was published. It’s Rozanna Clark’s story, and I’m only sixteen thousand words into it. I have no idea what its title might be, but whatever it is, I hope it will be of the same quality as the other three. And I hope you will read and enjoy it.

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