Christmas Paradise Read online

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  Zumaya Publications

  www.zumayapublications.com

  Copyright ©2002 Gale Storm

  First Published October 2002

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  "You're okay?” He asked unbelievingly as the woman moved in front of him, blocking his view of the room.

  “I'm fine, but you're lucky you're not dead."

  Renewed anger changed Tarralee's voice into one she did not recognize. The man flinched as he slowly wrapped his good arm around her shoulder as she lifted him to his feet. Their faces touched; his black beard scraped her soft skin. Tarralee jerked away as if pine needles had pricked her nerve endings, and she couldn't wait to be away from this man. Hurrying him despite his obviously dazed state, she marched him to a kitchen chair and shoved him into it.

  “Let me look at your shoulder in the light.” Blackbeard's eyes watched her as she pulled the jacket back and examined her makeshift bandage again. The packing had fallen away, but the wound was no longer bleeding freely. She glanced at him, surprised that such a minor wound would cause a man his size to pass out.

  “It isn't too bad. I've got to check my dog—just hold this here and I'll be right back to clean this and put a real bandage over it.” Tarralee pushed the used T-shirt into his hand, turning away.

  “There's blood on your side, miss,” the man stated as she moved toward the door.

  “Yours, I'm sure,” she tossed back, totally impervious to the burning along her own rib cage.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHRISTMAS PARADISE

  Copyright 2002 GALE STORM

  ISBN: 1-894869-56-7

  Cover art by Marlies Bugmann Tasmanian artist, and Martine Jardin, cover design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Zumaya Publications, 2002

  Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com

  Chapter One

  It was a blustery September day in the high Northwestern Cascades. The first snow of the season was falling rapidly from the sky as Tarralee Roessel pulled to a stop beside her family cabin feeling exhilarated. Her crossbred wolf-Malamutes had performed flawlessly on the sled run and Tarry was thrilled. For the first time the dogs actually had been a team, pulling her smoothly over the eight-mile distance without any of their usual bickering and squabble. It was a lovely day, with the crisp, sharp bitterness that spoke of January and winter fires. Tarry loved it. Quickly, she unhooked the dogs, speaking slowly, rubbing each of their heads.

  She had caught a dozen fish at Blue Lake. She lifted the basket from the back of the sled and went to the shed where she kept the dogs’ open kettle. Tarry had learned from her father how to feed her motley crew in the most inexpensive way. The whole fish, minus the bones, were mixed with water, rice or oatmeal, lard and any table scraps she had on hand. This mixture gave her animals the carbohydrates they needed plus the basic nutrients they required to remain healthy and perform in top condition. And, she noted as they lapped their bowls clean day after day, they liked it.

  She turned on the small electric cook stove and left the kettle simmering as she went back outside to give the ten dogs a rubdown. Only seven were used as sled dogs, the other three were still puppies. With a sharp whistle she summoned them to her side and softly ordered them to sit. The dogs obeyed instantly, even the high-spirited pups Cedar, Jeans and Greyson.

  She grinned, unaware how the movement of her lips brightened her small angular face. She was a pretty woman, although her petite build, more often than not, made those who didn't know her think she was a child, and a boy at that. She had a low husky voice and eyes as dark and blue as a raven's wing in the sunlight. A metallic glow burned deep within them, showing the world her determination and stubbornness.

  Tarry finished with the dogs and went to the shed to stir the mélange she had prepared for their brunch, but her mind was on her future. She had finally fulfilled her promise to her dying father. She had kept the six Roessel children together as a family. Although it had been hard for a fifteen-year-old girl to manage a family, fight the authorities and lie about her age, quitting school to take care of five boys and their animals, she had never worried about it. It was just one of the things that had to be done, and like feeding the horses and taking care of the barn animals, five young boys just took more time. This forced her to be creative, just as she varied her training of the dogs.

  Now, fifteen years later, the promise was kept; the boys were grown and gone and her youngest brother, John Huxley Roessel, named for their father, had celebrated his twenty-first birthday by being accepted to UCLA Medical School this fall. For the first time in fifteen years, Tarralee had time to think about her own future.

  She stepped out of the shed and looked at the magnificent mountain peaks that surrounded her. They were beautiful in their first blanket of snow, especially when they were storm-masked like today. All of the mystery of early winter hid their height and awesome possibilities. She sucked in a deep breath of frosty air and marveled at the sense of freedom such a vista brought her. She loved the mountain, her lifestyle and her independence now that her brothers were busy with their lives. There was strength and wisdom in the cold landscape. She felt, with all her heart that she could match the beauty around her with her self-confidence and the patience she had developed through years of practice in bringing up her brothers and the different animals she hosted in her menagerie. Life and living were wonderful.

  Clouds crowded against each other on the tops of the mountains, blocking their grandeur from her view then flexing over the peaks; and for a moment the craggy crest's dramatic height was emphasized by a trick of light and shadow. She watched in fascination, oblivious to the cold as the drama unfolded.

  Tarralee finally dropped her eyes to her parent's log house and grinned. It was cozy and comfortable, with nine bedrooms and an attic that was not only used for storage but her bedroom. Her life was full; and yet, thanks to David, the oldest of her brothers and one year younger than she, she felt a gnawing dissatisfaction as if something was missing.

  “It's time you got out of the mountains, enjoy life, meet other people, experience something just for yourself,” David lectured. She knew the rest of her brothers felt the same way. They had watched her sacrifice everything for them as they grew up. They felt guilty that she was satisfied to remain on the mountain when she had given up so much for them through the years. She knew they would continue to condemn her lack of selfishness until she did something besides train animals and remain closeted within the confines of the mountains.

  That was what caused the dissatisfaction, she decided—others’ opinions. She felt secure, comfortable and protected as long as the guardian peaks were within view. Without them she would be alone and have to make it on her own. She wasn't particularly afraid of doing this. It was just that it was totally outside her realm of experience, and she wasn't sure what her first step should be. Her mother had
always said that “when you were ready the new door will open by itself,” but sometimes it required an open heart to see the crack and the possibilities.

  Tarralee poured the mush into the washtub to cool. Then she walked to the barn, fed her few chickens and poured oats into the trough for her old mare. All the other animals she had sold in August; and though she missed them, there was a sense of relief in not having them dependent upon her during the upcoming winter months.

  She heard the dogs barking and lifted her head.

  What could that be? She wondered. Surely elk or deer hadn't strayed into the yard again? Of course, it might be Torpon, her pet brown bear. For the past two years, Torpon had hibernated in her dugout; but he had not yet gone to sleep and periodically roused to scavenge scraps or tantalize the dogs, which he had known all of his life. Tarralee had raised Torpon from a cub, and the dogs were jealous of her attachment to the now fully-grown American black bear.

  Going out into the snow-covered yard she watched a red four-wheel-drive vehicle pull up beside the cabin. Walking forward, she straightened to her full height of five feet, two inches. Cedar was pressed against the driver's window, her teeth barred in welcome. Tarralee knew the pup would be intimidating even to the most experienced animal lover; and she wasn't surprised to note that the man, his hands gripping the steering wheel, remained inside staring at the ten dogs. She whistled for them to allow the visitor out of his vehicle.

  Snow was falling faster now, big wet flakes that almost blotted out colors and distinct lines. Rounder hit her squarely in the chest and she dropped to her knees. Tarralee laughed, a happy sound, as she rolled in the snow with the dogs tugging at her jacket and hood. It was a game she played often with them, and for a moment she forgot the man in the vehicle. She knew the dogs would never hurt her, and she was totally without fear as they growled and snarled around her head and body.

  She gasped as the sound of a powerful weapon exploded in the crisp mountain air. Instantly, she was on her feet, turning to stare at the vehicle as a hand grasped her hood and she was thrown inside the vehicle. Flipping over, she saw the bearded stranger take aim at Cedar.

  With a surge of adrenaline, Tarralee was out of the vehicle and flying at the man with the gun. Tackling him, she knocked him to the ground as the gun exploded again. The bullet made a thudding sound as it hit something solid, and she heard a loud yelp from one of her dogs. Fury blinded her to the danger she was in. Grabbing the man's arm, she wrestled for control of the gun. Again the weapon exploded as she finally managed to pull the arm down between them. She felt a sting along her rib cage.

  Shoving the man into a snow bank, Tarralee pushed herself to her feet and threw the gun as far away from them as possible. She ran to Cedar and fell beside her. The other dogs crowded around her, and with a sharp whistle she calmed them and had them sitting in front of her. Rounder, the father wolf, his body tensed to spring on the stranger, growled. Tarralee admonished him with a strict tap on his muzzle as a warning to remain still. Cedar was breathing, but Tarry noted the dark red hole in her left flank. She made the pup lie still as she probed the wound. Luckily, the bullet had gone clean through, leaving only a flesh wound. Tarralee was amazed she hadn't been killed.

  A sound behind her made her turn, facing the man with the black beard.

  “Get out!” She hissed, hardly raising her voice. “Get out, before I sic the whole pack on you. These animals are extremely protective, Mister, and right now they would like to rip your throat out! Get out, before they, or I, kill you!"

  There was a stunned expression in his faded-denim eyes. She noticed suddenly that his body sagged as he gripped his shoulder. He paled even more as Rounder growled. The man slowly backed toward his vehicle. What is wrong with him? Tarralee wondered, as he swayed, his eyes closed. Her temper cooled as she watched him.

  He opened his mouth and closed it, shutting his eyes. “I don't think I can drive."

  He fell forward at her feet.

  It took less than a moment for her to move. Kneeling beside him, she turned him over and saw the bright red stain on the shoulder of his jacket. Snow fell on the blue fabric, making her think of the stars on the flag as it combined with the red. A sudden sickness invaded her stomach as she realized he might be fatally injured. How had this happened? Why had it happened? She touched the jacket as the man groaned. The pain she normally felt for a wounded animal blotted out her fury. He did not open his eyes.

  Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her arms under his shoulders and dragged him through the snow to the cabin door. Sweating profusely, she pushed the door open and lifted him inside. Letting him slump to the floor, she quickly ran to the kitchen and grabbed her first-aid box.

  It took only seconds to remove his jacket and shirt and pull his T-shirt from his chest. A seeping hole in his shoulder greeted her. He'd lost a fair amount of blood; but she now knew the wound wasn't serious, though it would be painful. It was ugly and ragged and would need stitches; but thankfully, like Cedar, there was no bullet lodged in the soft tissues that she could feel in the shoulder muscle.

  Then she lifted him and saw the exit wound in his back, forward of his scapular. She packed his T-shirt around the wound to stop the bleeding. His eyes fluttered open as he flinched. “Where...?” He stared at her, his face ashen.

  “You're in my home.” She said to restrain the hatred she felt for him. “I couldn't drag you any further. Can you sit up?"

  Painfully, he managed it as Tarralee supported his back against a large wood box. The fragrant smell of cedar filled his nostrils. The man turned his head and slowly took in his surroundings. What he saw amazed him—it had been a long time since he had been in a real home where simple living took place. The interior of the rustic cabin opened into a clean, spacious living room, dining area and kitchen built for a large family, yet it maintained the personality and comfort of its primary residents with its comfortable blue-gold-gray of the sofa, the four easy chairs before an open fireplace. The rich contrast of snow-white and forest-green pillows and a knitted turquoise throw draped over the sofa like a waterfall made the simple beauty of a glade flash through his mind. He was positive the interior decorator had meant to convey this relaxing, cozy image.

  “You're okay?” He asked unbelievingly as the woman moved in front of him, blocking his view of the room.

  “I'm fine, but you're lucky you're not dead."

  Renewed anger changed Tarralee's voice into one she did not recognize. The man flinched as he slowly wrapped his good arm around her shoulder as she lifted him to his feet. Their faces touched; his black beard scraped her soft skin. Tarralee jerked away as if pine needles had pricked her nerve endings, and she couldn't wait to be away from this man. Hurrying him despite his obviously dazed state, she marched him to a kitchen chair and shoved him into it.

  “Let me look at your shoulder in the light.” Blackbeard's eyes watched her as she pulled the jacket back and examined her makeshift bandage again. The packing had fallen away, but the wound was no longer bleeding freely. She glanced at him, surprised that such a minor wound would cause a man his size to pass out.

  “It isn't too bad. I've got to check my dog—just hold this here and I'll be right back to clean this and put a real bandage over it.” Tarralee pushed the used T-shirt into his hand, turning away.

  “There's blood on your side, miss,” the man stated as she moved toward the door.

  “Yours, I'm sure,” she tossed back, totally impervious to the burning along her own rib cage.

  The stranger stood up and caught her wrist so quickly she could hardly believe he had moved. Her dark eyes widened in surprise as she tried to yank her wrist away, but he was too strong for her, holding her securely.

  “You're still angry. That last bullet hit us both.” He eyed her curiously, staring right into her soul.

  “You're damn right I'm angry!” Her voice rose as her eyes dilated. “I hate you and your stupid gun. You tried to kill Cedar—you murderer!” Blackbeard
squeezed her wrist. Immediately, Tarralee saw red. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. All she wanted to do was to get even with him for destroying her beautiful day and hurting Cedar.

  “Let me go, you fiend! The dogs will break down that door if I whistle!"

  Blackbeard moved again so suddenly she didn't see him do it. One minute she was on her feet, the next she was in his arms being lifted and carried towards the couch.

  “What—? You idiot! You're bleeding! Put me down, you fool!” She raged.

  His mouth formed a tight, straight line as he ground his teeth together. “You're bleeding much worse than I am, you stupid female. Quit fighting."

  Tarralee wiggled violently in his arms, her fists colliding with his shoulders, forgetting about his wound.

  “You little hellcat!” he bit out as he dropped her onto to the couch. Breathing heavily, he sank down beside her. “You deserve to bleed to death!"

  He pushed the broad palm of one hand against her flat stomach. With the other, he gently touched her side where her jacket was ripped. Tarralee felt a searing pain shoot through her side when he lifted his hand away.

  He said, “Now do you believe me?” showing her the bright red blood on his palm.

  “No!” she shouted, disregarding the sudden weakness that invaded her senses as she struggled to sit up. She struck out at the arms that locked around her torso, preventing her from rising. Wildly, she lifted her hand and hit him a blow to the jaw. The resounding thud matched the crack of the gun only minutes before, and Blackbeard fell backwards, pulling her with him as he rolled off the sofa. A dazed expression reflected in his faded eyes as he looked into hers.

  A white-hot pain shot through Tarralee's arm as weak tears filled her eyes. A sob caught in her throat. She had never hit anyone or anything before in her life. Not when her siblings taunted her to madness with their juvenile antics, not when the puppies had ripped her best shirt, not even when Rounder chewed her best tennis shoes and destroyed them. She watched as Blackbeard sat up, lifting a hand to his cheekbone where a red welt was forming. Although he touched it tenderly, he seemed to struggle with a fierce inner passion so intense she was suddenly frightened.