Lord of the Maples: Lord of the Maples, #1

By Ravyn Karasu

Jeremiah Bruin is a wealthy bear shifter that enjoys a life of simplicity and routine in the small Canadian town he lives in. When Mathieu Delacroix comes to live in the small town, Jeremiah can’t help but feel drawn to him, but he can’t understand why. Likewise, Mathieu finds that he is drawn to Jeremiah and equally cannot understand why. Their lives are full of confusion and frustration as they begin to question themselves and their sexuality as the time passes between them.

Who and what is Mathieu Delacroix and why is Jeremiah so fascinated by him? Is the city-born college student wannabe just that interesting? Or is he, perhaps, prey for the bear to hunt and devour? Could it just be destiny? Could it be…love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ravyn Karasu
• Release date: Jun 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513052687

Book preview

The axe came down with great force. The log that had been set up flew in two separate directions due to the very clean split. With a well-rehearsed swing of his body, Jeremiah grabbed another small log and set it atop the stump and it too was the next victim of the trusty axe. He ran his arm over his forehead to wipe off the sweat.

Jeremiah was a very firm and fit man, but not broad and buff. He maintained this fitness in a narrower frame than some of his athletic childhood playmates. He used to be quite pretty as a boy. He was still quite attractive now, though the youthful prettiness had long since matured into a new level of manliness. His body had more hair on it now. His hair was light, a sandy brown colour. It was wavy from head to toe. The hair on his head was a little over shoulder length, and normally tied back in a short tail. He had a little stubble on his face, but he never allowed it to grow into a full beard, but rather liked the masculine feel of the scratchiness; therefore, he maintained it to be just right, neither beardy nor baby-faced. It went with the cold and serious stare of his blue-grey eyes. His body wasn’t necessarily covered in a thick fur of hair, but coarse curly hairs across the top of his chest, some prominence as a trail under his navel to his nethers, and coarse, light hairs on his forearms and down his legs. He wasn’t a bearish man, at least not in that sense, but he was very proud and manly.

He dressed in his usual attire: work pants, thick-soled work boots, and a red and black plaid button shirt. He had rolled up the sleeves midway up his biceps and the first few buttons in the front had been undone, exposing the sweaty, white undershirt. A pair of work gloves and a pair of dark sunglasses protected his hands and eyes from any stray flying splinters.

It was rather warm. Winter was over, and it seemed silly to fret over the wood now. That didn’t bother Jeremiah, though. It was something to do. There was always something to do. His life was purposefully compacted with chores and that’s how he liked it.

He worked for no man. His family had always been somewhat prestigious on the local levels. He was more than man and his ancestors had once been like gods and spirits among the people of old. When the Europeans came, blood had mixed between wealthy white folk and shifters from the Old World continents with those native to the New World. He had a bit of it all and maintained a strong presence. It had never been expressly stated, but it had become rather accepted that he was the lord of his family and highly respected. His family lived all throughout Canada and Europe. Jeremiah, however, loved this grand and spacious isolation from his relatives. He was less inclined to take advantage of modern luxuries than the others (not that he didn’t have a few secret luxuries for occasional use). They were occasional campers, usually on commercial campgrounds or cabins, utilizing RV’s, and generally having the ability to just barely make it if it came down to surviving in the wild. It was a sad thing for a kind such as themselves.

Jeremiah could survive with no handicaps. Sure, he had some features thanks to his wealth, but lived on a level of as much self-sufficiency as possible, enjoying the outside world in the same capacity as his relatives enjoyed his rustic one. If he truly wished, he could’ve become a complete hermit and opt never to see any part of the outside world. That just seemed extreme and while he was not extremely social, he did like to be around people from time to time. He was part of the world, not entirely separate from it, and that seemed fair.

He did go to town every day. It was what he called the pre-town. It was a small community (or sub-community) of cabins and handmade shops. It had everything he’d want and it felt more private. There was a café/diner and a little general store among other quaint shops. It was a nice place for the rustic hermits to gather without having to bend to the will of the quickly developing British Columbian town.

That was enough chopping for now. It was more of a workout anyway. Jeremiah gathered up the split wood and added it to his little pile. Speaking of wood, he expected the saplings he had ordered would be available. Like rotating livestock in different pastures, Jeremiah cut wood in specific sections and then replaced them with saplings to grow into new trees. The area was very heavy with trees, but that didn’t mean that Jeremiah couldn’t give back to a world from which he took so much. Maybe that was why he built his world within the confines of Mother Nature as much as possible, rather than bend her to his will.

The cabin was built by hand. It was spacious with two levels (Perhaps three if one counted the exposed loft area). It had mostly features of a pure rustic nature, but he couldn’t isolate himself entirely from the more pleasing upgrades. Still, in this part of his property, it was still simple, even if he had to cheat a little.

He went inside and opened his refrigerator to retrieve the jug of orange juice. It was one of the list of groceries he did still buy, simply because he enjoyed them and less out of a specific need. He had glasses, but he drank right out of the jug, turning it up and guzzling it down as if he had crossed a desert. He was able to drink down half of it before stopping to breathe. He licked his lips and let out a loud, refreshed sigh. That certainly hit the spot. He returned the jug to its place and headed into the bathroom to toss a little cologne onto himself. He didn’t mind smelling rustic, but he didn’t want to offend people with too rustic of a smell. Pine and dirt was one thing and a slight sweat, maybe, but a stank just wasn’t appropriate. It was enough. It covered up the smell to make him bearable.

He had been up rather early, fixing a small breakfast for himself and a cup of black coffee to start his day. It held him over until his second breakfast, the one where he truly ate. It was his social time and a chance to people-watch, be it the same locals each time or some adventurous tourists. He’d seen visitors and city slickers from all over Canada pass through, and a good many tender-footed Americans as well. This land was a nice retreat, but living in it just wasn’t for everybody, regardless of their birthplace.

He grabbed his wallet from his night stand and trotted down the stairs and to the front of the house where his truck waited. He could have afforded himself the most prestigious car in the town or more. He wasn’t much for cars or collecting. He had simple vehicles to work his land when needed, though he did give special attention to his truck. It was sturdy and he took good care of it, though it didn’t necessarily look that way. It was dinged and scratched, a faded blue colour on the body. It ran like a monster though. It could pull and it could carry. It was his beast and he loved it, even if it wasn’t that pretty. It was a hard worker, just like him. It always got him to and from any place he wanted to go.

He wasn’t much of a wanderer and was rather content to live in the small town. He had been to a few larger cities in his youth and often found them too overwhelming. He was very much a hands-on sort of man and the idea of a world where everything was becoming more and more automated made him feel incompetent. He liked turning the faucets on and off. He was content flushing the toilet himself. He could dry his hands just fine on paper towels (though he did understand the environmental plus to air dryers). Automated doors were okay in the right places. The department and grocery stores got the pass, since one’s cart was cumbersome and one’s hands were often full.

He could handle a television and a radio, but he didn’t own a computer currently. He wrote everything by hand and since he never did official business with outsiders, there was no need for such things. He could have afforded one, but chose against it. What would he ever use it for? He had enough electronics. He had that big television and he had a radio, though not a bursting sound system. He didn’t need that. He just needed something to listen to while he piddled about. He owned few movies and, when the mood hit him, he simply rented an old favourite from the local rental store or sampled something newer from the sporadically placed Red Box booths.

He did enjoy other features too, mostly for the purpose of keeping up with the world outside. He had satellite, but kept a very basic package. He wanted to watch the news from time to time, but found it so depressing that it hardly felt worth it. He rarely watched television, but should a big storm come along, or a major political change, he wanted to know what would affect him and how. It rarely mattered, as he was much his own little micro-nation, if one could joke about the status. Within the borders of his property, his word ruled the land as law and he defended it fiercely.

Jeremiah was almost happy. Money couldn’t buy his happiness, but it sure afforded him a life to enjoy the world around him for its simplicity. He had acquaintances, perhaps friends. He did have regular friends too, though his true deep down buddies were few, but of high integrity and quality. He was feared by some, which he found somewhat amusing. He was certainly intimidating, and he was capable of hurting people if he had to, but he never went out of his way.

He was generally an honourable man, but a man nonetheless. He was honest and had a very strict code he enforced. Even if he didn’t participate in great lengths with the community of Moose Hollow or the whole of Whistleton, he did enough. It was enough. He loved this place for all its perks and its faults. It was very much like his little Canadian kingdom where he was a high but touchable king ruling with great justice and mercy over his land, personal and residential. It gave him that special air of mystery and power, though he never flaunted his riches. Even without the knowledge of that wealth, he still managed to garner the admiration and respect of men and women alike. Men wanted to deal with him and women swooned over him for reasons they never really could understand...and didn’t care. Jeremiah took that in stride and made very little of a deal out of it. He just wanted to live peacefully in a quiet town and that’s what he got.

Drake’s was the pre-town café/diner frequented by the community of hermits and self-sufficient folk for the area of Whistleton. This sub-community was affectionately called Moose Hollow. Officially, it didn’t exist on the map under that name, but shared the claim of Whistleton. Still, it was common knowledge among locals that the area had that name to remain, even if unofficially, separate, almost like a reservation or Mennonite community of forest dwelling, back country farmers, lumberjacks, and hermits.

Drake was an old resident, retired, and had passed on the business to his son, Don. When Don retired, it was his hope that his son after him would take it up. Kids nowadays though seemed less and less inclined to take joy in simple pleasures. Luckily, with every country boy gone city slicker, there was a city slicker to go country boy. That was the case when it came to Drake’s...at least in this particular instance.

Don owned the place now, and his son seemed eager to go to university in the cities, or someplace in the United States. He still had a few years to think about it. Don didn’t much like it, since he knew those schools would be so expensive, and he knew his son well enough to know...he was going to party while he was there. For now, the place was still going strong with Don in control. The staff was small but reliable. Things were pretty routine. Everyone knew when and how to do all the tasks required of them. It was much that way throughout Moose Hollow. It normally took newcomers a little time to adjust.

Such was the case with Mathieu. Mathieu was a city boy. His family was travel-happy and he had lived in Ontario, Quebec, Ottawa, and even state-side in Vermont. That was short-lived. Mathieu was rather glad to backtrack to Canada after a year of Vermont living. He couldn’t imagine how Americans survived their own country some of the time. Still, now only nineteen, he was quite a long ways away from Toronto. He was one of those sorts that wanted something a little different. Not just wanted it; Mathieu insisted that he needed it.

City life afforded him many things, and he worked hard for the good grades. He worked hard in the basic burger flipper and department store clerk positions that took up his teenage years. His family wasn’t rich, but were comfortable upper-middle class in their standards. He had a good life, if perhaps a little sheltered. His family wasn’t religious, by all means, at least not all of them, but they still had a very wholesome presence they kept in and out of their household. Even then, Mathieu, as innocent as he was, naïve to many things, was not so innocent that he failed to realize a greater diversity of people outside of his happy little world his family had made for him. That also being said, Mathieu had experienced few major negatives and, by all accounts, was a happy and friendly young man.

He had thought about attending a university in Vancouver. It had been a bit of a struggle to get his parents to give their blessing. They were helicopter parents to a degree, after all. For once, he could go away from them a great distance and try to support himself without their well-meaning interference and influence. He could explore the sort of person he was and wanted to be.

However, he never quite made it to Vancouver. There was just something about Whistleton that called to him. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was. While looking for a job, he managed to find Moose Hollow. It wasn’t a prestigious job. Costs were low and simple in some ways, but only some, and were feeling the pressures of the tourism that trickled in more and more. It was a place that maintained that the locals came first and the outsiders could accept that or get out. Moose Hollow would gladly take their money, but they didn’t necessarily need it as much as Whistleton itself.

This worked great for the semi-self-sufficient community, but it wasn’t exactly giving him a fast-track ticket to moving out of his motel room. It was enough to pay for his stay there and care for himself, but it was surprisingly hard to find a reasonable place to live in the town or even on the outskirts. He didn’t have the investment to try to live the way the Moose Hollow community did. It was frustrating, and he just couldn’t let the place go.

It would do for now though. He had worked a few evenings, but he was ready to try his luck with mornings. He saw more guests in the evening, but the morning was when a lot of the Moose Hollow locals would come down from their haunts to swap tales and do business.

Mathieu was dressed in an orchid purple short-sleeved button up. He had wondered if a tie would be appropriate but had decided against it. He wore white sneakers and khaki slacks. His hair was a light brown/dark blond, that place somewhere right in between the two colours. It was wavy and was cut just a little past his jawline. He wore large but thin, round frames on his face with lenses suited for a far-sighted individual.

He checked the coffee makers to be sure each was brewing. He checked the grounds for each pot, sure there were enough decaf bags for the picky and a variety of the different roasts for the tastes of the regular patrons, from light and sweet all the way up to as black and bitter as the world of a blind skin-flint. Opening was actually rather easy. The customers were not exactly unpleasant, but it was obvious they were not very talkative to strangers. They talked with short sentences, specific about what they wanted.

He came up to the front and began to ring up one of the tickets. He was slower than when he worked retail. These registers were a bit more old-fashioned compared to the high tech ones he was used to. It wasn’t like the old clunky ones of many decades past, but it was obvious that these hadn’t been updated in at least twenty years. After working on fully integrated internet-based lines and multi-faceted connections that could be offered in a register that was virtually its own super computer, this felt really primitive. It was basic, but electric and functioned much like the registers should at their most basic level. It was a giant, heavy calculator.

Is everything okay? Don asked, coming up alongside him to pour himself a cup of coffee. How you making out, this morning?

I suppose we’ll find out. The tipping is not as good. He spoke softly to not be overheard by the customers, but even then, he was generally a soft-spoken sort. It wasn’t very uncommon for his voice to be lost on those around him, drowned out in some manner by the happenings of the surroundings or the loudness of others. He had managed to do well on the evening shifts, despite this. He learned to speak up rather quickly, though his voice was still soft and sweet, compared to the harpy caw the other waitresses managed when calling back to the cook.

Don chuckled, These people are a little less loose with their wallets. They aren’t very frivolous. The outsiders tend to be a little more generous. But, as you’ve learned, they don’t start showing up until lunchtime.

Not a very talkative group.

Just to you, Don explained. You’re new and you’re young. They probably think you’re some spoiled whippersnapper trying to play country boy.

Mathieu frowned. He tried to be optimistic, but it felt uncomfortable to be someplace where he didn’t feel welcome. Wasn’t that what he was doing? Even when he did live in a quieter place, he was very connected to a lot of activity nearby. This was a lot more country than he had anticipated. It was charming, but also felt very much like that clique that was very difficult to fit into. He wasn’t entirely pretending. He was very active and enjoyed the outdoors. He liked the pace of things here. He was a city boy, though, to be technical and he was trying to be a country boy, the level of success of which was not yet able to be determined. He could please many passers-by, but pleasing the locals would be hard. It was very bittersweet.

Don’t worry about it, Mathieu, Don assured. They’ll warm up to you in time, if you stick around long enough. These are people of tradition and familiarity. Just stay friendly and smiling and they’ll come around. Patience is a virtue.

That brought a smile back to Mathieu’s face, You’re right. I can’t let it get me down.

That a’boy! Don cheered with a firm pat to his back.

He took the change from the register and returned to his customer. The old bearded man with the poor teeth gave Mathieu a nod. He didn’t even bother to say anything, but did fling some cash onto the table. He waved to Don on his way out. It left a mix of feelings in Mathieu. On the one hand, he was acknowledged to a point and tipped acceptably. On the other, he still felt somewhat invisible. He began to wonder if he’d be able to handle the morning crowd or if he should beg Don to put him back on in the evenings, where he would work the outsiders who behaved more like people he was used to.

The door opened and in came another customer with the old-fashioned ding of the hanging bell above the entryway. Suzie, the hostess, smiled and greeted him politely, Mornin’ there, Mr. Bruin. She took the menu, knowing he had memorized it long ago, but still skimmed over it, more out of routine than anything. She led him to a table and rocked back and forth on her feet. She wasn’t much older than Mathieu, but she had the benefit of growing up in this area. Dark roast, black?

Mm-hm, Jeremiah grunted. Suzie smiled, though he didn’t bother to look at her. She skipped over to the counter and gave Mathieu a pat on the shoulder.

You got another one! The heavy stuff. Mr. Bruin likes it thick enough to mortar bricks with it.

He chuckled, So that’s why we have that stuff. He took a look over to him and then back to Suzie. He looks grumpy. I mean, everyone this morning so far looks grumpy but he looks particularly grumpy. He looks like he’ll beat me up if I make the slightest little mistake.

Mr. Bruin? She replied. Oh, he’s a rough-around-the-edges sort and blunt at times. He always looks like that. Be quick though. She patted him on his back, He’ll be your easiest one once you get used to everyone. He orders the same thing every time. All you have to do is catch it when Greg throws it out the kitchen window and whisk it over to him. I just hope your little arms can carry it all. He has a bear’s appetite. I doubt he’d have any interest in beating you up though. As cranky as he looks, he’s actually pretty laid back and patient.

Mathieu grabbed a mug and poured a cup of the dark coffee and carried it over to Jeremiah’s table. He’d greet him like the others and maybe he’d actually be acknowledged and talked to rather than talked at. Good morning. Would you like any cream or sugar?

It worked...sort of. Right? Jeremiah lifted his gaze at the strange question and new voice...and new smell. His gaze appeared grouchy and cold, as though this young man had dared to talk to him. It intimidated Mathieu terribly. Though, in reality, he really just wanted a look at this new fellow and he just had a default face that could chill a person’s blood still. He could see that his stare intimidated the boy a bit. It made him stiffen, waiting for him to say something in return.

Mathieu was a rather pretty sort of young man, much like Jeremiah had been in his youth. He had smooth pale skin and such a baby face. Despite the nervousness, he smiled. It was a nice smile. He had really pretty blue eyes, brighter than Jeremiah’s. It was a very bold and bright blue. He was slender but not scrawny. It looked as if he had a healthy frame, probably active. His arms were clear, in the sense of that his hair was either shaved off or very fine. He wasn’t sure what to make of him aside from him having the prettiest face he had ever seen, a strange concept to come to his mind in the first place. He had such beautiful eyes, again a strange notion in this context. Jeremiah could appreciate a man being attractive in the basic knowledge that a man is attractive by harbouring traits on or within him to make him so. That never meant that Jeremiah personally was attracted to another man. It was odd. Then perhaps the cuteness and softness that was in Mathieu’s features just messed with him, allowing him to appreciate those fine qualities a little more affectionately and personally than if Mathieu had been butch. He found him attractive, perhaps, in the same way one would find...a puppy?

You’re new.

Mathieu was actually...surprised. Aside from ordering the food and service, none of the morning customers had actually spoken directly to him as opposed to at him. It had worked. He wasn’t just the server, but Jeremiah had engaged him as a human being. Whether for good or bad...or neither was yet to be determined. That voice was so matter-of-fact, it felt like he was about to get a good scolding from the principle.

Yes, Sir. My name is Mathieu Delacroix.

From?

T-Toronto...

A city slicker. Figured. That didn’t necessarily mean the kid didn’t belong. He had met a few people that moved to the area from the city and adapted fairy well. It wasn’t impossible. He was young and he didn’t, at least by the look of him, seem too lazy. It was merely an assumption, of course. He didn’t know a thing about this kid. After another long awkward silence, Jeremiah held out his hand. Mathieu took it and was surprised by the strong grip.

Jeremiah Bruin. Welcome to Moose Hollow, Mr. Delacroix.

M-Mathieu is fine, Mr. Bruin.

Jeremiah released his hand and picked up the menu. You ready?

Y-yes, Sir! Mathieu gasped, pulling the pad from his pocket. Ready when you are.

"Two fried eggs, sunny side up. Two waffles, strawberries and cream, a side of 3 pancakes, extra butter. Please be sure to