The Christmas Presence

By Carol Kinnee

 

Mistletoe kisses, snowflake wishes . . .

 

The last thing Noelle Ryan wants to find under her tree is her ex, Jake. Now he's back, and his unexpected Christmas presence is turning her ho, ho, ho's into bah humbugs.

 

When she ends up the only witness to a violent robbery, Jake's background as a cop gets him assigned as her unwanted bodyguard. Noelle starts feeling like Santa's dumped a load of coal into her stocking, especially after the decision is made to hide her away with Jake until the police catch up with the convenience store shooter.

 

Christmas with Jake is the last thing she wants. Christmas with Jake at a secluded cabin on an abandoned ski hill makes her think she's ended up on the very naughty list. A blizzard is raging outside, but inside things are heating up.

 

Can Noelle and Jake stay out of danger long enough to put their past behind them? Will they find a Christmas miracle?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Kinnee
• Release date: Nov 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999505004

Carol Kinnee

As a child, Carol Kinnee always told stories, not ones that got her into trouble, but drawn out sagas that passed the time doing dishes, or provided entertainment on long car rides. She believes that life is full of possibilities. The potential for what if? exists all around us. Who knows what great adventure may be just around the corner? Today Carol’s a free-lance writer living on the west coast of British Columbia with her husband and two cats. When she’s not tied to her laptop, she’s out exploring what British Columbia has to offer. Currently, she’s working on Book 2 in the Landings series. Read more about Carol Kinnee at: https:www.carolkinnee.com Facebook: Carol Kinnee, author

Book preview

THE CHRISTMAS PRESENCE

Carol Kinnee

ISBN- 978-1-9995050-4-2

ISBN-13: 978-1-9995050-3-5 (e-book)

Revised March 2021

Text copyright © 2016 Carol Kinnee

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations as a book review.

Books

Books by C.A. Kinnee

A Path of Fire

A Trail of Embers

Books by Carol Kinnee

The Christmas Presence

https://books2read.com/u/mvKQ6J

Books by Carol Kinnee and Kim McDonald

Stripped

Dedication

For Colin:

Thanks for being my rock

and

to Jean:

Thanks for the copy edit

––––––––

Cover art by:

RL Sather

SelfPubBookCovers.com/ RLSather

The Christmas Presence

Contents

Books

Dedication

The Christmas Presence

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

About the author

Chapter 1

The kid didn’t see anything, Ang. Jake listened for a minute, and added, So don’t back me on it. You weren’t there, I was.

Holding the phone away from his ear, he waited. Ang stayed silent for three seconds before letting loose.

Look, Ang. He rolled his eyes and tried to cut through the string of words. I am not wrecking the future of a dumb jock who spends the night hanging with the wrong crowd. He listened again, and said, Does this make you feel better? I, Jake Ryan, interviewed Chase Evans and found that he could not identify the shooter.

Ang carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. Half-listening, Jake shoved his house key into the lock and pushed the door open. His partner, Angelina, was still going ballistic on the other end of the phone.

For Jake, the case of the kid in question was closed. Basketball superstar Chase Evans hung out with the bad boys for one alcohol-fueled night. When the shooting went down, Evans was puking his guts out in an alley across the street. Sure, the kid knew the shooter. What kid that age didn’t? Five of the gangsters he was hanging out with positively identified the guy.

The way Jake saw it, there was no point wrecking the future of a straight ‘A’ student with a full ride scholarship. The Evans kid had learned his lesson. He wouldn’t be cruising the mean streets of inter-urban Toronto again soon. Besides, the kid deserved the chance to see there was more to life than Moss Park.

Ang ran on for another minute.

Alright already. Go to bed. It’s one a.m., he cut in.

Ang snorted and hung up. Jake knew that in the morning she would continue her rant as though he had never interrupted.

He sighed and stepped through the door of his townhouse. Inside it was warm and welcoming, a break from the cold. Shrugging out of his heavy woolen jacket, he dropped it over the back of a leather recliner. Tomorrow, he would deal with the fallout, but for now, he was taking his own advice and grabbing some shuteye.

***

No . . . Don’t. I can’t . . . Jake muttered and rolled over in his sleep.

A gust of wind churned through the gap in the window, rattling the venetian blinds. Groaning, he turned over in the sweat-drenched bed, his long limbs tangling in the rumpled sheets.

Can’t you see? No.

Consciousness returned with the force of an icy bucket of water on the face. He lunged to a sitting position as the dream fled.

What the—? he rasped.

Shadows conjured by the trees on the other side of the window danced across the blank canvas of the wall in front of him. His heart pounded as if he’d run down a suspect in a footrace. Kicking his feet free of the bedding, he grimaced at the brush of damp linen on his skin. That one was bad, his worst dream yet. He could feel the fire, smell the smoke. He levered himself back against the headboard, shivering as cold air struck his sweat-slicked skin.

The nightmare hovered, reaching into his conscious mind, winding his muscles into knots. Jake listened to the silence, straining to hear the call of the dream’s distant voice above the thud of his heart.

Beyond the window, a growl of wind shook the branches of a stunted oak. Its wooden fingers rapped the glass. He jumped at the sound. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to relax. The storm was to blame for the dream. Somehow, he’d pulled the fury of the wind into his subconscious. That’s what shaped the nightmare’s direction.

Yeah. He snorted. If only it were that simple. In reality, he was desperate for a rational excuse for the string of nightmares. A twist of wind snaked through the open inch of the window, catching the blinds, and sucking them through the gap in the glass. Jake’s heart rate ratcheted upwards.

Damn. Stop jumping at shadows.

It’s the wind, you fool, he muttered.

The only meaning in the dream was that the long-predicted ice storm had arrived. When he fell into bed with no other thought than sleep, he’d left the window open. Hell. He yawned. Fifteen-hour shifts screwed with your head. He barely remembered coming in the front door.

Murderers didn’t care about the sleep patterns of the detectives working their cases. Last night’s shift was a special pain. At least they caught the scumbag that did the crime. As a bonus, no one would miss the victim either. He was as sleazy as the killer.

Jake lifted his head and listened to the wind howl. Tomorrow would be bad. If the storm lived up to predictions, it would smack Toronto harder than it had struck Winnipeg the day before. Warnings of heavy snow and power outages had already spurred a rush of grocery stockpiling and snow blower buying. At least it would put some bad guys on ice for a while. The crime rate always dropped during a snowstorm. What was the point of stealing a car if you ended up in a snowdrift?

He yawned again, and his jaw cracked. His eyes felt dry and gritty, another memento of his lack of sleep. Man, he was beat. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp black waves from his eyes. A tiny tremor shook his left hand. He tightened it into a fist and scowled.

Get it together, he muttered, and propped his shoulders against the wooden headboard as he cautiously sucked in a breath. His thoughts were a confused muddle of dream and reality.

Enough already. He groped for the switch on his bedside lamp, flipped it on, and blinked at the brightness. The numbers on the clock face chased away any hope of rest. Grumbling at the loss of another night’s sleep, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed a pair of sweatpants. Three o’clock in the morning, five mornings in a row. That was a record, but why was it happening? He rubbed his chin, and stubble scraped his palm.

Slowly he stood, pulling the faded pants up over his long, muscular legs. The nightmare taunted him, replaying in slow-moving fragments, offering glimpses of the dream’s horror. Jake closed his eyes and willed the images away. Right. He was fooling himself. The nightmare wouldn’t just disappear. It would live on for the rest of the night, teasing his memory, coloring his every thought.

With a groan of disgust, he sat back down and took a few deep breaths, trying to pull air into his lungs. His throat burned. He’d been shouting, screaming in that soundless dream way. Goosebumps pebbled his arms. Leaning over, he slammed the window shut, and turned to stare at the flickering light of the TV. He didn’t remember turning it on.

The nightmare. It was so vivid, as if with his next breath, his lungs would fill with choking smoke. The dream’s sticky fingers refused to let go. Angered by his imagination’s freefall, Jake stood and strode into the kitchen.

He yanked open the door of the refrigerator and scowled at the pizza box and carton of orange juice inside. When was the last time he bought groceries? A week, two weeks? Resigned to the limited choices, he snatched the carton of juice and gulped the cold liquid straight from the spout. The tart citrus taste drove the dryness from his mouth. Absently, he swiped his hand over his lips and lifted the last piece of shriveled pepperoni pizza from the box.

Three in the morning? What the hell does it mean? His voice echoed in the stillness. He was too logical to believe the dreams were random. There was a rational explanation. He just had to figure it out.

Okay. He chewed a mouthful of dry pizza and stared at the wall with its flickering shadows. The dream always started the same way, flames roaring in the rafters, acrid smoke choking him. He was searching for someone. His fingers tightened around the juice container as he saw the flames again, felt the heat robbing him of breath. In the distance, a voice shouted his name. Jake blinked. A face floated in front of him. His mouth twisted into an expression that would send his snitch diving for cover. He knew that face. It was his ex-wife, Noelle’s. He hadn’t seen her in ten years. Now she was haunting his nights.

He blew out a gusty sigh and rolled his shoulders, trying to relax the tension that thoughts of Noelle still brought. Marriage. What a fiasco, but that farce was ancient history. He took a restless turn around the kitchen. Why dream of Noelle now?

His partner, Ang, would say it was some sort of psychic connection. Ang saw mumbo jumbo everywhere. He snorted. Yeah right, what a crock. He’d seen the flakes who offered the department their services as mediums. Maybe his aura was too gray, or maybe like Scrooge, his diet was getting to him. Too much pizza, not enough greens. Maybe the nightmares were a bit of bad pepperoni.

His fingers drummed the countertop as he stared at the clock. The numbers were branded in his brain. Why dream of Noelle now? He turned and paced another length of the kitchen. Were the dreams some sort of warning?

Enough already, he was sounding like Ang. He had to get some sleep. It was tough enough doing the job well-rested. Right now, his temper was short, really short. If he didn’t solve this dream thing, he’d be chatting about it and psychic connections with the captain.

Yeah, that was all he needed. He was already on thin ice. Leaving the Evans kid’s witness statement out of his report was probably a dumb move, but the kid’s only crime was stupidity. He wouldn’t be hanging out with the gangs again soon. Witnessing a violent hit had a way of changing your perspective, especially if you were a nerdy A level basketball player going through a minor rebellion. With so many witnesses, the statement of one terrified teen wouldn’t make a difference.

Why Ang couldn’t see that was a mystery. You would think someone who believed so much psychic mumbo jumbo would be more flexible, but she insisted it was a sign he was burning out. What did she know? As a fresh detective, she did everything by the book. A cop’s job had more gray areas than that. Sometimes you had to be creative.

But then again, maybe she was right. Maybe he needed a break. He could take holidays and get away from the job for a while. He glared at the clock face. It was probably a good idea to leave work before he did something that got him suspended.

It would be Christmas soon. The weather in Landings, British Columbia, beat Toronto’s in winter. He would go to Vancouver Island, look up the source of his nightmares, and settle his mind. It would give him a break from homicide and maybe lay his personal ghost to rest. Besides, it was a long time since he visited the island. It would be interesting to see Noelle again, for old time’s sake, if nothing else.

He yawned and stretched. Having made a plan, he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen. Jake headed back to his rumpled bed, switching off the television as he passed. Tomorrow he would book a flight. His parents would love his company for a couple of weeks. Flicking off the light, he climbed back into bed.

Chapter 2

Noelle groaned and opened her eyes to a cacophony of bells. The hazy features of her dream lover wavered and fizzled, blinking out of existence, leaving behind the glowing numbers of the clock.

No, no, no, not again, she moaned, slapping the snooze bar and sliding the alarm to off. Rolling over, she collapsed against the pillows, draping one arm across her eyes, shutting out the glare of the over-sized numbers.

It wasn’t fair. The dream was just getting to the good part. Her body tingled. Hot, restless, waiting for—what? She sat up and sighed. Waiting for Prince Charming to have his wicked way with her was what. Well, that fairy tale just came to a bad end. Judging by the time, it wasn’t her first slap of the snooze button. So much for using the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s Carol of the Bells as a wake-up call. She had slept through half the song, not stirring until the bells reached full crescendo.

Swearing, she flung the covers back and staggered to her feet, cringing as her toes met the icy hardwood. She fished her robe off the end of the bed and pulled it on, knotting the belt tightly around her waist as she stumbled from the bedroom.

Crap, she mumbled, catching her big toe on the edge of the door. She limped towards the kitchen.

Coffee, she muttered. Coffee will bring me back to life better than a kiss from good old Prince Charming. She thought about that and shook her head. Maybe not, but it was all she had.

Morning, Jackson, she called, greeting the sleepy black Labrador retriever stretched out by the back door.

The dog’s inky tail waved in response.

I’m running late, she told him, dumping coffee and water into the coffeemaker and pressing brew. I’ll shower and then out you go. She paused. Maybe not. You can go out now. There’s no time for accidents this morning.

Jackson stood, stretched, and offered a hearty shake that sent his dog tags jingling. Noelle ruffled his ears and unlocked the back door, pulling it open to a gust of raindrop-laden wind. The dog paused in the open doorway, turning reproachful eyes to her as the first droplets splattered his dark coat.

Out, she said firmly.

He cast her a baleful look, heaved a deep sigh, and slunk down the steps to the grass. Noelle slammed the door and headed towards the bathroom, shedding her nightclothes on the way. Twisting on the taps, she stepped into the warm spray, sighing in pleasure as the hot water slicked her skin.

Two extra minutes, she muttered, closing her eyes and leaning into the warmth. She would give herself that much. She would cut her coffee intake to one and skip reading the paper.

Under the mesmerizing spell of the hot shower, her thoughts returned to her dream lover. If only that kind of passion existed outside of fairy tales. She shook her head and grabbed the shampoo bottle, massaging lavender-scented soap through her hair. Tilting her head back, her face met with a barrage of icy water. Gasping, she groped for the taps, spinning them off and yanking open the shower curtain. Teeth chattering, she fumbled for a towel, swiped the soapy hair from her eyes and pulled another fleecy towel from the cupboard to wrap around her body.

Okay, the hot water heater has officially given up, she muttered. Figures it would pack it in right before Christmas.

Gritting her teeth against the cold, she ducked her head under the tap and rinsed the rest of the suds from her hair. She scooped her robe from the floor and shrugged into it, pausing at the sound of muffled barking. No. Not today. She closed her eyes in pain. She didn’t have to be psychic to know Jackson had discovered the uncovered pile of dirt in the backyard.

She groaned and ran the few steps to the kitchen to peer out the window. Sure enough, Jackson had gone from digging to chasing seagulls. Mud caked his black coat in a chocolate glaze.

Oh, Jackson, why? Why today? she said. Grabbing a rag from under the kitchen sink, she opened the back door. Jackson bounded up the wooden stairs, his tail slashing the air.

Not so fast. Noelle grabbed his collar and forced him to sit. She lifted his paws and wiped away the mud, rubbing his feet clean. De-glazing his coat came next. She scrubbed the mud from his sides, lecturing him as she worked. When are you going to grow up? You’re three. It’s time you acted like a mature dog. It’s the name, isn’t it? I should have called you Angel or Rover. I knew Jackson had bad written all over it from the start.

Discarding the dirty rag in a bucket under the sink, she washed her hands and took a mug covered in glittering snowflakes from the cupboard. Pouring a cup of coffee, she stirred in cream and sugar, and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Jackson trailed behind, leaving faint muddy prints on the wooden floor.

Noelle set her cup on the edge of a carved antique dresser and opened the door to the closet. She chose a soft mauve wool sweater and gray dress pants. Thanks to her abbreviated shower, she had time to gulp another cup of coffee and organize her thoughts before leaving for work.

The shock of the eye-opening blast of cold was leaving her, and the caffeine hit hadn’t kicked in. She yawned and eyed the tangled sheets. Hard to believe she had slept there alone. Usually, when she fell into bed, she didn’t move until morning. Last night . . . She shook her head and grabbed the corner of the fluffy white duvet. Yeah, that was one heck of a dream.

Someone once told her that dreams were a compilation of things that you heard or saw during the day. She hadn’t had a date in a month and wasn’t watching erotic movies, so where did that sizzling hot fantasy come from?

Grabbing a couple of black filigree-patterned pillows from the worn steamer trunk at the foot of the bed, she piled them against the high wooden headboard. That done, she flipped up the slats on the window shutters.

Dull gray light straggled into the room. She shivered. These cold, wet days made it hard to muster the energy to climb out of bed, much less work up enthusiasm to face the day. Still, she consoled herself; it was the last day of work before Christmas holidays. Starting tomorrow, she was free to sleep in and do whatever she wanted.

First though, she reminded herself, shaking off the reverie and stepping away from the window, she had to survive the next eight hours.

No more wasting time. She yanked the towel from her head, grabbed the hairdryer and scrunched and styled her wild curls into order. That done, she dropped the dryer onto the counter and reached for her cosmetic bag.

A touch of foundation, eye shadow, and a brush of light bronzer completed her makeup regime. She scanned her face in the mirror and nodded, satisfied with the results. The moss and gold hues of the shadows lent a smoky quality to her green eyes.

She added a rim of chocolate brown liner and black mascara to her lashes, drained the last sip of coffee in her cup, and offered Jackson a quick pat. Retracing her steps to the entry hall, she retrieved the newspaper from in front of the mail slot and carried it to the kitchen, scanning the headlines as she walked: Politician implicated in local scandal, Middle East Strife, Convenience store gunman strikes again. She flipped the paper open and checked her horoscope.

Chapter you thought closed may reopen. Be analytical. Avoid confrontation, she read to the dog.

Does that mean we reread chapter four, or that I should watch out for fights on the playground?

She dropped the paper onto the glossy surface of the black granite countertop, filled Jackson’s metal bowl with dry dog food, and placed it in front of him. "There you go. Bon appétit."

Propping her elbows on the counter, she stared out the window. Rain fell in a continuous curtain, washing the last leaves from the trees. Funny how the weather hadn’t affected the exuberance of the kids, she mused, watching a fat drop trail down the glass.

Christmas was a week away, and classroom spirits were far from gloomy. Her grade ones were bouncing off the walls. Santa was coming, and the kids wanted snow. Could his sleigh land without it? Noelle kept reassuring them Santa’s sleigh had special all-weather sleigh runners, and he knew how to cope with wet West coast weather. Yesterday the hum in the classroom reached fever pitch. Keeping twenty-one little elves amused was becoming almost impossible.

Noelle’s full lips pursed as she thought about the upcoming day. She understood the message that Christmas was over-commercialized, that not everyone celebrated the season, but did the parent council really think the kids would forget reindeer and short fat men in red plush in favor of a day at the farm? Farm day was a great idea if you were planning it for May, but for December? Noelle rolled her eyes. To her, it was carrying political correctness too far.

Shaking her head over an idea she felt doomed to disaster, she refilled her coffee cup and settled into a high-backed kitchen chair. Her cell phone rang, vibrating across the surface of