Christmas Magic

By Marcelle Dube

In Christmas Magic, Marcelle Dubé sweeps the reader into cozy worlds of Christmas snow, wood stoves, and new romance… with a little mayhem thrown in.

A Yukon Christmas: After her 20-year marriage collapses from inertia, Beatrice Talsma sets off on a year-long, cross-Canada journey to discover where she truly belongs. When she reaches the Yukon, however, her short pause turns into a decision to settle down in this strange new place.

In a complete break with the past, she rents a cabin in the Yukon wilderness. It's a wonderful spot, except that her closest neighbor, Henry Pekarik—also her landlord—seems determined to help Beatrice out, whether she wants it or not. It's becoming harder and harder to resist the man but the real test comes when he invites her to Christmas dinner with his family.

McKell's Christmas: Deputy Chief of Police Rob McKell doesn't trust Christmas. Two of his ex-wives left him at Christmas. Besides, bad guys don't take time off during the holidays so why should he? But when the chief orders skeleton crews at the detachment for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, he has no choice but to comply. Not that he minds, really. He has a Christmas Eve date with the lovely Jillian, a gemologist with an independent streak, for the all-important meeting of her friends.

Jillian isn't like any woman he's ever met, and soon he's revising his opinion of Christmas—and of long-term relationships. But before the evening ends, Jillian's dangerous past will put both their lives and their fragile new relationship at risk… and prove that McKell's misgivings about Christmas are well-founded.

Running Away from Christmas: When Faith decides to escape Christmas and her friends' matchmaking efforts by spending the holiday alone in the big city, she never expects to find Christmas waiting there for her.

"Faith can't take another Christmas alone, so she runs away to Vancouver B.C., where… well, I'd like to say the holiday stalks her, but it's not quite like that. It's sweeter. A wonderful story, no matter the time of year." Kristine Kathryn Rusch                                                     

About Marcelle Dubé:

Marcelle Dubé grew up near Montreal. After trying out a number of different provinces—not to mention Belgium—she settled in the Yukon, where people still outnumber carnivores, but not by much. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Falcon Ridge Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781987937022

Marcelle Dube

Marcelle Dubé writes mystery, science fiction, fantasy, contemporary and—occasionally—romance fiction. She grew up near Montreal and after trying out a number of different provinces (not to mention Belgium) she settled in the Yukon, where people outnumber carnivores, but not by much. Her short stories have appeared in magazines and award-winning anthologies. Her novels include the Mendenhall Mystery series (a number of her short stories are also set in the world of Mendenhall Chief of Police Kate Williams) and The A'lle Chronicles, as well as standalone fantasy and mystery titles. Her work is available in print and in electronic format. To find out more about Marcelle, visit her at www.marcellemdube.com.  

Book preview

CHRISTMAS MAGIC

Three Romantic Holiday Tales

by Marcelle Dubé

Christmas Magic: Three Romantic Holiday Tales © 2015 by Marcelle Dubé

A Yukon Christmas © 2014 by Marcelle Dubé

McKell’s Christmas © 2013 by Marcelle Dubé

Running Away from Christmas © 2012 by Marcelle Dubé

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resem­blance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Falcon Ridge Publishing

www.falconridgepublishing.com

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www.marcellemdube.com

A YUKON CHRISTMAS

by Marcelle Dubé

Beatrice stood on the small wooden stoop of her cabin and took a deep breath of cold Yukon air. It smelled of wood smoke and freshly split logs. She automatically glanced at the pile of neatly stacked logs protected from the snow by the lean-to and satisfaction thrummed through her. She had stacked that wood, all four cords of it.

Well, most of it. She had arrived from Whitehorse one day, a few weeks after she had moved in, to find that the woodcutter had delivered the wood in a huge, haphazard pile that had spilled over onto her driveway. It was only once she’d gotten out of the car and rounded the wood pile that she had seen her landlord and neighbor, Henry Pekarik, calmly stacking her wood under her lean-to.

What are you doing? she asked sharply.

Henry straightened, a look halfway between surprise and alarm on his craggy face.

Trying to clear your driveway before you got home, he said calmly. His cheeks were ruddy with cold and his gray woolen sweater was covered in bark. He had already filled a snug half-row at the back of her lean-to.

He stepped away from the lean-to and walked toward her, brushing at his sweater with big, work-scarred hands. She tried to imagine her ex-husband John volunteering to help stack wood, and couldn’t.

That’s very kind, she said with her best smile. But I can take care of it.

He gave her a quizzical look out of warm brown eyes, then glanced at the tall pile of logs still awaiting stacking. All right, then, he said doubtfully. You let me know if you need anything. With a cordial nod, he then set across the yard to the path that joined her cabin to his house. Beatrice had watched his long legs stride down the path for long seconds before tearing her gaze away.

He was kind, but she didn’t want kindness. She wanted to be left alone. The wood was hers. She would stack it.

Nonetheless, she had baked chocolate chip cookies the next day and left them hanging from his door knob to thank him.

Her cabin shared a twenty-acre hilltop with Henry Pekarik’s house, which was a two-story salt-box with windows everywhere, gray cedar siding and a bright red door and trim around the windows. Her cabin, by contrast, was a small, two-room affair built of logs and so well insulated that she often had to crack a window open if she misjudged the amount of wood to stuff into the wood stove. The cabin also had a bright red door and red trim around the windows and despite looking rustic, it had electricity, running water from a well that supplied both homes, and even wifi.

And to top it off, if she looked outside the main window in the living room/kitchen combination, she could pretend she was alone in the world. The hill swept down into the Carcross valley in a rough carpet of black spruce, lodgepole pine and trembling aspen that emerged from a thick blanket of snow like so many birthday candles.

Beyond the valley rose the Coast Mountain range, a series of mountains each taller and more jagged than the last. Every morning since she’d moved in, in September, she stood by her window, drinking her coffee, and watching the day break over the mountains. At first, the mountains had looked as if they wore tweed jackets, all rusts and golds and browns and greens. But in December, covered in snow, they announced the sunrise long before the sun actually made an appearance, each mountain receding into the distance with a paler tint of pastel pinks and grays.

But not today. Today, gray clouds bumped up heavily against each other, threatening snow. She examined the sky for a moment and finally decided she still had at least an hour’s worth of light left.

With a smile, she descended the sturdy wooden steps and rounded the cabin to where her cross-country skis were propped against the wall. Henry Pekarik’s sister was at his place, judging by the white Explorer parked next to his pickup truck. She had probably come early to help him with Christmas dinner.

He had come by a week ago and knocked at her door.

Mr. Pekarik, she said, startled to see him. Although really, no one else came to see her. She knew almost no one here.

Call me Hank, he said with a smile. Everyone does.

She stepped aside to let him in and he automatically took his sheepskin hat off. His hair was a little long, the graying brown curls flattened against his head by the hat.

I’m sorry for intruding, he said, remaining on the braided rug at her door. I’m hosting Christmas dinner this year. My sister and her family are coming. I wondered if you’d like to join us.

She stared up at this kind man, this stranger really, aware of the breadth of him, and the room he took in her small cabin. Her pulse was going a little fast